THE man who is a true lover of the fine arts, is generally benevolent and cheerful, not seldom also is he a passionate admirer of nature, and often a devout worshipper of the great Author of all that is beautiful and good. The man who is a sensualist, who chooses his companions among dissolute and profligate men, whose chief care is that his table should be well furnished with delicious viands, whose eye lights up only when bottles and glasses begin to rattle, whose cheeks are streaked with the unnatural redness of high living, is rarely a lover of art—unless it be the art of cooking, or making punch. Neither does the miser care for sculpture or for painting. Your true money-lover despises the fine arts; he likes well enough to pass his grasping and shrivelled fingers over the stamped guinea, but the clearness of its relief, and the music of