LESSON L.

THE FINE ARTS.

Ir is often said that the arts cannot flourish in a republic; and this is said, in the face of such examples as Athens and republican Rome. But why can they not? I ask. Want of patronage is the reason usually assigned; but let there be intelligence and refinement among any people, and the patronage of the arts must follow. And is it not safer thus to trust the encouragement of the arts to the intelligence and free competition of a whole people, than to a few individuals, kings or princes.

Would not a generous artist rather take an intelligent people for his patron, than a king? May not the fine arts, in this respect, be safely and advantageously subjected to the same ordeal as literature. We have wealth enough, we have intelligence in America, and I am willing to rely upon these for the inevitable con

sequence.

It would be sad, indeed, if the allegation were true, that the arts could not flourish in a republic. For it is precisely in a republic that they are wanted to complete the system of social influences. It is a mistake into which novices fall, to suppose that the arts are unfavorable to morality.

In fact, the fine arts have usually been the handmaids of virtue and religion. More than half of the great paintings in the world are illustrative of religious subjects; and embracing mythology in this account, more than half of the statues are of the same character.

And to refer to kindred arts-architecture, too, has built its noblest structures for religion, and music has composed its sublimest strains for the sanctuary. Genius, indeed that inspiration from Heaven-has always shown its descent from above, by this direction of its labors..

The introduction of the arts into our countrry, then, is not to be dreaded on the score of morality. Is it not on every account greatly to be desired? The most material deficiency among us, perhaps next to the want of virtue-is likely to be the want of refinement. There is need among us of objects that kindle up admiration and enthusiasm, that awaken the sense of delight and wonder, that break up the habits of petty calculation and sordid interest, and breathe a liberal and generous soul into the people; and this need the arts would supply.

The Author of nature has shown that it was not beneath his care to provide for the gratification of sentiments, precisely similar to those which are addressed by the arts. The world, composed of hill and dale, mountain and valley, not one boundless ploughed field to yield food; dressed in gay and bright liveries, not in one sober-suited color; filled with the music of its streams and groves, not doomed to endless monotony or everlasting silence: such a world, the dwelling place of nations, the school of their discipline, the temple of their worship, plainly shows that they were not destined to be pupils of cold and stern utility alone, but of many and diversified influences; of gracefulness, of elegance, of beneficence, beauty, and sublimity.

LESSON LI.

HAFED'S DREAM.

Ar the foot of one of those gigantic mountains in Asia, which lift up their heads so far above the clouds that the eye of man never saw their summits, stood a beautiful cottage, facing the east. The mountain

stream leaped and murmured on the north; the verdant plain, where the bright-eyed gazelle sported, lay spread out in front; the garden and the olive-yard, filled with every flower and every fruit which an oriental sun could pencil and ripen, lay on the south; while back, on the west, rose the everlasting mountain.

Here were walks, and shades, and fruits, such as were found no where else. The sun shone upon no spot more luxuriant; the moonbeams struggled to enter no place more delightful; and the soft wings of the breezes of evening fanned no such abode in all the

east.

The howl of the wolf was never heard here; the sly fox never came here to destroy; and here the serpent's hiss was never heard. This cottage was the home of HAFED, the aged and the prosperous. He reared this cottage; he adorned this spot; and here, for more than fourscore years, he had lived and studied.

During all this time, the sun had never forgotten to visit him daily: the harvest had never failed, the pestilence had never destroyed, and the mountain stream had never dried up. The wife of his youth still lived

to cheer and bless him; and his son and daughter were such as were not to be found in all that Province.

son.

No youth could rein the horse, hurl the javelin, chase the lion, or delight the social circle, like this No daughter of kings could be found so beautiful and perfect, as was this daughter, with an eye so bright and joyous, and a form so symmetrical, as hers. But who can insure earthly happiness? In one short week, Hafed was stripped of all his joys. His wife went to see a new white peacock, which it was said a neighbor, who lived a mile off in the ravine, had just brought home. She took cold, and a quick fever followed; and on her return, Hafed saw that she must die.

Before two days were gone, the old man was standing at her open grave. He gazed long, and said impatiently-" Cover her,-cover the only woman that I ever loved!" The son and daughter had returned from the burial of their mother, fatigued and sick. The nurse gave them, as she thought, a simple medicine. In a few hours, it was found to be poison. Hafed saw that they must die; for the laws of nature are fixed, and poison kills. He buried them in one wide, deep grave, and it seemed as if in that grave he buried his reason and his religion. He tore his gray hair,-he cursed the light of day, and wished the moon turned into blood; and above all, declared that the laws which God had established were all wrong, useless, and worse than none.

He wished the world were governed by chance; but, as this was a hopeless wish, he wished that at his death he might go to a world where there was no God to fix unalterable laws. He arraigned the wisdom of

God in his government over this world, declaring that his plans were worse than none, and that it would be far better to have no God in the universe! In the centre of Hafed's garden stood a large, beautiful palmtree. Under it was Hafed sitting, the second evening after closing the grave over his children. The seat on which he sat had been reared by his son. On the leaf of the tree which lay before him, were some exquisite verses, written by the pencil of his daughter.

Before him lay the beautiful country, covered with green, sprinkled here and there, as far as the eye could see, with the habitations of men; and upon this great landscape the shadows of the mighty mountains were now setting. In the east, the moon was just pushing up her modest face, and the gold of day was softening into the silver of night. While Hafed looked on all this, grief began to swell in his throat; his tongue murmured; his heart was full of hard thoughts of God. As the night deepened, Hafed, as he then thought, fell asleep with a heavy heart. When he supposed he awoke, it was in a new spot. The mountain, the landscape, the home, were all gone. All

was new.

As he stood wondering where he was, he saw a creature approaching him, which, at first, he mistook for a baboon; but, on its coming near, he discovered that it was a creature somewhat resembling a man, but every way mal-formed, ill-shaped, and monstrous. He came up and walked around Hafed, as he would a superior being, exclaiming, "Beautiful, beautiful creature !" "Shame, shame on thee!" said Hafed; "dost thou treat a stranger thus with insults? Leave off thy jests,