CHAPTER III. STATE OF THE FINE ARTS. It is matter of congratulation that the structure of mind in these islands unites the various qualities requisite for forming a great and a noble nation. Had Great Britain not yet attained her present national pre-eminence, it might have been foretold that the spirit which has so often stimulated her to victory; the energy and enterprize which has so far extended her commerce; the comparative rectitude in principle; the benevolence which flows in so many charities; the intellect evinced by her scholars; and the excellence of her artists, must eventually place her in the first rank of ancient or modern nations. Which nation, of all those who have taunted her upon her atmosphere of fogs, and her dulness of imagination, possesses a school equal in power, thought, purity, and genuine merit to the school of England? In water colour drawing she is confessedly unrivalled. The Royal Academy, the British Gallery, the Society of British Artists, the Water Colour Exhibition are all rich cabinets of art, possessing treasures which would be prized in any nation, and in any country. No new name occurs this year, but the artists of last and of former exhibitions lose no part of their reputation. Sculpture is decidedly on the advance among us, and for the state of architecture we may look around at the magnificence which ennobles our streets. POETRY. THE LOVER'S LAST DIRECTIONS. A remarkable specimen of Cephaloniote superstitions: from Sheridan's COME quick, when told that I am sick, Remember! when thy trembling steps Have past the outer gate, Then, if my weeping mother says, Let me still feel that lov'd support, Then, dearest! give my withered lips When four young friends support my corse; Throw stones against that mournful group; And when they pass thy door, Clip every tress that was thy pride, And my delight before. And when they lay me in the church, As fluttering captives tear Their plumage, robb'd of all their young, So pluck thy silken hair. And when the burial chaunt is hush'd, The holy tapers dim, Gaze on thy lover's grave, and feel, E'en there thou art with him. THE A THE ORANGE TREE. By W. Sotheby. SWEET is the vernal rose That scents the morning gale: And sweet at day-light close Filling with fragrant breath the dewy vale, They bloom, and, blooming, fail: Leaf after leaf, fades, falls, and dies away. Beholds thee gifted with perpetual growth, Spring, summer, autumn, not in slow advance, LINES, BY L. E. L. My heart is as a grave, Where Hope and Love lie sleeping; With its dark thoughts like cypress, Watching and weeping. Yet, flowers are on that grave, Albeit sad they be; And hidden treasures in it, Sweet memories of thee. My heart is as a gem, Sullied and broken; "But bearing signs that make it still A precious token. Thy image has been there; Nothing can quite efface The beauty of the spot Which has been thy resting place : As that garden of the East, In itself no longer fair, Has yet perfume on its beds, For the rose has once bloomed there. CANZONET. |