She bids them adieu-is o'ercome-melts in tears- And the soul of her race in the heroine reigns. She kneels at the block while the grim axeman weeps, "For being too lovely the Scottish Queen dies!" Hark! the maidens who tend on her shriek with affright— Oh, Scotland shall mourn o'er her ill-fated Queen! And detest the false heart of that pitiless one Who robb'd her of freedom and life, with her crown. Her virtues were failings in Bigotry's eye; She had faults-who has not?-in her grave let them lie; THE FINE ARTS. WHETHER we view the Fine Arts in the light of furnishing to the mind subjects of study, the contemplation of which pleases, refines, and exalts, or in their production, as giving scope, expression, development to those spontaneous impulses of gifted natures-those irresistible aspirations of great souls, touched by the fire of genius, that have bequeathed to us, and to all time, towers, temples, palaces, gods, demigods, and great men, the grandeur of the mountain scene, the beauty of the valley, the sublimity of the sounding cataract, and the majesty of the great sea; in short, types and images of the sublime and beautiful for our admiration and enlightenment;-viewed in either light, the worth and dignity of the Fine Arts as a study or pursuit, are strikingly apparent. Although, strictly speaking, the term "Fine Arts" is understood to express only THREE, yet, with your sufferance, gentle reader, and the good old adage, "the more the merrier," we may comprehend FIVE, namely, Poetry, Painting, Music, Sculpture, and Architecture. Have we them all here-none awanting? Why, there stands one as beautiful and glorious as any we have named-ELOQUENCE-left out; had we not better call her in, and enrol her worthily, on the strength of her distinctive merit, so noble, so illustrious? Besides, let us remember that if we demur, we may rouse her indignation, and get a provoking spice of her tongue that tongue which has roused peoples, shaken states, disthroned kings, withered tyrants. Do you not think we had better call her in? Certainly; why not?" Precisely what we say. And so there they are now, SIX; would they had been scren, if it were only for euphony, not to speak of the cabalistic charm which lies in the number seven! Surely there must be a seventh, and if there be a seventh child born of genius, it follows, when we find her, if the time-honoured belief hold true, that she is a wise one. Campbell says, somewhere in his long line of beauty, "The Pleasures of Hope," "And lend the lyre of heaven another string." Can no one lend us a Fine Art to make out the seven? Why, there now, there she is! While we were a-gazing up into the clouds, thinking if she came at all, she would be certain to drop from heaven; she has mingled with them reverently, and they all seem proud of her. Who can she be? There is a homely and yet noble beauty in her air that wins while it attracts, and rivets the beholder with her sympathising smile. She seems tireless of kind offices and cheering looks to all. A very handmaid she seems, without whose fond attentions the glorious group would languish, and show but half of what they are. How liberal her thoughtful brow; how intelligent the clear spirit that beams from her enkindled eye; how eloquent the expression ever hanging on her lip; how fine a pathos of truthful and unswerving devotedness to the universal humanities breathes from her spirited countenance! Who can she be? THE GENIUS OF THE ART OF PRINTING. There they are, then, SEVEN, as beautiful, as radiant, as virtuous, as heroical nymphs as ever the sun of truth shone upon. Sisters they are of various feature, but with a prevailing family likeness-many in form, but animated with one soul. They never grow old. The beauty and freshness of an eternal youth is in their mien. They have been entrusted with the Divine mission to civilise and exalt mankind, expressing clearly, to those who can read aright, Man's SOUL is immortal; his truest glory is in its education, its thorough development. In different ways they draw forth the great expressions of the heart and soul of man. Is a triumph to be commemorated? Poesy, through her archangel trump, sounds the glad tidings in rousing strains-Music peals her loudest anthem of praise and thanksgiving for the victoryPainting realises the struggle, and bequeaths to after times a stirring memory of the scene-Architecture rears the triumphal arch or columnSculpture decorates, or it may be her sadder duty to carve the monumental bust of heroes fallen in the hour of victory-while over all the genius of Eloquence throws her halo; and the genius of Printing records, publishes, conserves to latest times the merit of the deed and the virtues it drew forth. Thus, all the Fine Arts act impulsively on the general mind of the immediate and rising generation, to cherish and produce the love of whatever is good, great, generous, and patriotic in thought or deed-they are the educators-the tutors of nations, and bequeath to them imperishable memories. The SEVEN SISTER FINE ARTS, then, are engaged in the noble task of educating the human soul; their objects are the expression and inculcation of truth, beauty, goodness, magnanimity, heroism, love-objects commensurate with the dignity, the immortal nature and destiny of the mind of man. But we must break the fair vision of their august and beautiful presence, and narrow the circle of our delighted eye, or nothing but superlatives of admiration, thick and threefold, will come from our lips, and "too much of even a good thing," gentle reader-you can supply the rest. So, then, we bid the bright SISTERHOOD-adieu! and will keep present to the mind's eye only, the acknowledged THREE-Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture-which constitute what is generally accepted as being signified by the Fine Arts. It is a great fact that civilisation and the progress of the Fine Arts move hand in hand together. Certain it is that their fervent cultivation has formed a great leading feature in the history of all civilised nations. Egypt, Greece, and Rome, ancient and modern-witness to this. But so much has been written, and that eloquently, on the subject of the Fine Arts in these great eras of their development, and so much has been re-engrossed in "People's Editions," that to enlarge upon these would be but telling a thrice-told tale. As truly as the Sister Arts of Poetry, Music, and Eloquence, have an elevating and ennobling tendency, so truly have Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture, a refining, strengthening, and glorifying power; their aim and end being the truthful expression, in harmonious proportions, of whatever is beautiful and grand, graceful and majestic, lovely, manly, and noble in the soul of man and Nature-Nature, as she manifests herself in the moral, mental, and physical kingdoms-objects of unfailing interest and fascination to the educated mind. That they do elevate the minds and improve the hearts of their votaries, we have abundant proof. Passing over Phidias, the great and acceptable tone of whose mind we may infer by the high esteem and consideration in which he was held by the sages and heroes of his time-especially by Pericles the great statesman and ruler of Athens-we come to such names as Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Sir Christopher Wren-men eminent for the leading universal excellence and noble quality of their minds. But the light in which we more particularly desire to consider the Fine Arts, is in reference to them as a BRANCH OF EDUCATION. It is, we beheve, now very generally admitted, that training to a taste for them, and instructing in their acquisition, should form an integral part in a liberal education. Still it is undeniable that many, very many, have imbibed the notion of its being an unproductive expenditure of time and money to acquire these arts. And here we would record-although incidentally, we trust not the less emphatically-that there is one most vital point in the education of youth, which, in connection with the Fine Arts, we mean to broach, and that is the ignorance and folly, in our present time, of sending forth youths, who have acquired only the merest elements of a liberal education, into the world to bustle for the rest-we need scarcely say that we speak only to those who can, and will not, or know not how to do better. With but a very slender power to think for themselves, and little exercised in disciplining their own minds, they fritter away their valuable leisure time in silly vain pursuits or vicious indulgences; and many are the everrecurring cases of originally well-principled and strong-minded youths, who, not understanding their own powers, and the resources in liberal studies-especially the Fine Arts-for deeply, savingly engaging and fascinating the passionate temperament of youth, have run shipwreck on the sunk-rock of treacherous desires. And yet, notwithstanding such pregnant considerations to their advantage, the Fine Arts have still a great battle to fight and win over ignorance and prejudice before they can exercise their just sway, and ameliorate the moral delinquency of the times. At every turn in this utilitarian age we are met with the question-Of what use are these Fine Arts? What good end do they serve? What profit do they bring? Where is the utility of such studies or pursuits? The answer of their advocates is at hand-They liberalise the mind by expanding and refining the sentiments-they cultivate the leading faculties of imagination and judgment—they open up sources of domestic pleasure, and delightfully strengthening recreation and improvement. In vain they add, that the excellence and power of the human mind, in no depart ment of its philosophy or history, shines with a purer, stronger, or steadier light than in the productions, the triumphs of the Fine Arts; in vain that their fervent cultivation and advancement have been from time immemorial great leading features in the history and philosophy of all civilised nations; in vain they reiterate the great fact, that civilisation and the Fine Arts advance hand in hand together, and are, in the truer and higher sense of the terms, useful, good and profitable-all this, and more, but in vain; for presuming ignorants and selfish mammonites will not or cannot see in such reasonings their favourite use or profit-power, influence, money-returns. Away with this Mammonism, so much the spirit of our age, which can feel nothing, see nothing, hear of nothing, think of nothing, set its heart on nothing as useful, or good, or profitable, but as it is calculated to make a money return! Truly, we may say of such minds, and more in sorrow than in anger, that their souls are still in a grub state. They deny them light and warmth, and consequently the glorious wings of the spirit, at birth folded up by the Almighty Maker's own holy hand in the brain of every human being, are never fully fledged to their soaring capability and truly Divine usefulness. The excellence and power of the human mind, we have said, is nowhere better shown than in the tangible and recorded triumphs of the Fine Arts. Let us fancy that we are in the presence of PHIDIAS. He stands before a rude block of marble-his eye kindling with his conception of the Apollo Belvidere he seizes his mallet, and the shapeless block is transformed into the likeness of a god-"the mimic flesh seems yielding to the touch, whose balance alarms with the expectation of movement!" Or let us imagine of MICHAEL ANGELO, that we see him put into the hand of Leo X.'s builder a few scrolls of paper which his own hand can compass; he says unto him, "Go-build!" and the magnificent structure of St Peter's, with its majestical dome, stands revealed to the eye-the wonder and admiration of the world. Or say that we call up to fancy's eye a RAPHAEL, standing pallet in hand before a blank canvas, his eye turned inward, or seemingly fixed on vacancy; for his soul is communing with some divine shape or shapes which make it roll and kindle with the brooding rapture the ecstatic feeling diffuses itself over his fine countenance, till it seems glowing with inspiration-his whole being is possessed, and lo! how he dashes at the canvas! What is there? nothing as yet, but clouds -the conceptive fury agitates him-how he labours! No hard-working labourer, no driven slave, half so eagerly and exhaustingly-the clouds grow golden, as the morning grey ones, when the kindling sun touches them with his ethereal rod-something in his brain is gathering to a focus on that canvas-how changed from its first blank! The shadowy radiance of a divine face appears as through a veil, Diana through a sun-lit leafy screen, or Venus rising from a sunset sea-still, still he labours, writhes like a very Pythia over the sacred tripod. There! something definite is there now; but his eagerly animated form still darkens the canvas from our full view-he steps back proudly and gracefully as ever did Apollo of the bow-yet unconscious of aught else but his rapture and his picture-and, O triumph of divine Art! from that golden cloud he has evoked a living, breathing semblance of IMMORTAL BEAUTY'S SELF-Time cannot wrinkle her nor age wither." But let us draw nearer home for one other illustration, and fancy to ourselves SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN standing amid the still black and burning ruins of London, after its destruction by the great fire. His king has commissioned him to rebuild his, or rather his people's city. He stands on its ruins and looks-upon what? The scene of devastation? No! Within, upon his mental eye, a new city is dawning; at first, faint and indistinct, but the sun of Genius is photographing for him there. The vision of a glorious city is traced by and treasured in his glowing imagination-it is there! he sees it! Where? within that little round his head-in his brain. He looks again, and now out through the small retina of that little, lustrous, visual eye, passes his active soul-it clears away, lays foundations, builds, arranges, harmonises, strengthens, adorns-all is completed! all is built! It returns, and now at home again communing with the heart, rejoices even to tears at its own great and humane efforts. Yes, on that tiny organ is reflected back his soul's creations . . . London in all her present glory was then contained within the circlet of that brilliant little eye-majestical St Paul's, the magnificent centre of these wonderful conceptions of his architectural genius. MONNA BERTUCCIA: OR THE FACETIOUS MONKEY OF MILAN.AN ITALIAN STORY. THERE lived one time at Milan's Court, A monkey of the sagest sort (One of the ourang-outang kind, That walking satire on mankind)— Well up to every kind of frolic— Could ape the graces melancholicThrow somersaults with vast agility, And bow with courtier-like civility; And, certes, many a courtier's skull, Than this poor ape's was much less full Of brains, or sense, or call it merit, Or even dub it manly spirit. Gramercy, how he mocked these creatures, Of truculent and cringing features, As 'fore his master the Great Duke, They bow'd with beaten spaniel's look. But to our story. This sage ape Was large and beautiful of shapeIn sooth, the very beau-ideal Of monkey-men, or monkeys real. He played his harmless jests on all, And witticisms practicalWas left to range at liberty, No franchised citizen more free. Most people paid him mark'd attention, Fly'd him with every rare confection-(The which he mounch'd with snapper-grin, Or cramm'd his natural pouch therein.) Not for he had a ducal patron, But sterling merits of his ownHis merry antics and grimace, Were passport sure from place to place. Monkeys, like men, where there's a choice, Have what is called a houf, or house, Where best they think they've treated been, And there indulge their merriest vein. So 'twas with this facetious ape, Who, like Anacreon, loved the grape Of rarest vintage, and when mellow, You ne'er beheld a merrier fellow. His favourite resort, 'mongst many, So rarely pleased their aged mother, Cutting his capers round the room- But to the marrow of our story, |