some real thought to the subject, false and specious attractiveness cannot be at once set aside, but will corrupt the taste and give a false bias to the judgment. But what holds good in nature is also true of Art. By attention and observation we shall begin to see what is really before us; and when the eye distinguishes objects that at first seem confused and overpowering from their number and juxtaposition, the mind will begin to reason on the order, harmony, or otherwise, of the system before it. Some works of great artists the sculptures of the Elgin room or the ceiling of the Sistine chapel-are not likely to be ever misobserved; but a vast field of the finest art is not to be understood without some real amount of patient study. No one will spend such attention without reaping the benefit of it. Supposing even an observer to be wholly out of reach of the traditions of Art, and to make for himself reflections the most original, and to see or learn to look for very special qualities in Art, this would but add a keenness to his relish for acknowledged traditions when pointed out, if he did not end by finding them sooner or later for himself.

It is to be observed that Art is as fully open to the judgment of those who are not themselves artists as of those who are. Criticism, indeed, is more just, and the judgment better balanced, in those who are not poets or inventors. The two operations represent two sets of faculties wholly different. Great inventors form their conceptions in a way altogether beyond analysis or description, while judgments are formed by a logical and argumentative process. A great musician may be no composer; and painters and sculptors of real imaginative power would be unable to account for their own productions, would obey the rules of their art by instinct, and pass beyond them from time to time with unerring success.

It is again true, however difficult to account for it, that fondness for Art in men of the very greatest minds, if they have not directed their powers that way, is no security against the weakest preferences. Men of strong will, keen intellectual force and vast acquirements, turn often towards Art as a relaxation, as they might play with children, and find solace in the softness of weak productions.

This is from no want of capacity to distinguish between softness and tenderness, but from want of attention, and from the natural tendency of strong and laborious men to love what is unlike themselves, or supplies what they seem to lack. However it is to be explained, it is true that men, societies-one might almost say generations of great men-are to be found with childish preferences in Art. An age that constructs ships like the Great Eastern and bridges like that over the Menai is pleased with the most transpa

rent feebleness of lath-and-plaster and the poorest platitudes of our contractors' architecture.

It would perhaps be better, and take us further in the direction of real refinement, if these sickly tributes to the charms of Art were left out of most of our modern life altogether. If we can give attention to useful works alone,-if it be right and best for a nation to absorb itself in the pursuit of money, and the national faculties in making works that have the increase of money for their one sole object, it would be wise to acknowledge that Art cannot be superadded without effort, as a flourish altogether supererogatory.

Then indeed we should perceive that the pursuit of Art is something altogether different, something absorbing and serious; that Beauty is in itself an object, and an object distinct from "utility." We should see, from considering the analogy of the Creation about us, what a place in it and what a value beauty and beautiful things have; of what a dignity the contemplation of this vast field must be, silently inviting us to disregard that which ministers to and multiplies wants and weaknesses, and to consider this vast field itself, with its wonderful growth and productions. Can it be so constantly before and round about us for nothing? If it is not so, is it not worth our study?

Art indeed, like other admirable energies of man, so noble in reason, so excellent in faculty, may be abused, or it may be used for ends beside its own. We do not enter on this question,—the moral good or the moral evil to which Art may be turned.

To love Art is our natural bent; to enjoy it is in the reach of every one. But this enjoyment is no part of any natural instinct that craves, as the palate craves, for its satisfaction; and to reach it we must be at the pains of a certain measure of mental effort. The beauty that draws the eyes, the harmony of sounds that enter through the ear, must be wooed with full and serious intention. He who is great with the one may be altogether a fool with the other; but excellence both in the one and in the other is for the delight, not of the artist or composer alone, but of every one who will look and listen without impatience.

J. H. P.

Saints of the Desert.

No. IX.

1. SOME old men came to Abbot Antony; who, to try their spirits, proposed to them a difficult passage of Scripture.

As each in turn did his best to explain it, Antony said: "You have not hit it."

Till Abbot Joseph said: "I give it up."

Then cried Antony: "He has hit it; for he owns he does not know it."

2. When the Abbot Arsenius was at the point of death, his brethren noted that he wept. They said then: "Is it so? art thou too afraid, O Father?"

He answered: "It is so; and the fear that is now upon me has been with me ever since I became a monk."

And so he went to sleep.

3. Abbot Pastor said: "We cannot keep out bad thoughts, as we cannot stop the wind rushing through the door; but we can resist them when they come."

4. Abbot Besarion said, when he was dying: "A monk ought to be all eye, as the Cherubim and Seraphim."

5. They asked Abbot Macarius how they ought to pray.

The old man made answer: "No need to be voluble in prayer; but stretch forth thy hands frequently, and say, 'Lord, as Thou wilt, and as Thou knowest, have mercy on me.' And if war is coming on, say, 'Help!' And He, who Himself knoweth what is expedient for thee, will show thee mercy."

6. On a festival, when the monks were at table, one cried out to the servers, "I eat nothing dressed, so bring me some salt."

Blessed Theodore made reply: "My brother, better were it to have even secretly eaten flesh in thy cell than thus loudly to have refused it."

7. An old man said: "A monk's cell is that golden Babylonian furnace, in which the Three Children found the Son of God."

J. H. N.

Early Married Life of Marie Antoinette.

THE life of Marie Antoinette, which began in the purple and ended on the scaffold, was less free from trial and trouble in its seemingly brightest stages than we are wont to suppose. Born in the lap of greatness, endowed with some of nature's choicest gifts, wedded while yet a child to the heir of France,—she was at first looked on with coldness by him, and by most of the French court; and she had to fight her way to the full possession of her husband's heart, as many a woman of meaner degree and less innate pride could not have condescended to do. To be loved by all was the dream of her youth, and she found most of her new relatives and intimate associates systematically arrayed against her. Enthusiastic popularity, it is true, waited on her bright beauty and winning grace whenever she appeared in public. For a long time she seemed the idol of the nation; but an under-current of hostile feeling from the royal family was ever at work against her. Too generous for suspicion, too lightly gay for prudence, she made no account of low intrigue or petty jealousy; and secure in her freedom from evil intention, she forgot the duty of aiming higher, and bartered queenly dignity for frivolous amusements and the incense breathed to her womanly fascinations. The whispered tales insidiously set afloat gradually penetrated downwards, till that fair innocent sovereign became branded to the mind of the multitude, not only as the enemy of France, but as the gay despiser of all moral ties. Nevertheless, taught and matured by sorrow, Marie Antoinette fulfilled nobly her part as wife and queen during her later and most trying years; and when royalty perished in the storm of revolution, she threaded her calm way with dignity to the scaffold through long scenes of cruel outrage and keenest mental torture.

Born at Vienna, the 2d of November 1755, she was the youngest child of Marie Thérèse and of François, duc de Lorraine. In stature small, but finely formed, she was especially remarkable for graceful carriage, and for the winning softness of her look and manner. Her brilliant complexion was enhanced by the profusion of her light glossy auburn hair; her large blue eyes, that could flash with the haughtiness of an imperial race, sometimes swam tenderly, but were mostly sparkling with frolic and mirth; innocence and childish gaiety

lent charms to each expression or motion. Such was Marie Antoinette when, at little past fourteen, she reached Versailles, to become the Dauphin's wife.

Her education had not been so carefully attended to as we might have expected: either the Empress was too much engaged with state affairs, or, as would seem much more likely, the young princess herself was too incorrigibly gay to be very studious. French was then the language generally used at her mother's court both for conversation and letter-writing. Marie Antoinette spoke that language and German with perfect fluency, and without any accent; her letters, however, betray many faults, not only of style, but also of spelling the former is often very pleasing nevertheless. Some early letters would even seem beyond her age in this respect, and therefore to have undergone correction. Her handwriting continued for many years an unformed scrawl, that called forth reproaches from the Empress, and made Marie Antoinette tremble lest her letters should be seen by Madame du Barry. Besides the two languages mentioned above, she knew a little Italian, and studied music with some success. After her marriage with the Dauphin had been definitively arranged, towards the close of 1768, professors of all kinds were in constant attendance to perfect her education, but with no very remarkable results, except in the lighter branches of deportment, dancing, and singing. Two actors, Dufresne and Sainville, had first been chosen to give her the last finish in French declamation; but on learning afterwards the irregularity of their lives, Marie Thérèse selected the Abbé de Vermond for the general superintendence of her daughter's studies. The Abbé was a conscientious wellinformed man, and quite devoted to his pupil, but devoid of zeal, and with little intelligence. He kept aloof from evil or from intrigue of any kind, but did not possess the moral energy requisite for guiding another, and especially one in such a difficult position as the Dauphiness of France.

Though her ambition was much gratified by the match, it was not without many an anxious pang that Marie Thérèse consigned her fair and innocent child to the dangerous atmosphere of French corruption at this period. Louis the Fifteenth was dragging out the last portion of his wretched career; Madame du Barry reigned supreme at court,-held levees and received ambassadors exactly as if she shared the throne. The king's only son had been dead five years, leaving behind him five children; of whom the eldest, afterwards Louis the Sixteenth, was only one year older than his bride Marie Antoinette. The other four were: the Comte de Provence and the Comte d'Artois, subsequently married to two sisters, prin