in the world's Temple have been filled by soul-inspired artists!
There are many arguments to be made in favor of Art—that glorious handmaid to nature! Let us enter some fine picture gallery and study the various subjects. With what do we find ourselves busied? Geography, History, Mythology, &c., &c. We see the imitative power of the artist in the truthful scenes of nature, and we descry a likeness to our fellow-creatures in the shapely marble and plaster. Face to face we are brought with men whose features, faithful in resemblance make us for the moment forget that they themselves are crumbling into dust, or that their real substance has vanished from earth. If it be a statesman or warrior, a poet or astrologist, some special renown or exploit, romance or spiritualized intelligence will speak eloquently from the canvas. We are suddenly brought to an association with the great spirits of the past; the human mind is made to travel over an immensity of space, glorified by genius and worth, and the bare contemplation through sympathy, awakens us to a moral and intellectual state. Do we wonder at the hush of silence that frequently pervades galleries ᚮf art, not less in New York than in Europe, for are there not impulses at work "playing an old tune upon the heart," or otherwise pleasurably exercising the thoughts? We have seen a sad, lone woman engrossed or held spell-bound by a picture representing "The Dying Child." The scene is painful for the casual observer, but what is it to her weeping eyes and aching heart? The pale, little form is not the figure of her own beloved child, but the sorrowful reminder of a bitter moment when the Angel of Death hovered over her home.
Another scene may be recalled, that made the stout
