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creature, who seemed lent to earth a little
while, to show what angels are ; and the
flowers of May, that were to have decora
ted her bridal hours, were strewed upon
her shroud. Never had she looked so
transcendency lovely, as when folded in
her winding sheet, with white roses, less
white than her “fair and unpolluted flesh,”
scattered over her motionless breast, her
long, soft lashes, resting on her cheek of
snow, and her exquisite features breathing
the stillness of everlasting repose. A smile
of more than mortal sweetness rested on
her pallid lips, and seemed to mock their
icy coldness. But, beautiful as she was,
. she was but dust, and she had returned to
dust again. They buried her by the side
of her aged grand-father, and scattered the
earth “over the face of eighteen summers.”
Let us leave Claude awhile to the memo
ry of the dead. Let us return to that cold,
stern and proud man, whom we left upon
his bed of down.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
Mr. Percy, after having banished his of
fending son, remained, to outward appear
ance, unchanged—but a worm was eating
into his heart; outraged Nature would
make its accusing accents heard. Pride,
to whose 6tern dictates he had sacrificed
his affections, gave him no consolation.—
Kvcn Ella, who had loved him so tenderly
that her love cast out fear, turned coldly
away from him the pale roses of her cheeks,
•and shrunk from the caresses she once
sought and returned. A restless, insatiable
desire for change took possession of him.
He could not live surrounded by mute re
membrances of his son. A picture, repre
senting Claude in the brilliant beauty of
boyhood, was taken down from the wall.
“Oh! cruel and hard-hearted,” thought
Ella, “thus to vent his anger on the un
conscious semblance of his son.”
She knew not the silent workings of his
soul.
The portrait of his departed wife, the
beautiful image of the loved and lost, on
which he had been accustomed to gaze for
years, and thus keep alive the remembrance
of her youthful beauty—he turned its face
to the wall. The eyes, following him
wherever he moved, seemed to ask re
proachfully for her lost son.
Why did he not seek to recall the young
wanderer? Indomitable pride still forbade.
To recall an act would be an acknowledg
ment of error, and a stain on the infallibil
ity of his character. As week after week
passed by, without bringing tidings of the
exile, vague fears and dark misgivings
haunted and oppressed him. Perhaps, driv
en to despair by a father’s cruelty, and un
able to contend with the ills that youth
and inexperience ever exaggerate, he had
lifted a suicidal hand, or given his body to
the secrecy and silence of the dark-rolling
stream. He would have given his pride,
his name, yea, life itself, for one line, as
suring him of the safety of his discarded
boy. It was when his mind was wrought
up almost to madness by this suggestion,
he saw in the public print, an account of
a young man, whose body was washed on
the shores of one of the rivers of the West.
The stranger was young and handsome,
but there was nothing about his person by
which his name could be identified, and
“unknown” was written over his grave.
Mr. Percy crushed the paper in his bosom,
so that no eye hut his own could see the
startling paragraph; but the image of that
wave-washed body never forsook him.—
Floating on the current of memory, it was
forever drifting to the desolate strand of
his thoughts, where sorrow and remorse
hung weeping over it.
“Would you like to go to Paris?” said
he, one morning, to the sad and diooping
Ella.
“Oh! yes, Uncle,” she cried, and in her
rapture at the idea of flying away from
herself, she threw her arms round his neck
and kissed his cheek. It was the first time
she had voluntarily caressed him since
Claude’s banishmertt, and he was strange
ly moved. He pressed her to his heart,
and she felt it throbbing, as she never
thought.that hard heart could throb. As
he bent his head to conceal the agilation
of his features, she noticed that silvery
shadows were fast spreading over his jetty
locks. Absorbed in her own grief, a grief
not unmixed with indignation against its
author, she had not observed the marks of
suffering, more bitter and wearing because
concealed, on the lofty lineaments of Mr.
Percy. But that palpitating heart, those
whitening locks, and, could it be—yes —
that tear falling on the cheek that rested
on his bosom—all spoke of the chastise
ment avenging Nature had inflicted. The
sealed fountain of Ella's sorrows gushed
forth at this expression of human sympa
thy, this drop of moisture, in the arid des
ert of his heart.
“Oh, Uncle,” she exclaimed, in a burst
of passionate emotion, “you have not for
gotten Claude; you love him still; 1 knew
you must relent. Let me speak of him,
Uncle—l cannot bear this silence—it seems
so like the silence of death ”
“Ella,” said Mr. Percy, raising his head
with a darkening countenance, “ forbqar:
have I not commanded you never to breathe
his name?”
“ But you love him,” repeated Ella, ex
cited beyond the power of self-control :
“you weep for him. Oh! my Uncle, talk
not of Paris. Let us travel over our own
country, in search of him for whom we
both are mourning. I cannot live in this
uncertainty. I sometimes think, I would
be less miserable if I knew he was dead,
than to live in this state of agonizing sus
pense. And yet,” continued she, wring
ing her hands, “whither should we go 1
He said he would write a£ soon as he had
found a home. Perhaps he has found a
home in the grave !”
She paused in her wild utterance, terri
fied at the effect of her words. Twice her
Uncle attempted to rise, then, sinking back
with a heavy groan, a dark shade spread
beneath his eyes, giving them such a sunk
en, hollow look, the whole contour of his
face seemed altered.
“What have I done?” she cried, again
throwing her arms around him; “Forgive
me, speak to me, look at me, Uncle.”
Mr. Percy made a powerful effort, and
raised his tall form to its usual command
ing height. Ashamed of the weakness he
had exhibited, the stern disciple of the Sto
ic shod masterei.his emotion, and even as
sumed a colder, severer aspect —
“ Retire, Ella, and learn to respect the
feelings you cannot understand. lam sent
on a foreign mission. It depends upon
yourself whether I make you my compan
ion. I have pledged my services to my
country, and require all my energies for
the lofty duties of my station. Never
again hazard a scene like this.”
They went to Paris, and amidst new and
exciting scenes, Ella’ recovered something
of the brightness of her youth. The beau
tiful young American was flattered and ca
ressed in the brilliant circles to which her
Uncle’s rank and talents admitted him, an
honored member. Unmoved by the adula
tion of the gay Parisians, she remained
faithful to Claude, in the widowhood of
her young heart; and though his name
passed not her lips, it was only the more
tenderly and devotedly cherished. This
secret, fervent attachment, spiritualized by
absence, and sanctified by sorrow, gave a
depth and elevation to her character, which
softened, while it exalted, the girlish beau
ty of her countenance.
The time of Mr. Percy’s public services
expired, and he prepared for his departure.
He never complained of ill health ; he was
firm and energetic in the discharge of his
duties —but his cheek grew more hollow,
and his tall, majestic figure began to lose
its upright position. The miners, that had
so long been working in secret, had at
length shaken the pillars of the temple, and
the stately fabric was giving way.
“I will go to Italy,” said the weary
statesman, “and breathing awhile its balmy
atmosphere, rest from the turmoil of life.”
The saddened mind of Ella kindled at
the thought of visiting that classic land—
the land of genius and song—of Romeo
and Juliet’s, tragic loves. But where was
the Romeo of her constant heart ? Cold,
dreary silence was the only answer to this
oft-repeated interrogation, and it fell with
leaden weight on her sinking hopes. It
must be the silence of death or oblivion.
But Mr. Percy found not the rest he
sought. The bland, delicious gales, the
soft, golden sunsets, the grand and solemn
ruins, the magnificent monuments of de
parted genius, instilled no balm into his
tortured and remorseful spirit. Where
pride once reigned in regal majesty, the
tottering feeling of insecurity which haunts
the soul, unsupported by Christian faith,
when, one by one, the frail reeds of earth
ly hope are breaking from beneath it, alone
remained. He languished to return once
more to tne nome ne naa aeserieu, aim to
feel himself surrounded once more by the
mementoes of life’s happier hours. If he
must die, let him be in the midst of those
mute remembrancers, from which he had
once impatiently fled. * * *
Returned once more to his native coun
try and home, he was roused awhile from
his languid and hopeless condition, by the
distracted state of his affairs. His young
Secretary, who had anticipated his return
from Paris, that all things might be in rea
diness for the invalid statesman, had ab
sconded, hearing with him a large portion
of the property entrusted to his care. Af
ter having taken the usual measures for
the apprehension of the traitor, in whom
he had implicitly trusted, Mr. Percy sunk
again into his state of restless gloom. At
length, after years of wavering conflicts
with his own passions—conflicts strong
and terrible as they were dark and silent—
he prostrated himself, where the stricken
soul alone can find rest, in penitence, hu
mility and faith, at the foot of the Cross.
******
It was a beautiful evening in September
—one of those mild autumnal days of the
more northern latitudes, when the sun
seems to shine through golden gauze, and
shed a rich, yellow radiance, in harmony
with the mellowing dyes of the year
Reclining on a sofa, partially raised by
pillows from a recumbent attitude, lay the
emaciated form of Mr. Percy. His once
sable hair was now turned to snowy white
ness, and lines deeper than those made by
the engraving hand of Time, were traced
upon his lofty brow.
Ella sat on a low seat at his side—the
book in which she had been reading, hang
ing listlessly in her hand. Far different
was she, from the sunny-tressed, flower
crowned, blooming being, introduced years
before, in her birth-day gala robes. Those
sunny tresses no longer hung in shining
ringlets, free as the rippling wave, hut
were confined in classic bands behind.—
The brilliant beauty of girlhood was soft
ened into the paler loveliness, the intellec
tual grace, and subdued expression of wo
manhood. The brightness, the eagerness,
the animation of hope, were exchanged for
the shadow, the repose, the pensiveness of
memory—
“ The dark of her eye
Had taken a darker, a hcavenlier dye.”
She was no longer the impassioned Juliet;
she was the gentle, self-sacrificing Corde
lia, watching with filial tenderness over
him, on whom the warring winds of pas
sion had but too fiercely blown. But the
voice, that was not in the tempest, the
earthquake, or the fire, had breathed upon
his spirit, and peace, if not joy, was there.
Ella bent down and kissed her Etncle’s
care-worn and pallid forehead. He was
inexpressibly dear to her in his weakness,
humiliation and dependence. There seem
ed a balm in the soft touch of those caress
ing lips, for he closed his eyes in a gentle
slumber, and Ella sat and watched him,
till the twilight shadows began to steal in,
and mingle with the golden light of the
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SPECIMEN ENGRAVING FROM “ THE SCHOOLFELLOW FOR APRIL
setting sun. The sound of entering foot
steps roused her from the deep reverie into
which she had fallen, and looking up, she
beheld a s'ranger standing within a few
paces of the threshold. She rose and gaz
ed upon him with a troubled glance. A
wild impulse led her to compare the linea
ments of the stranger, with those of the
banished Claude. Os superior height and
more manly proportions, there was nothing
in his figure that could remind one of the
boyish grace of her cousin. His hair was
of a darker brown, and the pale oval of
his cheek was of a very different contour
from the glowing cheek of Claude. His
eyes, too—they had the depth and sadden
ed splendor of night; Claude’s the dazzling
brightness of the meridian beam.
But those eyes rested not on her face.—
They were fixed, as by a fascination, on
the recumbent form, which had met his
glance as he crossed the threshold. Ella
trembled. An icy chill ran through her
veins, and curdled her blood. The remem
bered image of the bright and blooming
Claude seemed to stand side by side with
that pale, sad, and lofty-looking stranger,
and mock her with the contrast.
Mr. Percy, awakened from his light
slumbers, opened his eyes, and met those
of the young man, fixed so mournfully,
steadfastly and thrillingly upon him.—
Trembling, he leaned forward, and shading
his brow with his hand, gazed upon his
face. “My father!” burst from the quiv
ering lips of the stranger. With a wild,
unearthly cry, Mr. Percy sprang from the
sofa, and fell into the arms of his banished
son.
“ Let me die, let me die,” he murmured
in broken accents. “Oh, my God! thou
art great and good. Thou hast heard the
prayers of a broken heart. Let me die,”
be continued, lifting his sunken eyes to
Heaven, with a look of extatic devotion.
Claude bowed his face on his father's
bosom, and wept aloud. That sad, sad
wrecK : was tnat indeed his lather? And
Ella—was that pale, trembling, lovely be
ing, now kneelfng by them, with clasped
hands and streaming eyes—was that the
radiant Juliet he had left behind ?—and
was she faithful and unwedded still?—
Supporting his father’s feeble frame to the
sofa, and gently withdrawing from his
clinging arms, he turned to Ella, and the
tide of boyish passion rushed in torrents
through his heart. But such scenes can
not be described. They are foretastes of
re-union in that world where, the dark
glass of Time being broken, spirits meet
each other, face to face, in the cloudless
light of eternity.
There are but few explanations to make.
Claude had felt it a holy duty to remain
with the mourning parents of his buried
Mary, till time had softened the bitterness
of their grief. Then, faithful to a vow he
had made, the night, when in dreams he
bad beheld his adopted father, and heard
from his lips the solemn words, “ Return :
you have a mission to fulfil,” he resolved
to seek in person the forgiveness of his of
fended parent, and devote his future life to
his service. Believing from the silence
and apparent alienation of Ella, that she
was by this time time the bride of another,
he had come, a filial pilgrim to the domes
tic altar, to offer there the incense of chas
tened and purified affections.
The young Secretary, who had abscond
ed, was overtaken on the confines of Mex
ico, and among the papers found in his
possession, were the letters of Claude,
which he had withheld and secreted, pro
bably from the hope of one day filling the
place of the banished heir.
Joy is a great physician. Leaning on
the- arm and heart of his son, Mr. Percy
slowly pleasured back his steps to that
world, from which he believed himself di
vorced forever. His voice was once more
heard in the councils of the nation, and it
was listened to with deeper reverence, for
it uttered lessons of wisdom beyond the
learning of this world—a wisdom, born of
suffering, baptized by tears, and sanctified
by the spirit of God.
Claude, once more a Percy, resumed his
place in the halls of his ancestors. He
had told Ella all his story, and the name
of Mary became sacred to her, as a holy,
household divinity.
“Mary,” said Claude to his now be
trothed Ella, “Mary was the bride of my
soul, but you, Ella, the object of my
youth's first passion ; you only are the
wife of my heait.”
Two or them. —“ What blessings chil
j dren are,” as the clerk said, when he took
the christening fees. “It isn’t the size of
a present that gives it its value,” as the
gentleman said, when his wife gave him
four boys at a birth.
All pleasure must be bought at the
price of pain ; the difference between the
false pi easure a nd tre is just this; for the
true, the price is paid before you enjoy it,
for the false, after you enjoy it.
a is Bing bus a.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
A NIGHT IN THE WOODS.
BY JACQUES JOURNOT.
The night was cloudy and dark, and a
damp south-wind indicated rain. My friend
A , suggested that it was a favora
ble time for an opossum hunt, and proposed
the assembling of a party to proceed at
once to the woods. I hailed the proposi
tion with delight. I was half dead with
ennui, and any project that promised to
break the monotony of my life, and fur
nish a little healthful excitement, could not
fail to enlist my sympathies.
I was spending the winter in a little log
town in the Cherokee Region, in upper
Georgia, and my sources of amusement
were rather limited. The principal recre
ations of the “natives” were gambling
drinking and fighting! These may be very
pleasant pastimes, but as I have no taste
for them, I had been driven within myself,
and forced to feed upon my own thoughts
till my soul craved a change of spiritual
diet. 1 had thrown myself back upon my
“individualism” and tried to realize that
each man is an epitome of the universe,
and has within himself all the elements of
life and happiness, but had not quite suc
ceeded. I yearned for the communion of
kindred souls. Books might have served
as an imperfect substitute for society, hut
t evcn these were wanting. The only works
to which I had access were “ Josephus,”
“Greenvill’s Georgia Almanac,” a very
•ragged copy of “Pilgrims Progress” and
the “Frogtown Sentinel; a weekly jour
nal of Politics Literature and the Fine
Arts l' 3 In these were summed up ray Lit
erary facilities! The volumes of “the
Learned and Authentic Jewish Historian
andCelebrated Warrior,” although very ex
cellent in their wav were not exactly adapt
ed to my wants, at that time ; Bunyan’sim*
mortal production, I had read in my boy
hood, and did not choose to break the
charm which memory had thrown around
it, by a leperusal: so 1 read nothing but
the Almanac and the “Sentinel.” The
most interesting portions of the latter were
its advertisements, the greater part of which j
were headed “L Sheriff Sales,” or j
“ Georgia, L County; Court of Ordi
nary &c” Its “leaders” were doubtless very ,
deep for I could never succeed in sounding j
them! They were said to be very edifying i
to “those who know.” But all this en j
passant.
| A “crowd,” consisting of four young
■ men besides myself, two stout negro boys
| and a good dog, was soon mustered, and,
provided with an ave and a plenty of pine
torches, we set forth in search of ’possums
and fun.
Soon after enteri.vg the forest our atten
tion was attracted by a livid glare which
gave a most ominous appearance to the
clouds in the direction in which we were
advancing. It soon became evident that
the woods weieon fire in our immediate vi
cinity. We were soon in full view of the
conflagration. Long, serpentine lines of fire
stretched far away to our right, through a
long valley, till, winding round the hills
they were lost to the sight. Here and
there the trunk of some decayed tree, bla
zing to its very summit, lifted itself up to
wards heaven —a tower of fire! It was a
i grand though, in this region, notan uncom
mon sight. Steadily onward, in an unbro
ken line, advanced the shining hosts of the
fire-king, leaving lehind them a black and
smoking waste! The huge and majestic
old trees of that primeval forest seemed
larger and more majestic than usual, as the
red light of the conflagration half revealed
their colososal proportions. I imagined my
self treading by torth-light, the aisles of
some vast cathedrtl. These trees were
the tall columns which upheld its lofty
roof. Even my rude and matter-of-fact
companions were impressed with the scene.
We had approached within a few yards of
the line of fire and as we stood there, most
picturesqly grouped, in the ted glare, we
formed not the least interesting part of the
picture. The intense light thrown upon
every object directly'exposed to the fire and
the more than midnight darkness which
brooded on other portions of the scene,
gave a strong and almost unearthly ap
pearance to the whole.
Turning to the left we soon passed the
fire, and, crossing a ridge of considerable
elevation, the light was entirely hidden
from us. Our torches alone pierced the
gloom which surrounded us.
Wc had now reached a locality where,
to quote, for once, the patois of my compan
ions, we “ allowed to find a right smart
chance of ‘possums.” We were not doom- ;
ed to disappointment. The barking of our j
dog soon announced that one had been
“treed.” Great “noise and confusion”
now prevailed ! There was a “ tremendous ,
excitement” in our little party! On has- :
tening to the spot indicated by the barking
we found the dog at the foot of a small
gum tree. A few blows from the axe in
the hands of one of the negroes soon
brought the tree to the ground, and with it
the oppossum! The unfortunate animal
was soon captured. I had been but a
short time in the South and this was the
first live “ ’possum” I had seen. To
give a description of the animal here
would be an assumption that some of my
readers are as verdant as I was at that time,
which assumption would be entirely false,
no doubt! The dog was not allowed to
kill or injure our prisoner. A slit was
made in a small sapling through which his
tail was drawn. The contractile power of
the wood held it there securely. In this
awkward, not to say painful situation our
poor victim was slung*over the shoulder of
one of the boys.
We followed up our success and ere an
hour had elapsed three or four additional
oppossums had fallen into our hands, prison
ers of war. The object of our expedition
had been attained. We had found “’pos
sums and fun.”
We were now on a steep hill-side at the
base of which flows the Etowah. We
were in the midst of the gold-region, and
all along the banks of the river are deep
pits sunk there by the seekers for the au
riferous “drift.” All our torches except
one had been extinguished. This was
borne by Jake H a practical joker of
the most incorrigible sort. Coining to an
abrupt turn in the path, Jake con trived, by
a rapid forward movement, to leave us all
behind, in total darkness. We were soon
completely bewildered, and groped about
as helplessly as a company of blind men.
“Ho! Jake, comeback,” shouted A—,
“or we will whip you when we do catch
you.” _ _ ®
But Jake paid not attention to the threat.
One of our party, striking his foot against
a fragment of rock which obstructed his
path, measured his length on the ground
ana tn attempting ro regain his footing lost
his balance and rolled over and over, down
the steep bank. He was saved from a
cold bath in the swift waters of the Eto
wah by some bushes with which he fortu
nately came in contact. A , myself,
and one of the blacks were making our
way very cautiously a few yards in ad
vance of the other members of the
party, when we felt the earth giving way
beneath our feet. A sudden leap brought me
upon solid ground. A ,in an unavail
ing attempt to clear himself from what he
felt to be a sinking cause, grasped with
nervous energy the rear of the negro's un
mentionables —
“ Golly, masss, let me—”
Sam never finished his sentence! The
next sounds which fell upon my ear were a
plash and a volley of muttered curses.
A and Sam and the oppossums, found
themselves considerably mixed, up in the
mud and water at the bottom of a gold pit,
about ten feet in depth. Our shouts now
brought back our torch bearer and, amid
roars of laughter, which the ludicrousness
of the accideut rendered it impossible to
repress, A and Satn and the oppos
sums were finally extricated from their un
pleasant situation, drenched with w’ater and
covered with mud.
“ I believe you would laugh if the earth
should open and swallow me up entirely,”
said A .
“To be sure we would,” said Frank
G , “ nothing could be funnier than
that.”
“ A joke is a joke, I reckon,” said Jake.
“ A joke, indeed” responded A .
“You call data joke, massa Jake?”
chimed in Sam, “look at my head.”
Jake held his torch near Sam's cranium.
It was covered with blood. In his fall his
head had come in contact with a sharp
rock which had cut a “powerful ” gash,
and it was bleeding freely. Misfortunes
never come singly; and to add to our dis
comfiture the rain now commenced pouring
in torrejts.
While we were debating what course to
pursue, we fortunately descried the desert
ed cabin of some departed gold-seeker.
We immediately took possession, kin
dled a fire in the capacious chimney,bound
up the negro’s wounded head, and soon
made ourselves quite comfortable.
One by one, my companions fell asleep,
stretched at full length upon the hard, plank
floor. I leaned my head against the wall
and listened to the pattering of the rain up
on the roof and to the roar of the stormy
night wind, as it swept through the lofty
pines of that lonely forest. Memory was
busy with the unwritten records of the
Past. There I sat, in that log hut in the
wilds of Cherokee Georgia, surrounded by
“ rough and ready ” mountaineers men
with whom I had little in common, except
the love of excitement and adventure which
had brought us there together. I looked
back through the space of a single year!
I saw myself sitting in one of the carpeted
and cushioned boxes of the Athenaeum id
the proud Capital of New England, sur-
rounded by the elite of that famed city,
listening to the entrancing notes of the di
vine (so the Bostonians called her) Biscac
cianti, in La Scmnambvla, whispering my
expression of admiration and applause in
the ear of one who could understand me
and I beg the reader’s pardon. I
was thinking aloud.
Sleep finally closed my eyes, and when
I again opened them, the rays of the morn
ing sun were streaming through the crevi
ces in the walls of our rude domicil. Thus
ended my Night in the Woods.
Athens Go.
For Richards’ Weekly Oazette.
HAVE PATIENCE.
Have patience ! the clouds will depart
That o’ersbadow thee now;
The sorrow will pass from thy heart—
And the care from thy brow :
Have patience I the sunshine will glow—
For the shadow —more bright,
As the morning is fairer, you know—
For the darkness of night.
Have patience ! the storm must abate,
That is tossing thy barque,
It is not at the mercy of Fate,
Though the ocean be dark :
Have patience ! a calm will succeed,
Such is Nature’s decree ;
Help comes in the moment of need—
It shall be so with thee!
Have patience ! if Passion ariso
Like a storm in thy heart
Look upward afar to the skies —
And bid passion depart:
Have patience and breathe not the curse—
That is burning thy tongue.
T will burn on thy spirit the worse —
That to utterance it sprung.
Have patience and do not despair
Though the moment delay
That should bring a response to thy prayer
And turn night into day :
Have patience—’tis folly to fret
Since it cannot avail— ,
Hope on, the good time will come yet
If your heart does not fail!
W. C. RICHARDS.
iCtay, 1849.
(D iai Da Is IF IT IS ai § *
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE FLIT CORRESPONDENCE.
NUMBER 52.
New York, May Ist, 1849.
My Dear Sir, —You demand my counsel
touching the inclination of your young
friend, , to try his fortunes in the
Metropolis. Asa student merely, and one
unchangeable in his purpose, and with the
necessary means of subsistence, added to a
force of character equal to withstand the
vicious temptations of a city life, I should
say to him—“ Come!” But, before he
makes the venture as a Professor, let him
bethink himself well, and his friends for
him, if his talents are of sufficient brillian
cy to ahino in the noon day light of the
crowded haunts of men, as well as in the
obscurity of a country village. To be
sure, there is much “undeveloped genius”
in the land—quite a considerable number
of Cromwells, guiltless of their country’s
blood—of village Hampdens, gems of pu
rest ray serene, with flowretsborn to blush
unseen, and so on; but there is still a
greater number of those whose vaulting
ambition o’erleaps itself; who, with less
forethought than the foundered horse,
ne'er debate before they leap a five-barred
gate ; whose moderate gifts, while suffi
cient to give them a useful and even promi
nent position in the humble sphere of their
birth, are utterly lost, when, by the injudi
cious flattery of partial friends, added to a
groundless vanity, they dare to compete
with the stronger heads and sterner hearts,
which swarm the great theatres of life.
Every thing, says the proverb, is great
or small by comparison; and the gifts
which would be a source of pleasure to
their possessor, and of utility to his fel
lows, in one sphere of action, are but the
thorns of impotent, aspiring and blasted
hope, to him in others, and theme for jest
and jeer where he seeks supremacy and
applause.
To be that star, in starry nights, whose
light, as the poet hath it, shines out alone,
amidst a world—the only one—demands
powers which, as blessed Bunsby would
say, are powers. And very fine as it is to
resolve that you will,
“ In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle,
But a hero in the strife
yet, after all, itisa happier, if not a proud
er lot, to stand next to the head in a class
of two, than at the tail of ten thousand ;
or, to express myself Miltonically, to reign
in h—ll ratherthan serve in Heaven. Ma
ny a youthful Thespian, whose clever
powers of mimickry in counterfeiting the
groan of a bull-frog, the squeak of a pig,
or the ups and downs of a saw, have won
the admiration of ignorant friends, has been
induced to aspire to the throne of a “ star,”
on the city stage, only to fall back for life
into the infamy of call-boy, or the degrada
tion of bill-poster. Many young Galens,
who might, at home, have passed useful
and honorable lives in the judicious treat
ment of colds, have opened their shops in
the noisy street, only to sic ken and die of
that disease so fatal to the era ft—the want
of a patient. Many promising limbs of
the law have been broken in the relentless
jostle of a thronged city, which, in their
native air, would have grown strong and
vigorous in “assault and battery,” and
opulent in “ petit larceny.” Many a coun
try belle has fallen into the se re and yel
low leaf of old-maidenism, beneath the
withering contempt of city beaux, who, in
their natal woodlands, would have indubi
tably found, soon or late, some honest gan
der for their mate.
Walking through Broadway, the other
day, I observed, in a shop-window, the
portrait of a distinguished individual in a !
Western State, which had been painted by
some rising genius thereabouts, and sent to
the city in the expectation, no doubt, of
astonishing the natives, and heralding the
approach of a fresh “Cornish wonder.’’
Despite the painful manipulation of the
picture, and the certificatesof ‘'well-known
gentlemen” that it was “faultless in eve
ry respect,” in addition to its being duly
sworn to before a Justice of the Peace, in
and for the county aforesaid, I could not
forbear turning- away, like other gazers,
with a smile. If the artist wisely remains
where he is, he may, perhaps, be a Titian
for life; but, should he venture hither,
even the sign-painters’ “occupation” will
be in no danger of following Othello’s.
At a brilliant soiree, lately, 1 devoted
myself, from pure benevolence, to a fail
country acquaintance, whom I found soli
tary and alone, in a deserted corner, al
though it was but the summer before that
I had seen her in her own home as la belle
des belles; the very queen of beauty, whose
smile was heaven to all her throng of hum
ble and innocent worshippers.
Thus, my dear sir, the mole-hill must
doff his beaver to the Andes, and the rivu
let be respectful to Niagara; yet, if the
steel be true, the Metropolis is the field, in
which it may best be drawn, where its
flash shall glisten and its edge be felt. So
if, afterdue consideration, your “Macduff”
be ready, let him “ come on !”
Avery interesting exhibition of pictures
by artists of the Dusseldorf Academy, the
most celebrated School of Germany, has
recently been opened here. It contains
many works of much excellence and inter
est, although the leading painters are not
at all represented—Cornelius, Lessing and
others. It is gratifying to observe how
.favorably the works of our own artists
compare with the productions of these for
eign masters ; the Galleries of our Acade
my and Art-Union presenting, at this mo
ment, pictures not only ot equal, but supe
rior merit. This fact, however, is neither
acknowledged nor felt by a certain class of
bigoted picture-fanciers, who are £ver per
versely blind to home excellence, while
their eyes are readily dazzled by foreign
mediocrity.
“I shall be proud,” says one sapient
gentleman, “ when American painters at
all approach that standard,” referring to
the Dusseldorf Gallery.
“Oh, what a superb collection!” ex
claimed a lady, in my hearing, after she
had been in the saloon scarcely a minute,
and could not possibly have glanced at
more than three pictures. “I declare there
is not a thing which I should not be proud
to possess !” And, sinking upon a lounge,
she spent the rest of her Visit in a gossip
with a tnoustached beau—never again
casting her eyes upon the walls. In the
Gallery of the National Academy, or the
American Art-Union, the accomplished
belle would, after the same thorough in
vestigation, ejaculate, “How wretched!
I’m sure ihere’s not a. pictuir line, which T
should not blush to hang in my drawing
room !” Such is the cant of the age.
Speaking of pictures, reminds me of an
anecdote, illustrative of the vulgar miscon
ception of technical terms. One of those
country gentlemen whom you call “crack
ers,” was strolling with a companion
through the saloons of the Academy of
Resign, with a printed critique in his hand,
which he compared continually with ’he
pictures themselves. Glancing at his pa
per, he read of a certain work, “This paint
ing wants ‘breadth,’” whereupon, he turn
ed to the wall and remarked, “Well, ’tis a
little square —aint it!” Apropos still—the
City Government has made appropriations
of five hundred dollars each for full-length
pictures of Generals Taylor and Scott.—
The artists are indignant at the littleness
of the price offered, which is only one-half
of the usual sum given on such occasions;
and several of the leading portrait painters,.
I am told, have flatly refused to execute the
commissions. Another appropriation has
just been made for a picture of Washing
ton, of what amount, I do not know.
A friend, now on his way to California
via the Cape, thus writes me from the “At
lantic, Lat. 19 deg. 20 min., Long. 35 deg.”
‘“Roll on, thou dark and deep blue ocean,
roll.’ I knock under to the ‘blue,’ but
don’t acknowledge ‘ roll.’ We have now
been fifty-one days on this immense monu
ment to Temperance: of course, l am an
‘ old salt,’ and can mention the difference, to
any easily convinced individual, between
the spanker-boom and a hen-coop. Was
sick but half an hour, yet during that time
would have sold out all right, title and in
terest, in imaginary water-lots on the Sac
ramento, including the immeasurable bush
els of sand on its glittering margin—but
am better now, and stocks are again up.
Can stow away my allowance of scouse,
duff and salt junk, with any Christian on
board ; and, in fact, have decided not to
sell out at present. * * * Harpooned
a shark the other day, and strange to re
late, found in his ‘bread-basket’ the half
digested arm of what appeared to be a
Sandwich Islander, with four rings distrib
uted judiciously over his digits. They
were brass, however, so I only retained
one as a memento of its curious source.—
The arm was beautifully tattooed, and a
crucifix being particularly well done, led
us, together with other symbols, to the
conclusion, that the late owner was (after
the Missionary style) a Christian; so we
altered our original purpose of preserving
him as a cabinet curiosity. * * * Sea
life is merely monotony boiled down—con
centrated ennui, and a deuced sight dolce-e r,
far niente-e r, than I fancy.”
After other amusing passages, my cor
respondent bids me adieu—which worthy
example, barring the “passages,” I will
now follow. FLIT.
LIBERALITY OF LOVE.
You nsk mo for a lock of linir,
That shades this brow of mine ;
Help, help yourself, iny charming fuir—
My wig a.id heart are thine I