Hogarth, who drew from the living that mortal drama which immortalized his genius and his name, having accomplished his great and multifarious works, took up his palette and his other painting tools to make that last study,-FINIS, which, with his usual fitness, being about to bid adieu to Life, he dedicates to Death. Where will you name the hero who met the mortal enemy like he?

A few months before this genius was seized with the malady which deprived society of one of its greatest ornaments, he proposed to his matchless pencil the work in question; the first idea of which is said to have been elicited in the midst of his friends, whilst the convivial glass was circulating round his own social board. "My next subject," said the mortal painter, "shall be the END OF ALL

THINGS.'

"If that be your determination," said one, "your business will be finished; for then will be the end of the painter's self."

"Even so," returned the artist; "therefore, the sooner my work is done, so much the better." Accordingly, he began the next day, continuing his design with all diligence, seemingly with an appre

hension that he should not live to complete the composition. This, however, he did, and in the most ingenious manner, by grouping every thing which could denote the end of all things: a broken bottlean old broom worn to the stump-the butt-end of an old musket-a cracked bell-a bow unstrung-a crown tumbled in pieces-towers in ruins the signpost of a tavern, called The World's End, tumblingthe moon in her wane-the map of the globe burning—a gibbet falling, the body gone, and the chain which held it dropping down-Phoebus and his horses dead in the clouds-a vessel wrecked-Time, with his hour-glass and scythe broken, a tobaccopipe in his mouth, the last whiff of smoke going out -a play-book opened, with exeunt omnes stamped in the corner-an empty purse—and a statute of bankruptcy taken out against nature. "So far, so good," exclaimed Hogarth; "nothing remains but this,”—taking his pencil in a sort of prophetic fury, and dashing off the similitude of a painter's palette broken,—" FINIS," exclaimed the painter; "the deed is done—all is over." It is remarkable, that he died within a month after the completion of this tailpiece. It is also well known, that he never again took the pencil in hand.

EPHRAIM HARDCASTLE.

THE PURSUITS OF ART.

THE pursuits of art, like those of literature, have their flowers, their fruits, and, it may be added, their thorns. Like the spring, they are full of hope and blossom: but, like the spring, they are subject to blights and nipping frosts; so that the summer fruits fall short of the fair maturity which might have been expected from the culture and toil bestowed upon the plant of promise. And even when the fruits of art are cherished and ripened by the sun of encouragement or the hotbeds of patronage, there is a bitter mixed up with their sweets, or a thorn springing up with their growth.

But, to wave metaphor, nothing can be more delightful than the pursuit of art; for few things are more productive of pleasure and advantage than the cultivation of that knowledge which is essential to the practice of it. The pleasure and advantage are so obvious, that to point them out (at least to the

intelligent) would almost be an insult to the under

standing.

But there is a reverse to this picture.-The devotedness with which the votaries of art cling to their favourite study is liable to so many rude shocks, is attended with so many privations, often from the free air and common light of heaven, but more generally from neglect and the various contingencies attending the development of talent,—that it is not wonderful the frame should be shaken, and the mind at length alienated or rendered incapable of enjoying pleasures that dawned upon the first efforts in art. Those who see nothing but the results of the painter's skill, who hear nothing but the praises (often exaggerated) that are bestowed upon his works, catch only at the information given by sight or hearsay, and imagine the path to be that of pleasure, or, at least, one of enviable contentment. Neglect, however, is sometimes overcome by perseverance, and opposition by toil and industry; but the sorest evils of all are the remarks of the ignorant and the sarcasms of the critic:

What'er may be the painter's merit,-
Though Raphael's genius he inherit,
Though all the skill of all the tribe

To aid his pencil should subscribe,

He will not, in the critic's view,
Be any thing while he is new.
Alive! his works are all a blunder;

But dead-all join in praise and wonder:
His forms are melted into grace,

And none a blemish now can trace;

His colours, though with time they're fled,
Leave fancied beauties in their stead;
Death gives a sanction to his name,
And hands him o'er to future fame!

Imagination, too, can preach
Of something even out of reach,-
Can prate of miracles in art

That only in the fancy start.

*

The painter still must bear the lash,

E'en though the terms be "vile!" or "trash!"

And this, too, blurted in his face

By some pretender of the race

Of connoisseurs, who having found
Through fortune some advantage-ground,
Some smattering of virtu or taste,

And, fearing it should run to waste,
Deals out his blunders by the dozens-

The wonder of his country cousins.

That these are some of the drawbacks on the profession will, I believe, be readily admitted by the great majority of its members :

But yet there is in art the power
To give to life its sweetest hour;