moment so effectively as to visibly impress the silent multitude. Having heard much of the eye-language of an accomplished lady, I was several times at great pains to observe, but was invariably unsuccessful. The conversation in each instance, had been of a general nature, which helped to reconcile me to the disappointment. Being soon after possessed of some circumstances of the lady's history which gave me a clue to her inward experi ence, I managed on the next opportunity to strike the 'electric chain,' and draw her into a brief but touching narration. The gradual increase of expression and eventual melting gaze induced by the excitement, was more moving than any pathos of mere words or circumstance that I ever knew.

The comparative dearth of eye-language in this country is lamentably significant of the narrow sway of the Ideal, and the rarity of fresh and spontaneous selfdevelopment. Exceptions, many and brilliant, there doubtless are;-but the traveller who has been wont to note the eloquent activity and profundity of expression of the eye in most of the continental countries, will feel, as he wanders about the new world, a difference, not to say a deficiency, in this respect. The guarded expression, the waving, the indifferent or at best merely brisk tenor of eye-language among the busy men around him, cannot escape his notice. And when from beneath a fair brow, or in the glance of an enthusiast, the mystic organ speaks with unwonted freedom and effect, he feels revived as by a fondly-remembered tune. Beautiful are the workings of the mystic and microscopic machine. The flowers and

the stars speak a moving language; but from the eye beams what will endure when fragrance and light are no more. The curious characters of written language-barren words treasured up by lexicographers, and arbitrarily decreed-the lovelier hieroglyphics which bespangle the sky, or deck the fields,-what are they compared with the more subtle signs which beam in the visual organs-the breathings of the soul, in that

"Bright ball on which the spirit sate
Through life, and looked out in its various moods
Of gentleness and joy and love and hope,
And gained this frail flesh credit in the world."

1

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 recog nize 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 profes sion, 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