FINE ARTS. 339 



twaddle and indigested ideas of some " noble author" or *' authoress" 

 who fondly and foolishly dreams of immortality through the pen (!) and 

 handsomely fees the fashionable bibliopole for the privilege of murder- 

 ing his Majesty's English, and appearing in print. What overgrown 

 analysis of the flimsy and butterfly songs of the day — the junction of 

 epithet and the sickliest sentiment ! what close-sifting of the little 

 trilling melodies that charming the ears of the boudoir or salon, are, at 

 length, to the delight of the lackey, murmured in the housekeeper's 

 room by the mellifluous lips of her Ladyship's woman, and thence 

 caught by the scullery-maid, make their way up the area to become the 

 ultimate property of the publican's boy, who pathetically whistles them 

 while scouring his pewter ! What elaborate details of the pedal flourish- 

 ing of some celebrated opera-dancer, who springs three feet and a half 

 higher than any of his contemporaries ! what grave criticism upon the 

 saltatory movements and evolutions ! what deliberation upon the re- 

 spective merits of two rival danseuses ! what profound dicta upon the 

 "grand and the graceful" in pirouettes! what bustle and grief, and 

 indignation, and absolute transports of sorrow, at the *' sudden indis- 

 position" or non-appearance of the prima-donna ! A false note — a 

 scarcely perceptible hoarseness — a sprained ankle — or a dislocated toe, 

 are enough to fill the newspapers with clamour and lamentation, and to 

 spread terror and confusion through the most brilliant audience that 

 ever gladdened the optics of Laporte. But the decay of the ** Fine 

 Arts," the abandonment and distress of their professors, the futile 

 struggles of genius with the heart-rending influence of public neglect, 

 are nothing of any moment whatever — a fly perishing beneath the wheel 

 of a waggon, or a withered leaf whirled through a forest, would be as 

 seriously noticed, and the most splendid pictorial display is not more 

 than the languid attraction of the hour. A freer spirit on the part of 

 the press would, in a great measure, counterbalance the apathy of the 

 fashionable world ; — to lead — not to follow — is the critical province ; but, 

 unfortunately for the fine arts, there are but few exceptions to the too- venal 

 practice of studying that which is most amusing to the general reader, rather 

 than that which is instructive and valuable, tending to produce some- 

 thing of higher character than the fugitive entertainment of the moment. 



In our first number we entered into a statement of the feelings and 

 opinions with which we regarded national art, and the anxiety with 

 which we should watch its career in this country, and assist in cherishing 

 its eflTorts. We may now refer to the liberal space which we have, 

 invariably, devoted to the subject, in proof of the sincerity of our pro- 

 fessions, and we reflect with unmitigated pride and pleasure upon the 

 fact that the fulfilment of our duty has been favoured with the gratifying 

 encomiums of the public press. 



In pursuance of the path which we conceive to be that of justice and 

 sound sense, we select for the critical commentary of this month one 

 publication to which we can pay the merited attention, in preference to 

 crowding our given space with a dozen notices, unavoidably brief and 

 unsatisfactory. Reserving for future remark Parts XVII., XVIIL, and 

 XIX. of Fisher's exquisite Lake Scenery, and the spirited, graceful, and 

 beautiful illustrations (by Harvey) of the " Story without an end," we 

 shall here redeem a promise given in our ninth number, and beg the 

 reader to accompany us in our examination of 



** Finden's Byron Beauties : a series of ideal portraits of the principal 

 female characters in Lord Byron's poems.'* 



In the present taste for fanciful and elegant design, uniting beauty 

 with passion and sentiment, these illustrations, happily adapted to the 



