preciation of the fine arts is not always as
enlightened, as discriminating, as elevated, as it might be. We look
upon them somewhat as interlopers, parasites, occupying a place to which
they have no legitimate right. Our manners, like the machinery of our
government, are too new to be smooth and polished; they occasionally
grate. We are more prone to worship the golden calf, in bowing down
before the favorites of Fortune, than disposed to kill the fatted calf
in honor of the elect of thought and mind. Each and every one of us
thinks himself as good and better than any other man: an invaluable
creed, when it engenders self-respect; but, alas! when we put it in
practice, it is generally with a view of pulling down to our level those
whose level we could never hope to reach. Fortunately, these little
weaknesses are not national traits. They are inherent in all new
societies, and will completely disappear when we shall attain the full
development of our civilization with the maturity of age.

* * * * *

My _impresarios_, Strakosch and Gran, have made the important discovery,
that my first concert in New York, on my return from Europe in 1853,
took place the 11th of February, and consequently have decided to defer
my reappearance for a few days in order that it may fall upon the 11th
of February, 1862. The public (which takes not the remotest interest in
the thing) has been duly informed of this memorable coincidence by all
the papers.

Query by some of my friends: "Why do you say such and such things in the
advertisements? Why do you not eliminate such and such epithets from the
bills?"

Answer: Alas! are you ignorant of the fact that the artist is a piece of
merchandise, which the _impresario_ has purchased, and which he sets off
to the best advantage according to his own taste and views? You might as
well upbraid certain pseudo-gold-mines for declaring dividends which
they will never pay, as to render the artist responsible for the puffs
of his managers. A poor old negress becomes, in the hands of the Jupiter
of the Museum, the nurse of Washington; after that, can you marvel at
the magniloquent titles coupled with my name?

The artist is like the stock which is to be quoted at the board and
thrown upon the market. The _impresario_ and his agents, the broker and
his clique, cry out that it is "excellent, superb, unparalleled,--the
shares are being carried off as by magic,--there remain