Example 2d of an Essay.

he Plesure derived from the Fine Arts, by the Artist and Common Spectator. The pleasure derived from the Fine Arts is doubtless proportioned to our pacity of appreciating them; for they address themselves chiefly to the agination and the sensibility. The mere pleasures of sense every man ay feel; but those derived from intellect and sentiment are more limited, ad of a higher order. Hence it is, that the artist feasts on his selfeated treasures, and lives on fancy's imagery, whilst the hieroglyphical ub of a sign-painter would be more attractive to the common spectator an the hues of Titian, or the bold master-strokes of a Michael Angelo. aste is a sentiment of the soul. It is a keen perception of the sublime nd beautiful in art and nature. United with genius, it even creates to self images surpassing human excellence; objects which exist, perhaps, ut in the painter's and poet's vision. Guido coveted the wings of an ngel, that he might behold the beatified spirits of paradise, and therey form an archangel such as his imagination was obliged to substitute. How sublime must have been the vision which gave the object his imgination sought for! How intense the feeling which thus transported im from earth to heaven!

To express the passions by outward signs is the artist's aim; and we may add, his envied privilege. What delight to see the cold and gloomy canvas expand with life; the dull void banished by the melting eye, the graceful form, the persuasive suppliant, the conquering hero! Every touch adds something to the soul's expression, till the enraptured painter yields himself upto the delightful contemplation of his new creation. “I, too, am a painter," exclaimed Correggio, with involuntary transport, while contemplating a work of the divine Raphael; "I, too, am a painter." Such was the enraptured feeling which would, otherwise, have been chilled by the cold pressure of his wants and poverty.

To common observers, the most beautiful painting may seem but an assemblage of forms, and the most exquisite poem but doggerel rhyme. The higher efforts of art produce but little effect on uncultivated minds. It is (as Sir Joshua Reynolds observes) only the lowest style of arts, whether of painting, poetry, or music, that may be said, in the vulgar sense, to be naturally pleasing. Taste, and a just discrimination, are the results of education. The concertos of Steibell and Clementi would be jargon to the ear accustomed only to the monotonous tones of "Hob or Nob," and "Yankee Doodle," nor would the admirer of Punchinello," or "Jack the Giant Killer," be enraptured with the grace and dignity of an Apollo Belvidere, or a Venus de Medicis.

That a susceptibility and love of the sublime and beautiful are a source of happiness, who can doubt, that has seen the "Aurora" of Guido? How rich, how sublime the fancy, which could produce so enchanting an assemblage of all that is graceful and lovely! and how animated, how enrapture, the feelings of him whom a refined taste renders capable of appreciating them! Dupaty's soul nielted at the view of Raphael's "Incendia del Borgo." He saw not, in that moment of enraptured feeling, a pictured flame, but the devouring element, raging, enveloping, and consuming the helpless and despairing multitude. To look on such a production with total indifference is impossible. Apelles's critic was a competent judge

of the representation of a sandal, and Molière's old woman could decide upon the nature of comic humor; but it is the artist and connoisseur alone, who can judge, appreciate, and feel the highest order of color, me dification, and expression.

The portrait painter also claims our attention and gratitude. He who gives to our weeping eyes the form of the beloved and departed friend whose magic touch arrests beauty in its progress to decay, and whose pencil immortalizes the revered forms of the hero and the statesman; the Soul-breathing expression of a Washington, a Franklin, and an Ames. Painting may, perhaps, be said to be the acme of the arts, since it charms by so many various branches, and admits of such infinite variety of color and expression; but let not the "verba ardentia" of the poet be robbed of their honors. The lyre of a Milton, a Cowper, a Bryant, and a Wordsworth, can never breathe other than harmonious sounds. Their words melt into ideas, as the objects of nature gather light and color from the sun.

Shall we not allow the poet, then, his joys and honors? Shall the emanations of his fancy shine on hearts cold and dead to its rays? No! Through the tear of sensibility we see his power; we feel in the tender accents of the voice that trembles while it reads.

Since the pleasures derived from the Fine Arts are so exquisite, both to the artist and spectator, it cannot be doubted that our sources of happiness might be greatly extended by their liberal cultivation. That arts and morals are materially connected, there is no doubt. Horace observes: "Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes,

Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros."'

And could this spirit, this admiration of the beautiful, be generously cultivated, the genius of our soil might proudly ascend the summit of Par nassus. Public favor is the most powerful stimulus to talent; exhibitions therefore, of the best productions, both in painting and sculpture, will have a tendency to diffuse a general taste, and to inspire a spirit of emulation, from which the most beneficial results may be anticipated. Let us not suffer the artists who now grace our shores to forsake us, for the want of that patronage which it should be our pride and pleasure to bestow We cannot, indeed, expect to rival the treasures of the Louvre or the Vatican; but from the exercise of native talent, and from the specimens of art we already possess, much may be expected. In the cabinets of private individuals in our city, may be found productions sufficient to form a choice collection for public exhibition, and it is to the liberality and patronage of their possessors that we look for such encouragement as shall stimulate the young artist to immortalize his name, and shed a lustre on his country.

Example 3d.

The Sentiment of Loyalty.

Loyalty, in its primitive signification, implies fidelity to a king. Hence, a loyal subject is one who promotes as far as possible the welfare of the kingdom, who assists in the maintenance of the laws, and in times of danger is ever ready to defend the life and honor of his sovereign, and to sacrifice himself for the good of his country..

This sentiment is natural to the human race. If we analyze our various feelings and emotions, we shall find that the sentiment of love is one of

most powerful passions which nature has implanted in the breast of n; it is the most powerful, because, when excited and kindled, it burns han ardor almost unquenchable; it warms and spurs the whole man on rd towards the accomplishment of its object; impetuous and irresistible, overcomes all obstacles which rise before it.

The sentiment of Loyalty is one of the manifestations of this love; springfrom that noble source, it flows onward till it meets the waters of other eams, which it deepens and purifies.

Since nature has given to man this sentiment of loyalty, it will always d suitable objects on which to bestow itself. Man was made for love; must have something to honor, respect, and admire; something usually gher and nobler than himself; consequently, in despotic countries, honor d love are paid by a loyal people to their sovereign, who, being of a gher station, of a more venerated name, or of nobler descent than themIves, is entitled to this respect.

In our own country, we venerate the wisdom and prudence of our ancesrs, who, in framing the articles of our constitution, provided for the good succeeding generations; and, at the present day, when we see a citizen evoting himself to the service of his country with that patriotic spirit -hich characterized our fathers, our affections are aroused, our lips send orth his praise, we hail him as the defender of the Constitution, and the whole nation rises up to do him homage.

In England, recently, that loyalty, which for two preceding reigns had een slumbering, burst forth with redoubled vigor upon the accession of a emale sovereign to the throne.

At the beginning of a new reign, the loyalty of a nation is always openly and warmly exhibited. But on that occasion, there was something in the Fact, that their future sovereign was a youthful and accomplished queen, which excited in an unusual degree the hopes and sympathies of the nation. They hailed her accession as emblematical of peace and prosperity.

In the feudal times, in the times of chivalry and the Crusades, the knights were distinguished for their loyalty to the ladies of the court. In those days, the fame and beauty of the lady inspired her champion with courage and strength, and many a battle has been fought and many a victory won, under this spirit-stirring influence of loyalty.

Those were brilliant days for Europe, when chivalry stood forth in its might, and first gave birth to loyalty, loyalty, which taught devotion and reverence to those weak, fair beings, who but in beauty and gentleness have no defence. "It raised love above the passions of the brute, and by dignifying woman, made woman worthy of love. It gave purity to enthu siasm, crushed barbarous selfishness, taught the heart to expand like a flower to the sunshine, beautified glory with generosity, and smoothed even the rugged brow of war." But how have we degenerated? "The age of chivalry is gone; never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified odedience, that sub ordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom-!"

But though the sentiment of loyalty has greatly degenerated, it is not wholly extinct; it is now occasionally expressed, but its flame is faint and flickering; should it ever expire, it will go hand in hand with patriotism, and will expire with that faith which gave it life.

To conceive truly what we should then lose, we need only reflect, that loyalty is the bond of society and friendship, it unites all the best affections of the heart in one common cause, it holds a sacred place not to be invaded with impunity, it is respected and honored by the old, and the stories of ita valor delight the young, and

"Though well held, to fools doth make
Our faith mere folly, yet he that can endure
To follow with allegiance fallen lord,
Doth conquer him, that did his master conquer."

XC.

COLLEGE POEM.

Example.

The Pleasures and Pains of the Student.

When envious time, with unrelenting hand,
Dissolves the union of some little band,
A band connected by those hallowed ties,
That from the birth of lettered friendship rise,
Each lingering soul, before the parting sigh,
One moment waits, to view the years gone by;
Memory still loves to hover o'er the place,
And all our pleasures and our pains retrace.
The Student is the subject of my song,

Few are his pleasures, yet those few are strong.
Not the gay, transient moment of delight,
Not hurried transports felt but in their flight.
Unlike all else, the Student's joys endure,

Intense, expansive, energetic, pure;

Whether o'er classic plains he loves to rove,

'Midst Attic bowers, or through the Mantuan grove, — Whether, with scientific eye, to trace

The various modes of number, time, and space,
Whether on wings of heavenly truth to rise,
And penetrate the secrets of the skies,
Or downwards tending, with an humble eye,
Through Nature's laws explore a Deity,
His are the joys no stranger breast can feel,
No wit define, no utterance reveal.

Nor yet, alas! unmixed the joys we boast,
Our pleasures still proportioned labors cost.
An anxious tear oft fills the Student's eye,
And his breast heaves with many a struggling sigh.
His is the task, the long, long task, t' explore
Of every age the lumber and the lore.
Need I describe his struggles and his strife,
The thousand minor miseries of his life,

How Application, never-tiring maid,
Oft mourns an aching, oft a dizzy head?

How the hard toil but slowly makes its way,

One word explained, the labor of a day,

Here forced to explore some labyrinth without end,

And there some paradox to comprehend?

Here ten hard words fraught with some meaning small,

And there ten folios fraught with none at all.
Or view him meeting out with points and lines
The land of diagrams and mystic signs,

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Where forms of spheres "being given" on a plane,
He must transform and bend within his brain.
Or as an author, lost in gloom profound,

When some bright thought demands a period round
Pondering and polishing; ah, what avail

The room oft paced, the anguish-bitten nail?
For see, produced 'mid many a laboring groan,

A sentence much like an inverted cone.

Or should he try his talent at a rhyme,

That waste of patience and that waste of time,
Perchance, like me, he flounders out one line,
Begins the next, there stops

Enough, no more unveil the cloister's grief,
Disclose those sources whence it finds relief.
Say how the Student, pausing from his toil,
Forgets his pain 'mid recreation's smile.
Have you not seen,-forgive the ignoble theme, -
The winged tenants of some haunted stream
Feed eager, busy, by its pebbly side,
Then wanton in the cool, luxuriant tide?
So the wise student ends his busy day,
Unbends his mind, and throws his cares away.
To books where science reigns, and toil severe,
Succeeds the alluring tale, or drama dear;
Or haply in that hour his taste might choose
The easy warblings of the modern muse.
Let me but paint him void of every care,
Flung in free attitude across his chair.
From page to page his rapid eye along
Glances and revels through the magie song;
Alternate swells his breast with hope and fear,

Now bursts the unconscious laugh, now falls the pitying tear

Yet more; though lonely joys the bosom warm,

Participation heightens every charm;

And should the happy student chance to know
The warmth of friendship, or some kindlier glow,
What wonder should he swiftly run to share
Some favorite author with some favorite fair!
There, as he cites those treasures of the page
That raise her fancy, or her heart engage,
And listens while her frequent, keen remark
Discerns the brilliant, or illumes the dark,

And doubting much, scarce knows which most to admire,
The critic's judgment, or the writer's fire,
And reading often glances at that face,
Where gently beam intelligence and grace;
And sees each passion in its turn prevail,
Her looks the very echo of the tale;
Sees the descending tear, the swelling breast,
When vice exults, or virtue is distressed;
Or, when the plot assumes an aspect new,
And virtue shares her retribution due,
He sees the grateful smile, th' uplifted eye,