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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 ©iii&i ©asisiic j ,1.?? At*..... ‘a— - ‘ ■ . . . _s. :r-v ;•••” - 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