He is fickle, and
casts off his menial mistress at an hour's notice--his mind never weds
any of the strange, fantastic idealities, which he woos for a time so
passionately--deep disgust succeeds to the strongest attachment for
them--he is as great a rake among the wayward "rebusses of the brain"
which fall under his notice as that "wandering melodist--the bee of
Hybla"--with the blossoms of spring. He has no affection for the
schemes, or "vain imaginations" of other men--no one can ridicule
them more smartly--he loves only "flowers of his own gathering"--he
places them in his breast, and wears them there with miraculous
constancy--flaunts them in the eyes of his friends--woos the applause,
the admiration of every one at their charms--and the instant he
discovers that another feels a budding fondness for their beauties,
he dashes them from him, and abuses them for ever after, _sans_
mercy.--_Every Night Book_.
* * * * *
FINE ARTS.
* * * * *
THE WORKS OF CANOVA.
(_For the Mirror_.)
Canova, while living, was thought to be the first sculptor of the age,
and his works are still greatly admired--for their exquisite finishing,
and for their near resemblance to real life. They are certainly very
attractive, and may be contemplated a considerable time with delight;
but they never impose upon the beholder, and never raise in his mind
any of those sublime ideas which he invariably experiences while
contemplating the works of the ancients, or the modern productions of
Michael Angelo Buonarotti.
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