visionaries in existence; his spirit soars aloft from every-day matters,
and delights in shadowy mysteries; a matter-of-fact is a gorgon to him;
he abhors the palpable, and doats upon the occult and intangible; he
loves to speculate on the doings of those in the dogstar, to discuss on
immortal essences, to dispute with the disbeliever on gnomes--a paradox
will be the darling of his bosom for a month, and a good chimera be
his bedfellow by night and theme by day for a year. 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_.

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FINE ARTS.

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