ART AND ARTISTS. I was struck, recently, with an unfinished sketch by a young artist, who has since lost his reason from the in. tense activity of a rarely-gifted, but ill-balanced mind. It struck me as an eloquent symbol of his inward experience-a touching comment upon his unhappy fate. He called the design an artist's dream. It represented the studio of a painter. An easel, a pallet, a port-folio, and other insignia of the art, are scattered with professional negligence, about the room. At a table sits the youthful painter, his head resting heavily on his arm, buried in sleep. From the opposite side of the canvass the shadowy outlines of a long procession seemed winding along, the figures growing more distinct as they recede. In the front rank and with more defined countenances, walk the most renowned of the old masters, and pressing hard upon their steps, the humbler members of that noble brotherhood. It was a mere sketch-unfinished, but dimly mapped out, like the career of its author, yet full of promise, and indicative of invention. It revealed, too, the dreams of fame that were agitating that young heart; and proved that his spirit was with the honored leaders of the art. This sketch is a symbol of the life of a true artist. Upon his fancy throng the images of those whose names are immortal. It is his day-dream to emulate the great departed to bless his race-to do justice to himself. The early difficulties of their career, and the excitement of their experience, give to the lives of artists a singular interest. West's first expedient to obtain a brush-Barry's proud poverty, Fuseli's vigils over Dante and Milton; Reynolds, the centre of a gifted society; the 'devout quiet' of Flaxman's home, and similar memories, crowd upon the mind, intent upon their works. Existence, with them is a long dream. I have ever honored the fraternity, and loved their society, and musing upon the province they occupy in the business of the world, I seem to recognize a new thread of beauty interlacing the mystic tissue of life. In speaking of the true artist, I allude rather to his principles of action, than to his absolute power of execution. Mediocrity, indeed, is sufficiently undesirable in every pursuit, and is least endurable, perhaps, in those with which we naturally associate the highest ideas of excellence. But when we look upon artists as a class-when we attempt to estimate their influence as a profession, our attention is rather drawn to the tendency of their pursuit, and to the general characteristics of its votaries. "Man!" says Carlyle, "it is not thy works which are all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance." In this point of view, the artist, who has adopted his vocation from a native impulse, who is a sincere worshipper of the beautiful and the picturesque, exerts an insensible, but not less real influence upon society, although he may not rank among the highest, or float on the stream of popularity. Let this console the neglected artist. Let this thought comfort him, possessed of one talent-if the spirit he worketh in is true, he shall not work in vain. Upon some mind his converse will ingraft the elements of taste. In some heart will his lonely devotion to an innocent but unprofitable object, awaken sympathy. In his very isolation-in the solitude of his undistinguished and unpampered lot, shall he preach a silent homily to the mere devotee of gain, and hallow to the eye of many a philanthropist, the scenes of bustling and heartless traffic. I often muse upon the life of the true artist, until it redeems to my mind the more prosaic aspects of human existence. It is deeply interesting to note this class of men in Italy. There they breathe a congenial atmosphere. Often subsisting upon the merest pittance, indulging in every vagary of costume, they wander over the land, and yield themselves freely to the spirit of adventure, and the luxury of art. They are encountered with their portfolios, in the midst of the lone campagna, beside the desolate ruin, before the masterpieces of the gallery, and in the Cathedral-chapel. They roam the streets of those old and picturesque cities at night, congregate at the caffé, and sing cheerfully in their studios. They seem a privileged class, and manage, despite their frequent poverty, to appropriate all the delights of Italy. They take long tours on foot, in search of the picturesque; engage in warm discussions together, on questions of art, and lay every town they visit, under contribution for some little romance. It is a rare pastime to listen to the love-tales and wild speculations of these gay wanderers. The ardent youth from the Rhine, the pensioner from Madrid, and the mercurial Parisian, smoke their pipes in concert, and wrangle good-humoredly over national peculiarities, as they copy in the palaces. Thorwaldsen is wont to call his birth-day the day on which he entered Rome. And when we consider to what a new existence that epoch introduces the artist, the expression is scarcely metaphorical. It is the dawning of a fresher and a richer life, the day that makes him acquainted with the wonders of the Vatican, the palace halls lined with the trophies of his profession, the daily walk on the Pincian, the solemn loneliness of the surrounding fields, the beautiful ruins, the long, dreamy day, and all the poetry of life at Rome. Whoever has frequently encountered Thorwaldsen in the crowded saloon, or visited him on a Sabbath morning, must have read in his bland countenance and benignant smile, the record of his long and pleasant sojourn in the Eternal city. To him it has been a theatre of triumph and benevolence. Everywhere in Italy are seen the enthusiastic pilgrims of art, who have roamed thither from every part of the globe. Each has his tale of self denial, and his vision of fame. At the shrines of Art they kneel together. Year by year they collect, in the shape of sketches and copies; the cherished memorials of their visit. A few linger on, until habit makes the country almost necessary to their existence, and they establish themselves in Florence or Rome. Those whom necessity obliges to depart, tear themselves, full of tearful regret, from the genial clime. Many who come to labor, content themselves with admi. ring, and glide into dreamy habits from which want, alone, can rouse them. Others become the most devoted students, and toil with unremitting energy. A French lady, attached to the Bourbon interest, has long dwelt in Italy, intent upon a monument to Charles X. Her talents for sculpture are of a high order, and her enthusiasm for royalty, extreme. Her hair is cut short like that of a man, and she wears a dark robe, similar to that with which Portia appears on the stage. Instances of a like self-devotion to a favorite project in art, are very common among those who are voluntary exiles in that fair land. One reason why the most famous portraits of the old masters, such as the Fornarina of Raphael and La Bella of Titian, are so life-like and inspire so deep a sense of their authenticity, is doubtless that the originals were objects of affection and familiar by constant association and sympathy, to the minds of the artists. This idea is unfolded in one of Webster's plays, where the advantage of a portrait taken without a formal sitting, is displayed with much quaintness and beauty :- "Must you have my picture? You will enjoin me to a strange punishment. |