The Yazoo Democrat., 1854-05-31

daubs" OF his own countrymen. And this
dlsdalninl vein runs through everything
poetry as well as in painting gin architec-
ture, IN sculpture, end in all the social and
political institutions peculiar to American
life. lie denies the ability to criticise art to
one who has seen and heard the artists OF
Europe He has seen Rachel and there
fore he cares not fig for our young siddons
of the West whose truthful and graceful ex-
hibitions of Shakspeare's creations thrill to
the inmost depth every unsophisticated heart.
lie has seen the Medicean Venus, g the stat
lie that enchants the world;'' and Therefore
finds no charm in the creation of Powers.
whose bright vision of beauty was born in
his own soul, while yet his lovely Slave was
sleeping in the marble quarry of Italy.
He has heard the sublime M1serere chaun-
ted beneath the lofty dome of St. Peters,
and why should his heart be moved while
standing beneath the starry vault Of Heaven
and listening to that note of eternity-the
everlasting Misereye of Niagarag
These elements we admit are essential to
the critic-heart, head. and education or ex-
perience. Without the two former given by
God, the latter is of no avail You cannot
raise figs by sowing thistles; nor, to use a
more homely expression, "make silk purse
out of Sow's ear" Daniel Webster was
eloquent without ever listening to Cicero in
the forum. Robert Burns was full of unex-
pressed poetry before he left the "clay biggin
in which he was born: and when, at the age
of fifteen, he went reaping corn with his
bonnie lassie," the innate and immortal mel
ody flowed forth, embalming all humanity
with sweetness. Benjamin West was pain
ter, when at the age Of six he plucked hairs
from the cat for his pencil, and squeezed
juice from berries for his palette.
Julia Dean was an artist while chasing
butterflies and gathering wild flowers from
the Western Prairies, before she ever heard
or dreamed of theatre. There was genius
in her heart and grace in her steps, long be
fore she ever heard of Shakspeare's Juliet, or
saw the Queen of the drama sweeping across
the stage. And our own Durand, whose
reverent spirit hath bathed itself from infan-
cy in the freshness and splendor of our own
virgin landscape-who has worshipped the
Soul of Nature in the solemn solitude of our
mountains and forests--brings us ever near
veritable picture of our own glorious hills
and wales, stepped in all the varying lights
and shadows of all the hours and all the sea-
sons-the purple tints of morning, and the
crimson hues Of evening pouring over the
gorgeous hues of the forest, the rainbow glo-
ries which illumine mountain, lake and river.
But re must not admire him, nor applaud
him. We have not been abwawd." No
matter what our love Of Nature may bc-no
matter how high and pure our ideals Of Art,
we must keep our mouths shut until we have
been to Paris. Thus asserts our exquisite
'squirt" whom we found ogling all the pret-
ty girls through his specuzunes at the Acade-
my and knowing from observation how
many of our young men this fatal "Europear
complaint is carrying off annually, we coule
not help remembering the words Of the sati
rist, and attempting our hand at a similal
vein in plain prose:
Mrs. Bill is very i'll,
And nothing can improve her
Until she sees the Tuilerles
And waddles through the Louvre