An artist is, to our mind, one of the happiest creatures in God's creation. Now that the race of wandering minstrels has passed away, your painter is the only free joyous denizen of the earth, who can give way to his natural impulses without fear of reproach, and who can indulge his enthusiasm for the bright and beautiful to the utmost. He has his troubles, no doubt; for he is ambitious, and too often he is poor; but it is something to pursue ambition along the natural path with unwarped energies, and ardent and sincere devotion. As to poverty, that is a fault that must daily mend, if he is only true to himself. In a few years, the foot-sore wanderer of the Alps, with little more worldly goods than the wallet and sketch-book he carries, will be the royal academician, the Rubens or the Reynolds of his day, with the most _recherche_ studio in London, and more orders upon his list than he has either time or inclination to execute. Goethe has let us into the secret of the young German artist's life. Let us look upon him in the dawnings of his fame, before he is summoned to adorn the stately halls of Munich with frescoes from the Niebelungen Lied. * * * * * THE ARTIST'S MORNING SONG. My dwelling is the Muses' home-- What matters it how small? And here, within my heart, is set The holiest place of all. When, waken'd by the early sun, I rise from slumbers sound, I see the ever-living forms In radiance group'd around. I pray, and songs of thanks and praise Are more than half my prayer, With simple notes of music, tuned To some harmonious air. I bow before the altar then, And read, as well I may, From noble Homer's master-work, The lesson for the day. He takes me to the furious fight, Where lion warriors throng; Where god-descended heroes whirl In iron cars along. And steeds go down before the cars; And round the cumber'd wheel, Both friend and foe are rolling now, All blood from head to heel! Then comes the champion of them all, Pelides' friend is he, And crashes through the dense array, Though thousands ten they be! And ever smites that fiery sword Through helmet, shield, and mail; Until he falls by craft divine, Where might could not prevail. Down from the glorious pile he rolls, Which he himself had made, And foemen trample on the limbs From which they shrank afraid. Then start I up, with arms in hand, What arms the painter bears; And soon along my kindling wall The fight at Troy appears. On! on again! The wrath is here Of battle rolling red; Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm, And dead men fall on dead! I throng into the inner press, Where loudest rings the din; For there, around their hero's corpse, Fight on his furious kin!