means to come home and devote himself to the establishment of a school of statuary. We shall then see whether it requires the patronage of kings, the distinctions of ranks, the monopoly of wealth, and the sacrifice of liberty, to make the arts flourish in our great republic.

Our literary men and artists need no longer go abroad, we again repeat, to earn a livelihood or gain a reputation. The period is fast approaching, when they will address themselves to fifty, and by and by a hundred, millions of their countrymen, all speaking the same language, all advancing abreast with equal steps, and forming a solid phalanx of mind and purpose, such as the world never saw before. Is there not here a sphere adequate to the most vaulting ambition? And why, therefore, should they look abroad for the stinted praise of foreign hireling critics, when they can implant their names deep in the soil of a country, wider than any homogeneous empire that the world ever saw, and where they will live in ages to come, when peradventure the fate of Europe may follow that of the other quarters of the old world.

Let them appeal to the feelings and pride of this great and growing nation, instead of those of foreigners, and consecrate their genius at the shrine of patriotism. Let them strike the right chord, and if it does not promptly respond to the touch, then let them complain, and let the imputation we have been contesting be acknowledged as the truth. Then let them repeat the old sing-song about the incompatibility of freedom with the perfection of the arts, and the necessity of patronage, servitude and degradation to a Michael Angelo, a Raphael, a Corregio, a Claude, a Titian, a Canova, a Thorwalsden, or a Greenough. Until they have made this trial, silence, study, effort and industry, would better become them, than complaint and despondency. Let them read the lives of these illustrious artists, whose fame now illuminates the civilized world, and learn by what a succession of labors, anxieties, disappointments, and mortifications, they at length gained the summit of their art. They will then see, that the highest rewards are only the meed of the greatest efforts, and that the exertions of a whole life are necessary to live hereafter.

Let them also recollect, that all the artists of Italy are not equally celebrated. The names of thousands and tens of thousands, during the period in which the arts flourished in that country in their greatest splendor, now rest in the repose of oblivion, or are only recorded in dictionaries. Thousands and tens of thousands have also attained but a small portion of the fame of these illustrious masters, who, though nearly cotemporary with each other, seem to have been the product of centuries. Ages preceded and succeeded them, without producing their equals, and who knows but that in which the old world has failed, may be achieved by the new?

Without doubt, many a bright genius of whom the world has never heard, during the age of these great masters, pined away in neglect and obscurity, notwithstanding the patronage of kings and nobility, and what is more, in spite of that of the illustrious merchants and mechanics of Florence. A still greater number of artists, without genius or industry, were left to combat with their own imbecility, and, we dare say, were loud in their complaints of the neglect of their countrymen. It is the lot of mediocrity and inferiority to

complain, and it is equally so, for men of the highest genius to meet with disappointments in their pursuits. In the great game of human life, few win and many lose, nor is the race always to the swift, or the battle to the strong.

If, then, it should happen, as it most undoubtedly will, that among the present or any future race of artists, who start in the great sweepstakes for fame and fortune, some, nay, very many, should break down, some give out, and some be distanced, while but a few arrive at the goal, let them not, in a spirit of querulous complaint, lay their failure at the door of our free institutions. Let them refrain from joining the hue and cry, that the fine arts are incompatible with the general diffusion of rights, property, and intelligence, and that to have fine pictures and statues, men must once more become slaves. If such indeed be the case, then we say, let us dispense with Saints and Madonnas, Venuses and Apollos, and cling to the Goddess of Liberty. If it must be so, let us sacrifice the arts to freedom, remembering that in the language of the poet Lucan, Libertas ultima mundi quo steterit ferienda loco.'

A PASSAGE OF LIFE.

I SLEEP-but 't is to dream-though I have pray'd
For that blest spirit of forgetfulness,

That comes o'er Virtue like a necromance,
Leaving an infant quiet with the heart,

And with the mind, oblivion. But my prayer
Has found no entrance at the gate of GoD-
And I dream on. Rest has no change for me,
And comes not to me, with its angel wings,
Fanning and shadowing, till a weary
world
Takes form of what should be, and we think
Life yet might be a vision crown'd with gold,
And even yet a weary thing to die.

There is no midnight to me- the long bell
That tells the passage of 'recorded time'

To the insensate watcher, bears to me

No story of the future or the past.

But the dull night-chime falls upon my ear
As upon marble- or some sculptur'd thing,
That rings to, but feels not the booming sound!
I know no measure of my days - my mind
Gives with its silent but unerring voice
No intimation of that wondrous change,
That with alternate radiance and gloom,

Walks the great earth and sky. Morn, with its bars,
Opening like Mercy on a waking world,

And night with its vast music of the stars!

I gaze upon this bright machinery

That circulates through space--and, as I gaze,

And listen to the tireless melodies

That swell upon us in a choiring sound,

As from some mighty fountains in the sky,

I feel their golden order, as they pass,

And hear their Master's voice. Mount, cloud, and sea
Lift up their majesty - and a great shout
Leaps from gray crag to the blue waters - all
Swell the fierce thunder-peal in deep response,
And tell their glorious history in the storm!

Portland, December, 1836.

GRENVILLE MELLEN.

THE DANCING GIRL.

A PASSAGE IN THE 'FIDGET PAPERS.'

'LET Angelina bare her breast of snow,

Wave her white arm, and point her pliant toe.'

BYRON.

THE request of his father, my own inclination, and a sense of duty, combined to render me particularly attentive to the interests and welfare of my well-meaning but giddy friend, Jack Volatile. One half of his time was spent in getting into difficulties, and the other half in getting out of them. He was thoughtless, generous, unsuspicious, and inexperienced — trusting less to principle than to feeling; more to impulse than to judgment: no wonder, then, that he was frequently the prey of the designing. He was very susceptible. It did not require a union of extraordinary charms to light a fire in his heart. A single good feature was sufficient. He was ready to die for a little milliner, because she had a pretty ancle, and lavished half his fortune on a confectioner's girl, because she had red hair, like Titian's Flora. I threatened to carry him to the Lunatic Asylum, but the man was perfectly incorrigible. For this reason I at first refused to accompany him to the theatre, when the famous danseuse, M'lle Angelique L'Amour was about to make her first appearance in the literary emporium.

'Volatile,' said I, 'you will fall in love with her, you know - and why should you wish me to be a spectator of your vagaries?' My dear Frank, I'll behave like a gentleman.'

That you always do but sometimes like a most erratic one. Promise that you will not fall in love with M'lle L'Amour.'

'Francis Fidget,' replied Volatile, 'I solemnly promise I will not adore her.'

Remember, Volatile, your word is pledged. You are not to yell 'bravo!' like a madman you're not to throw your hat into the pit you 're not to act Romeo for the especial admiration of the gallery; but you are to take your pleasure soberly,' like Lady Grace; to applaud moderately, if pleased, and to say nothing, if dissatisfied.' Agreed! agreed!' cried Volatile, impatiently: 'and now for M'lle Angelique.'

We went to town. The theatre was full and fashionably attended: Strange perversion of taste! We turn a deaf ear to the horrid declamations of native genius, but to the 'declamation des jambes' we give the profoundest attention. 'Les gens n'éconte que le ballet,' was the complaint of a beautiful Italian singer. But I wander from my tale.

The entrance of M'lle Angelique was heralded by ravishing music, that stole upon the ear like the sweet south.' In the midst of a most harmonious prelude, there bounded into view a young, glad creature, with light drapery floating round her, like a veil of mist.

The scenic roses that bloomed upon the canvass seemed to borrow a new and touching grace from the splendor of her presence. Angelique adapted her movements to the music with remarkable precision. Now, while the strain was low and soft, the beautiful girl

sailed slowly round, waving her white arms above her head, or crossing them, with graceful gesture, on her snowy breast. Her features, according with the flow of melancholy sounds, assumed a dejected air.

But when she heard 'the brisk awakening viol,' she bounded aloft like Flora when pursued by Zephyr, and the strained eye could hardly catch the motion of her little twinkling feet. She receded to the back of the stage with wonderful rapidity,

Showing limbs, as loth to show
Through many a thin Tarentian fold.'

And now she paused for breath her coral lips apart, her beautiful ́ bosom heaving. The music swelled again, and the lovely Angelique sprang forward with the arrowy rush of Ronzi Vestris. Louder and louder rang the tambourine and bugle. And now commenced the triumph of the dancer's art. She bounded from the stage, as if too light to rest upon the boards. She poised her feather-weight upon one slender foot, and whirled around with dizzying rapidity. Her motions became more and more complicated, her exertions more and more prodigious. At length, wearied, weak, panting, she waved a feeble adieu, and disappeared. The roar of applause that followed her exit, shook the very pillars of the theatre, and the green curtain undulated in the currents of air caused by the tumultuary movements of the audience.

'Heavens!' cried Volatile, am I dreaming? Was not that an unsubstantial vision, sent to beguile a wayward hour, but too beautiful for earth?'

'Come, Volatile,' said I, 'your promise!'

'Promise!' cried Volatile, with huge contempt. I vowed I would not love a woman, but it would be madness to frown upon a divinity!' The girl is pretty,' said I, wishing to sooth him, and what pigeon

wings!

6

Goth!' exclaimed Volatile, do you speak of her thus? Why, she is angelic.'

'Her name is so,' retorted I. 'But tell me, is that woman worthy such enthusiasm, who can so far forget the modesty of her sex and age, as to expose herself to the gaze of a crowded theatre, in a garb which a sculptor would think light enough for a Venus? No, there is a rank corruption at her heart.'

'I'll stake my head,' cried Volatile, hotly, 'upon the purity of her heart!'

'Then, my poor Jack, you will soon become

'A headless carcass, and a nameless thing.''

'Come, come,' said Jack, 'you must own that modesty does not consist in dress - else what a stock of ready-made virtue can you buy at any milliner's.'

Stop!' cried I, 'were this figurante a South Sea Islander, born where the thermometer stands at 90° Fahrenheit in the shade, and where milliners are confounded scarce, she might pass for a Lucretia; but as the case stands, I can't excuse her. I beg leave again to remind you of your promise. And now we'll go and get some

oysters.'

sea!

Oysters! food fit for the gods! What had been the banquets of Apicius without ye? The shell that cradled Venus on the waters must have been an oyster-shell. The pearl that Cleopatra melted in her cup, once rested in an oyster-shell. Delicious children of the Ye were my solace in that all nameless hour, when my heart was heavy within me when the present was a blank, the future a dark abyss, the past a shadowy desert. Then, in the recklessness of my despair, not knowing whether I had an appetite or not, I said 'Give me oysters!' and I ate of them. Lo! the clouds that shrouded my mind vanished:

'My bosom's lord sat lightly on his throne.'

be

I lived I joyed in life. Hogarth, that accurate observer of nature, represents a man at an election dinner, dying with an oyster on his fork. Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the past! is there on thy pages the record of a death more glorious? A man may sentimental over oysters. Volatile was so, and eagerly recommenced upon the subject of the dancing girl. He was entirely fascinated, and before we separated for the night, gave me to understand that he should immediately set about procuring an introduction, for he was very well convinced, from the evidence of her features, that she was a most amiable young woman, and worthy of all the eulogiums which had been lavished upon her.

Volatile's first step was to ascertain whether any of his friends were acquainted with the figurante; but none of them could claim that honor. He next bought fifty dollar's worth of tickets for her first benefit, and the act was duly puffed in the newspapers. Mademoiselle Angelique pocketed the cash, but took no notice of her prodigal patron. Volatile now bethought himself of the influence of the manager, and procured an introduction to that worthy functionary, without encountering any of the difficulties which impeded his approach to the beautiful danseuse. The manager was much pleased with his new acquaintance, and let him into all the secrets by which he hoped to insure the success of his campaign. The graver part of the community were to be propitiated by a series of moral plays, of which George Barnwell was the most conspicuous. Then there were to be some dancing monkeys, and a pantomime for children, and a celebrated tight-rope vaulter, for the lovers of the legitimate drama. To all these plans Jack Volatile gave an attentive ear, and what was still better, money. But when he solicited an introduction to the danseuse, the manager shrugged his shoulders. Mademoiselle Angelique was a singular girl-capricious sometimes artful-provoking! However, he would try what he could do, for he had all the disposition in the world to oblige the young gentleman who had approved of the dancing monkeys, and sanctioned the degradation of the drama. The first message which the manager brought from the figurante, was of a discouraging character. Angelique was unwell, saw no company, was not fond of American gentlemen, had her time occupied, etc., etc. The manager suggested the propriety of making some offering at the shrine of the lady's beauty. She has a passion for diamonds.' This hint was enough for Volatile. He had money, and he was generous.

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