them can give the actual thoughts of the personages whom they exhibit so palpably to the outward sense, that the character of those thoughts cannot be mistaken. Poetry goes farther than both; and when one of the sisters had laid down her chisel, the other her pencil, she continues her strain; wherein, having already sung what each have pictured, she thus reveals that secret of the sufferer's breaking heart, which neither of them could intimate by any visible sign. But we must return to the swoon of the dying

his eyes away;

"He heard it, and he heeded not, Were with his heart, and that was far

He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,

But, where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother:— he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday;

All this gush'd with his blood."

Myriads of eyes had gazed upon that statue; through myriads of minds all the images and ideas connected with the combat and the fall, the spectators and the scene, had passed in the presence of that unconscious marble which has given immortality to the pangs of death; but not a soul among all the beholders through eighteen centuries, not one had ever before thought of "the rude hut," the "Dacian mother," the "young barbarians." young barbarians." At length came the poet of passion; and looking down upon

"The dying Gladiator" (less as what it was than what it represented), turned the marble into man, and endowed it with human affections; then, away over the Apennines and over the Alps, away, on the wings of irrepressible sympathy, flew his spirit to the banks of the Danube, where, "with his heart," were the 66 eyes" "of the victim, under the night-fall of death; for "there were his young barbarians all at play, and there their Dacian mother." This is nature; this is truth. While the conflict continued, the combatant thought of himself only; he aimed at nothing but victory; when life and this were lost, his last thoughts, his sole thoughts, would turn to his wife and his little children.

In none of the foregoing remarks has the smallest slight been aimed at Music, Painting, or Sculpture, by giving the palm to Poetry; in fact it has been intended to exalt them, that, by showing the elder of the four sisters to be the intellectual superior of the younger three (illustrious and unsurpassed as each is in her own department), she herself might be crowned with the greater glory. On the subject of their generous rivalry let it be observed, that it is intellectual pre-eminence alone which is here claimed for poetry. The measure of original genius required for excelling in the one or the other, I leave undetermined.

The Comparative Rewards of Professors of the
Fine Arts.

Having thus endeavoured to prove, by no invidious comparisons, that poetry is the eldest, the rarest, and the most excellent of the fine arts, I may here touch upon another peculiarity not yet alluded to, being an extrinsic one, in which each of the others bears away from her a prize "for which they all contend," though only of secondary, not to say sordid, value. Though the gift of poetry be the most beneficial to the world, it is the least profitable to the possessor. There has scarcely been a period, or a country, in which a poet could live by the fruits of his labours. This circumstance (in no respect dishonourable to the art) has been a snare by which multitudes of its professors have been tempted to dishonour both it and themselves, by courtly servility to royal and noble patrons; - by yet viler degradation in ministering to vulgar prejudices, and pandering to gross passions; or, with the garbage of low satire, feasting envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, monsters of malignity, whose daily food, like that of the king of Cambay, in Hudibras, is "asp, and basilisk, and toad." But this is not the place to dwell upon the miseries and the sins of unfortunate poets; with nothing but their proverbial poverty have we to deal at present.

It is acknowledged, that great honours and emoluments have been bestowed on some of the tribe. Pindar knew the value of his talents in gold, and he exacted it. Virgil and Horace flourished within the

precincts of a court; others of meaner note, in modern times, might be mentioned;-but, after all, munificent patronage is yet rarer than transcendent talents. In the age of Augustus there were many poets and but one Mæcenas; Augustus himself was not a second. It is well for poetry, and no worse for poets, in the main, that the age of patronage is past; that the Parnassian slave-trade is abolished; -would that we were able to add, that Parnassian slavery itself was done away, that spontaneous bondage of poets themselves to folly, and vice, and pernicious fashion, for the hire of unrighteousness! With little to expect from the great, to the public the successful poet may look for his moderate but not inglorious reward.

It has been facetiously said, that booksellers drink their wine out of the skulls of authors; and it has been declared, by one of the most illustrious of our country's writers,―himself a poet,—who had proved all the pangs of heart-sickness from hope deferred, and hope disappointed, which he has so admirably expressed in a couplet of sterling English, excelling even the celebrated original in the third satire of Juvenal:

"Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat Res angusta domi."

"This mournful truth is every where confess'd, Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd."

Vanity of Human Wishes.

To return, it has been declared by Dr. Johnson, that booksellers are the best patrons. Both sayings may be equally true, though neither of them is

strictly so. It is as purely figurative to call a bookseller an author's patron as to say that he drinks his wine out of an author's skull. In reality-nay, it cannot in the common course of things be otherwise just in proportion as a writer's lucubrations bring profit to his bookseller, the bookseller will be liberal in remunerating his talents, - for the strongest reason in the world, to secure his own interest. That the market-price of the greatest works of literature, of poetry in particular, should be very incommensurate to the toil, the time, and the expense of thought required to perfect them, is a circumstance rather to be lamented than complained of, and rather to be endured with patience than lamented. The evil, if it be an evil, is irremediable; and however it may be alleviated by the multiplication of readers, and the taste for elegant and magnificent books, - though the latter factitious taste is nearly obsolete, and volumes of compendious literature are now the rage,—yet must authors be for ever excluded from the hope of reaping equal pecuniary benefit from the offspring of their minds with first-rate professors of the sister arts. The world, which loves to wonder, wonders less at Madame Catalani receiving a prince's ransom for a few pulsations of breath,- by which she can throw a whole theatre into ecstasy; or the late Benjamin West hesitating to accept ten thousand pounds for a single picture, than that Sir Walter Scott should have been paid five hundred for the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and from one to two, from two to three, and from three to four thousand pounds for so many