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WILD WORK. A STUDY OF WESTERN LIFE. Based on Startlijig Incidents which have Transpired in the RED RIYER Region of Louisiana since the War. BY MA.R.Y E. BRTAN. [It is not claimed that all the minor incidents of this stoiy are true, or that events occurred exactly in the order of time they are here given, but that the narrative outlines the actual his tory of a noted career, and that the secret of the culminating catastrophe [a political tragedy) is true as here given. ] CHAPTER V. The long September day seemed intermina ble. The hours dragged on—hot, still, suffoca ting. In the brooding hush, Derrick’s cries more than once reached his sister’s ears, as she sat on a bench under the cottonwood tree, with her eyes fixed upon the windows of that front room in which her brother lay. As the day drew to a close, the heat became more oppressive, the aspect of the sky more threatening. Each afternoon for several days past, the sky had darkened, and emitted light nings, but now the clouds rolled up in larger and darker masses, shaded and streaked with lurid bronze. About the hour of sunset, the earth and sky were suddenly bathed in a wierd, blood-like glow, that contrasted startlingly with the darkness of the clouds, shutting down, like a black lid, upon the horizon. Adelle had walked down along the river bank, till she came to a point in front of Derrick’s house, that stood back some distance from the river—a black-looking hulk, stranded in a sea of weeds. She stood there on the brink of the steep bank and watched the ghastly glow re flected far along in the waters of the river. She watched it in awe. It seemed om nous of evil, and the vulture, circling slowly unuer the black sky in the midst of the bloody radiance, seem ed to scent approaching death and to luxuriate in the scent with a slow, langurous joy. As she stood impressed with the wildness of the scene, suddenly she heard her own name called aloud in tones that pierced shrilly through the unearthly stillness. She listened, the cry came again; it was Derrick’s voice—he was calling upon her in his agony. She could bear it no longer. She ran straight to the house. She found the gate fastened with a chain, and while she was trying to undo it, Capt. Witchell came out to her. ‘Why will you persist in this?’ he said sternly. ‘It is useless, I cannot let you come in.’ ‘I will,’ she cried. ‘You dare not turn me away. My brother calls me. He is dying.’ •He is not. There is hope for him, but every thing depends on the next two hours. We are striving to keep him calm; the least excitement increases the restlessness and fever. The sight of your face, which it is possible he would rec ognize, might ruin all at this delicate crisis. All that can be done for him, is being done. Will you still persist in being unreasonable ?’ 'No, I will go back and Vail. Forgive me; ibis anxiety is hard to bear.’ She turned away, but looked back to say: two hours—will you then let me know ?’ He nodded his head in silence, and went quickly back into the house, fastening the door after him. Before the two hours had fully passed, there was confusion and terror in the little row of cab ins along the river. The threatened elemental disturbance came in the shape of a storm of wind and lightning. The wind came in strong gusts,that swept roaring through the far forests, and bowed the young ash and cottonwoods on the opposite bank of the river, to the very earth. The rotten old cabins rocked like cradles in the blast, and the frightened negroes rushed out of them and huddled together, shrieking, in the open, tree-less space between the houses and the river. It was so dark that hardly the shadowy outlines of their figures could be seen, 6ave when a flash of lightning lit up the group with momentary distinctness. The last gleam showed a strange sight—a lovely white face in the midst of all those dusky ones—streaming hair, wiid dark eyes, and a little figure swaying in the wind, as she clung fast to old Margaret to keep from being swept away. She did not see the light that was coming towards them from the house—a lantern borne by a man, who, battling with the wind, could scarcely keep his feet, as he struggled to approach them. At last, he reached the group, huddled and clinging to gether in front ol their shaking huts. The light failing on him revealed the face of Witchell. A flash showed him Adelle. She stretched out her hands in involuntary appeal; he went to her, gathered around her the shawl she was trying hard to hold, and supported her with his arm. •Are you all safe ?’ he cried, as a lull came in the wind. ‘I think there is only one of those houses that will go; the third one there. Is every one out of it ?’ ‘Yes, Cap’n.’Tesponded several voices. Then a woman shrieked: ‘Where’s ole Granny Betty ? She was in dere, in bed, by de door. She couldn't git out.’ •And she’s in tnereyet? Good heavens, she must be got out at once. Quick boys! The honsewill not stand another blast.’ But no one moved. The danger seemed too great. ‘Then I’ll go myself—here,’ he thrust the lan tern into the hand of a negro, and dashed into the cabin. At the same moment was heard the in the storm. ‘In ‘This blast was less severe than the last one,’ he said. ‘ The worst is over. You can all go back into your houses without fear. Take this poor old woman in, and send to me for some brandy for her. Come Miss Holman, let me help you to shelter at once. The rain will fall torrents,now that the wind has lulled.’ ‘My brother, Capt. Witchell how is he ?’ ‘ I have good news for you. He is better; the crisis is past. He is sleeping in spite of the storm.’ Clinging to his arm, she reached the cabin, from which she had fled in such fright a short time before. Old Margaret followed, and knelt down by the hearth, bemoaning her scattered pots and extinguished fire. Capt. Witchell laugh ed encouragingly. ‘ Let me see if I cannot soon remedy it’ he said taking some matches from his pocket, and kneel ing down by the hearth. In a few moments, he had kindled a blaze, and collecting the scattered brands, and piling on more wood from a deep goods box in the chimney corner, he soon had the little room lighted and warmed by a splendid fire. ‘ Now aunt Margaret, you can get Miss Hol man a hot cup of coffee at once; and see that she gets thoroughly dry, I hope she will rest in peace to-night since her brother is out of danger. ’ 1 Out of danger? Are you sure ?’ ‘ Yes. Unless, he has a relapse, which good nursing will prevent. He had been sleeping an hour when I left. Dr. Mercer says when he wakes, he will be in his right mind. You can go home, and feel little uneasiness. I will leave him with good nurses.’ * Leave him? Are you going away?’ ‘Early in the morning. I shall not see him again, if it is as well with him as I believe it is. Dr. Mercer will stay all day with him, and as I have said he has two experienced nurses beside. He willnot need, me May I trouble you now for my coat?’ ‘ Oh ! I had forgotten ! And how chilled you must be !’ Coloring deeply, she undid the knot- ed sleeves with agitated fingers. He drew the coat on, and buttoned it around his square shouldered, military figure. i* I shall not probably see you to-morrow’ he said—‘as our roads lie in different directions, but you will recieve an account of your brother. Jake will attend you home.’ He ran his fingers through his rain-wet hair and turned towards the door. He was going, and she had not yet said a word in acknowledgment of his kindness. She rose to h ir feet and faltered: ‘ Capt. Witchell, how can we ever repay for what you have done ?’ He looked down at her, a smiling light In his blue eyes. •What I have done is only the duty one hu man being owes to another. If you wish, you can repay it by not beliving all the evil you hear ox me. Even the devu is not as blacn as he "is painted. And there is one more favor I wish to ask. Do not tell your brother that I was with him in his Jillness. He was delirious and did not know me. The negroes will not betray me, nor will Dr. Mercer. Will you too keep silent?’ ‘Why should he not know?’ ‘He does not like me—hates me, as you are aware. He will misjudge my motives; and he may think himself bound in gratitude to me. I want nothing of the kind. I have done only what humanity prompted, but he and his friends may put a different construction on my actions. I ask you as a favor, not to speak to your broth er or to any one of my being with him when he had the fever.’ ‘Since you ask it, I promise not to do so; but ’ •That is well. I know I can trust you. Good night. He was going away without any other fare well, but Adelle stepped closer to him and held out her hand. She did not say a word, but her eyes, that were lifted to his, swam in tears, end her lips trembled, and seemed to struggle to speak. He took her hand, bowed over it respectfully, and left her. When he was gone,she turned her back upon the peering eyes of old Margaret, dropped her face in her hands and cried heartily. Little wonder she was unnerved. The reac tion from the terrible suspense of the last thirty hours, the recent fright and exposure were suf ficient to account for her tears, yet they had their source in part in other feelings—a half painful, half pleasurable agitation connected with the man, who had just said ‘good-night’ as calmly aB if he had not felt that it was good-bye forever. A special, unlooked for circumstance had brought them into brief association, it was not probable that any event would again happen that would justify a disregard of the wide bar riers that divided them. The two barques had been tossed together for a moment by a storm and it had been forgotten that they bore un friendly flags; but it was only for a moment. Their brief intercourse had been outside the territory of society-—outside the world of reality it almost seemed to Adelle—in some dim region bordering upon dreams. She thought with shame, and yet with a half guilty thrill of joy of how his arm had held her sound of the wind returning to the charge, shrieking, as it tore through the woods on the opposite side of the river. It came; it struck the group cowering from it in the darkness, it hurled its fierce strength against the tottering cabins; there was a sound of timbers giving way, then a crash of boards and heavy logs. • He is killed !’ shrieked Adelle, but that in stant a flash of lightning showed her Witchell coming towards ner, tarrying tLe old paralytic he had snatched from the falling house. He set her down near Adelle; there was silence for an instant, then tiie group sent up a shout of ‘ Hurrah for tJap'n Witchell,’ and the voice of the old negress could be heard in the lull of the storm, mumbling blessings on her preserver. The light ot ihe lantern streamed over her with ered form, the rain blew on her shriveled face and grey head; ner trembling hands were held out as if to ward it off. Adelle snatched off her shawl and hastily wrapped it around the pitia ble figure. Capt. Witchell moved forward as if to prevent her, but he stopped short, and the next moment, Auelle felt him throw something over her own bhouklers, draw it up about her head, and fasten it around her. It was his coat; he had tied it in front by the sleeves. She was about to speak in deprecation, when another burst of wind took away her breath. Instinctive ly, she clung to him, and with his arm around her.be sustained her against the wind, that now mixed with rain. The instant it had sub- he removed his arm. Yet if they should meet again when back in the world, he would not feel it permissible to recognize her, and would she dare by look or word to accord him permission? As she sat with her face in her hands, a touch fell upon her arm, and she turned around to see old Margaret holding out a cup of coffee, and eyeing her with mingled cunning and benevo lence. ‘I don’t want it, thank you,’ Adelle said, mo tioning the coffee away. ‘The Cap’n said you must drink it. It’ll set you up after the scare and chill you’ve had. It’ll brace youginst de fever.’ She took the cup and drained it of the clear, strong contents. ‘Dere ! I thought you’d do it,’ the old negress sa id the mixture of kindness and malice deep ening in her face. ‘You’ll do what he says. What’d I tell you? He makes people do like he wants. Dat's his power. He puts his spell on ’em. He’s put it on you. Dat’s why you cry. You don’t know it; but 'tis. You feel like some thin’s happened to you*’ •What nonsense 1 I cry because I feel unnerv ed and tired out, and because I am glad of Der rick’s safety.’ ‘And 1<>r somethin else, too. No need deny- in’ it. Cap’n Witckell’s put his spell on you, and you can’t take it off. Ion’ll follow him troo good and bad.’ S .you are crazy. Capt- Witchell is nothing to me. I shall never see or at least never speak to him again. My people are no friends to him.’ ‘Don’t matter,’ retorted the old negress,sagely, nodding her head. ‘It’s like I tell you. You’ll fix your eyes and your heart on him, and he’s got his’n fixed yonder ahead on chists of green backs and silver, and crowns of gold, and he’ll push on after ’em and for;jfit to look round at de one walkin’ at his side.’ ‘You old goose,’ Adelle said,’ trying to laugh off the uncanny feelings that came over her, as she watched old Margaret peer into the fire with her small, keen eyes, while her skinny finger pointed forward as if at ?orue sight she alone could see. ‘There are no browns of gold to be won in this country.’ ‘Grant, de big president-gineral wears a gold- in crown; I seen it one night; Witcbell’s push ing on after one; gwine to git it too, onless,’ sinking her voice to a mysterious mutter, ‘onless his foot slips up in blood. Yes; in blood. I saw him one night swimmin’ in blood—a river of blood, and he strugglin’ and throwin’ out his arms, till of a sudden dey both dropped off, and he went driftin’—driftin’down de current.’ ‘Your dreams are wonderful truly.’ •Taint dreams. I see things—plain as I see you. Do you want to know how I saw you last night?’ She craned her long neck so as to bring her wierd face close to the girl’s.’ ‘No,’cried Adelle, drciwing back. ‘I think there is no import in your dreams; but I do not oare to hear them. I amstired out. The wind has died down, but how tLe rain falls! I will try to sleep.’ ( , CHAPTER VI The time of terror was 4?ver; the scepter of the scourge was broken. The white angel of the frost had descended and the air was purified of its poison. The refugees came back; life went on in the homes, from which the dead had been carried, in the fields and places that would know them no more, ’/he yellow fever time was looked back upon as a dreadful night-mare —a period of confused horror, too painful for the thoughts to dwell upon. Before the coming of the frost, Derrick had gone to Mossy Valley to recruit his strength in the pure air and through the nursing and pet ting he would be sure to get from his mother and sister. He had lost color and flesh, but he bid fair to get them back, for his appetite was such as to delight his mother and astonish the old cook. They had never heard at home that he was ill, until the news came in a scrawl in his own handwriting, the first tir*fi he had been permit ted to sit up in bed. He had made light of his sickness then, to prevent anxiety at home. As soon as he was able to travel in a slow, easy way, the carriage had b~en sent for him with enough pillows and bladSS’vts to smother a dozen young fellows of his size, and with his father, armed with camphor and brandy bottles, to take care of him. Adelle’s visit to the river had never transpir ed. Neither her parents nor her brother knew anything of it. Jake had kept silent, and the great package of delicacies he had carried back from Malta to the sick man, had been a myste rious gift, so far as Derrick’s knowledge exten- ed. She had gone back to Malta after leaving the river, and her friends there supposed she had paid a short visit to her parents, and won dered somewhat, when, only the next day, the Holman family carriage came to convey her home. When,upon the first evening of Derrick’s arriv al at home, as he sat in the big chintz-cushioned invalid’s chair, sipping his wine negus, he de tailed to his attentive listeners, all he could re member of his illness. Adelle discovered that the doctor and the negroes had kept Witchell’s secret. Derrjck knewkagjjtfeiog of his jiaving been attended, duringtKi most critical period of the fever, by the mi>/b’ whom he hated. Several times aftlfv^vd, the revelation, coupled with reproof, Fim-i near bursting from her lips. It was when she heard her brother join his father and Lanier in denouncing Witch ell as a heartless, unscrupulous scoundrel—an adventurer, who cared for nothing so that he mounted to wealth and station, over the pros trate rights of the people. Such denunciations of the Radical leader, were more than usually frequent and seveie at present, for Witchell’s name was before the peo ple as candidate for the office of State Senator, with certainty of election, for, without taking in account his power with his own party, and his popularity with the negroes and ‘poor whites,’ whom he had befriended and assisted, there was the fact that the ballot box was now a sham, and that the Ring, of which Witchell was chief in this section, managed elections to suit itself. Fraudulent registration*' fraudulent voting, fraudulent counting of ittjturns, were all carried on under the very eyes oV the people, too brok en-spirited by past reverses, and too hopeless of redress to offer any organized resistance to the bold, bluff game that was played upon them But the bitter feeling against the players, in creased among the prouder and more rigid- principled of the people, while there was a class, who with an eye to favor or protection, openly courted the ruling powers, and were so cially ostracised from their own set in conse quence; and yet another class, who truckled to them but in a sneaking way, obsequious to She was vexed with herself at the keen pang of disappointment that went to her heart, and at the consolation she drew from the after thought that the reason he did not speak might have been the fear of putting her in an un pleasant position. There were others with her, and if he had given her a recognizing look and bow and she had acknowledged the attention, her friends would have been shocked at finding her acquainted with him, and annoyed her with questions. He must have noted the haughty, averted face of the tall, pale woman walking with her—dressed in mourning still for the boy- lover who had been killed nine years ago in one of the last struggles of the Southern Confeder acy; and he could have overheard the sneering remark of the gay girl, who walked ahead, trail ing behind her the coral berry vine she held. ‘Yonder conies the R. R. R.,’ (Radical Rogue and Ringleader) she exclaimed, ‘ mounted on a horse that is bv far the better-looking animal of the two;’ and the response of her companion: ‘Wonder where he stole it,’ as she tossed up her little nose. When such remarks as these were made in her presence, Adelle always felt a quick fear lest somebody would notice the effect they produced on her. She could not keep the flash from her eyes, nor the wounded blood from mounting into her cheeks. Yet she had never owned to herself that she loved this man. The most she had confessed to her heart was that she felt a pity for him in his isolated, ostracised position, and that she admired his courage and persis tence in facing dangers and difficulties and keep ing calmly in pursuit of his purpose. Yet the hope of seeing him had been, half- unconsciously to herself, the motive of her return to Malta. In her secluded home at Mossy Val ley, in her twilight dreams in the old honey suckle arbor, her solitary walks through the In- dian-summer W'oods, she had thought of him continually. She had woven around his image the passion and romance of her fervid nature. The abuse she heard of him on every hand could not impair this secret worship. It only deepen ed the womanly pity that was a strong element of her love. The necessity of concealment was another cir cumstance that wrought through her imagina tion upon her heart. Their short unsuspected association—w hat a charm secrecy gave to it!— what a wild, sweet spell it cast over her recol lection of those days npon the river! She dared not speak his name aloud; she breathed it the oftener to her own heart. She had kept all the little notes he had writ ten her on the river —those brief bulletins of her brother’s condition, pencilled on torn-out leaves of Witchell’s pocket note-book. She had received one more soon after her return home. A negro, belonging in the neighborhood, had rode up one afternoon and handed her an en velope, on which she instantly recognized Capt. Witchell’s peculiar handwriting. The negro had refused to give the missive into any other hands than hers, a circumstance which excited the jealous suspicion of Lanier. He was present, and watched her covertly as she received the letter, and saw that she blushed deeply and turned away to hide her emotion as she read.jjt. It contained only these few lines: •I have just shaken hands with Dr. M. He reports our patient out of danger, and fast get ting well. As a negro from your neighborhood is present, I take occasion to send you the Doc tor’s good report.’ Lanier insisted on knowing who had written gave the opera selection named upon the pro gramme, and being heartily encored, touched the keys of the piano, and sang that old but true and nobly tender melody of the Irish bard — ‘The Stricken Deer.’ Never, surely, was more fervor ever given to the impassioned words, ‘•I know not, I ask not if guilt’s in that heart, I but know that I love thee whatever thou art.” She trembled and blushed at her own earn estness—at the passionate impulse that had car ried her away. She felt almost as if she had addressed the words to Captain Witchell himself. She dared not send one glance at him to see the effect of her song. In the midst of the applause, she rose and quitted the stage. Witchell had been on the point of goina as she came out to sing her first song. Devene who had a seat in the window, close to where he stood, had touched his arm, saying, ‘Come, we have had enough of this, don’t yon think ? I’ve stood it ’till I’m boiling over, while you look as cool as Diogenes in his tub. Let’s go. It’s infinitely tiresome.’ ‘Stop,’ Witchell whispered, for Adelle Holman had taken her seat at the piano, her sweet face pale, except for the pink flushes slowly spread ing in her cheeks. Her beautiful arms and shoulders shone like polished ivory through the transparent white material of her dress. He had a sudden, vivid sense of having encircled that fair form with his arms, of having wrapped it in his coat for protection from the storm, of her having clung to him like a child in her terror. When she began to sing again in answer to the encore, and to interpret the poet’s burning words in such yearning, impassioned strains, he listened absorbed, and his cold face thawed into a wistful, almost tender exDression. Devene, leaning towards him, whispered, ‘She sings that song con amore; I’ll be hanged if she don’t. The little girl has likely got a sweetheart that’s not in the church—a naugnty fellow that she’s fond of and her pa objects to.’ Witchell frowned, and when Devene said, ‘That’s about the last, I believe. Will you go now ?’ he answered, ‘Not yet. Don’t wait for me.’ And Devene went away, wondering what had come over his chief, that he should take the whim to stay to the ‘reunion,’ after he had ex pressly declared he would not do so: that he only went to hear the ‘satire’ and its strictures upon himself. ‘I want to show my good friends that I can listen to their compliments without blushing,’ he had said,laughing in his quietly cynical way. (To be Continued.) A Visit to Mr. Church’s Studio- The Loan Exhibition, Etc. Mr. Frederic Church is generally acknowledged, both in this country and Europe, to stand at the head of the modern school of landscape painting, so peculiarly “American” in its type—dealing with nature in her wildest, grandest moods, of which the beautiful mountain scenery of our own coun try affords a grand study, and opens a w di field for the genius of such artists as Church, Bierstadt, Weber, Louis and others. I saw at Corcoran’s art gallery, in Washington, Mr. Church’s celebrated “Niagara”—and at the Lenox gallery stood long in wondering admi ration before his glorious picture of Cotopaxi, the letter, and grew angry because she refused i where miles of mountain grandeur seemed bathed to tell him, declaring his determination to find oat. He was sullen for days afterwards, but presently Derrick came home, and the cloud seemed to pass away. in the lurid light of the distant volcano. Indeed, such appears to be the footing of this great painter with nature, that she seems to have taken him into her closest confidence and imparted to him many The intercourse of the taetly engaged pair ^ secrets withheld from others. was much pleasanter when Derrick was with them, than when they were by themselves. His presence checked the angry doubts, the passion ate declarations, and above all the searching questions that poor Adelle could not answer as her lover desired. As soon as frost came, and Derrick returned to the river, she went with him as far as Malta, where her school had already reopened. Once more in her little room up stairs, she turn ed her eyes first of all to that room in the next house which could be seen from her west win dow. But the blinds were closed. Capt. Witch ell came now, but seldom to Malta. He was often absent in different parts of the country, and he spent days at his place on the Lake, which he had sold but would not give up until the end of the year. CHAPTER VI. It was a festive evening at Malta. The town hall, ^wreathed in evergreens, its central chan delier ablaze, and a stage erected at one end, was crowded with the citizens and neighbor hood people, who had come to witness a School Exhibition, postponed since last summer, and to enjoy afterwards £ supper furnished by the Academy patrons as a compliment to the School, and an hour or two of social intercourse. Or, as the printed programme expressed it, ‘A vari ed entertainment, by the young ladies and gen tlemen of the Academy, comprising recitations, dialogues, charades, speeches, tableaux,—and a Political Satire, written by one of our cle- | verest lawyers—all to be interspersed with in- strumental and vocal music. Afterwards, an ele- | officiousness when they could be so on the sly, i gant banquet, prepared by our fair town s-wo but joining with the enemies of the ‘carpet bag gers,’ in abuse of them behind their backs. It was a busy and stirring time with Witchell, this eve of his election and of his removal to his new home, around which he purposed should gather so many lucrative interests—so many important industries—the building up of a town, the conducting of a paper that should absorb the public printing of that section, the erection of a factory, the establishment around him of his relations and connections from the North, who should hold various offices, obtained through his influence, and who should repay him by working ior his interests and playing into his hand. L He carried these schemes, and other plans to which these were only preliminary, in his busy brain, as he went to and from the new planta tion he would settle upon in a few months, and as he rode over the country, strengthening his interests here and there, organizing loyal leagues, popularizing himself with the lower, laboring class, who having had fewer interests sacrificed by the recent change in affairs (they had called the Southern rebellion—a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight), were far less bitter against the new regime. He kept up meanwhile a keen lookout for openings to make money— speculations that promised well, estates forfeit ed for taxes, that he might buy up cheaply and settle his Northern allies upon; fine landed properties that might fall into his hands by a mortgage, or else their owners’ influence be se cured in his favor by indulgence granted them. There were plenty such embarrassed estate owners throughout a country that was groaning under heavy taxes and under the difficulty of controlling negro labor, except through the in fluence and intervention of Northern Radicals. And such influence was seldom a free gift. There was always quid pro quo exacted, and the quid was in most instances a disproportionately large one. Occupied with these plans and cares, it was not to be expected that the Radical leader should have given many thoughts to the girl he had parted with in the old cabin that stormy night, not quite two months ago. Adelle had seen him but seldom since her return to Malta, and she had met him face to face but once; then he had ridden on without turning his eyes in her di rection, or seeming aware of her presence. men and a social reunion.’ Adelle had helped to conduct the rehearsal of the pieces compris ing the stage entertainment, and she prayed in her heart that Witchell might not be here to night to listen to them. Several of the original recitations and dialogues contained references to the wrongs of the people and the outrages of carpet-baggers, while the Satire was a rather clumsily written but scathing lampoon upon Witchell and Devene—their names slightly dis guised but the allusions too pointed to be mis taken. Witchell, styled the Prince of Appro priation ists, was held up to public hate as a creature without a conscience, a political vam pire, fattened by the blood of the people. When Adelle had heard this rehearsed last summer, it had grated on her feelings, how much more did it do so now, when her heart had gone out to the man it lampooned, and every word spoken against him hurt her like a blow! ‘Thank Heaven he is not here,’ she said to herself as she looked out over the audience from an aperture in one of the little apartments cur tained off at each end of the stage to do duty as dressing rooms. But on looking once more, in the middle of the performance of the lampoon, she saw him. He occupied a position at the very back of the hall, standing — for there was scarcity of seats—with his back against the wall, his straight figure and leonine head calmly erect, as though he were not the the target of the sneering looks and hisses of the more reck less among the audience, excited by the piece that was being acted. His steely blue eyes beat back the stare of the people with cold, proud patience; his set mouth, his folded arms, his whole attitude spoke eloquently, not of vulgar defiance or self-asser tion, but of a purpose that might not be shaken, and ot calm, resolute, half sad endurance. Adelle,whose poetic nature was given to ideal ization and whose solitary brooding fancy had surrounded the man with such a glamour that she saw only his virtues-Adelle, looking at him as he stood there, listening to the abuse from the stage and feeling the many unfriendly eyes turned upon him, thought of a picture she had seen of Christ, standing calm and thorn- crowned among the mocking multitude. While this passion of yearning and indignant pity was upon her, it came her time to sing. She went out, and, controlling herself by an effort, A few days after my arrival in the city, feeling impatient to see the artist at his easel, accompa nied by a friend, I went to his studio, and present ing my letter of introduction. We were met at the door by Mr. Church himself, a gentleman of tall, spare figure, intellectual countenance and graceful manners, apparently about 37, though perhaps older, who, with a few gratifying words, made us feel that we were not strangers, but welcome guests in his sanctum. We soon found ourselves seated, chatting with him on various subjects of art in terest. We spoke of Paris, and the great ad van- ages it affords to the art student, and of our friend, Mr. George Burrass, known to many in this part of the country, as a young artist of great promise, now studying in that city, from whom he had just received a very interesting letter. Seeing that I admired a beautiful little picture on his easel, a group of birds and flowers—he said, laughing, “Oh, this is only a little 'holiday work.’ a memento for a lady friend who sent me a nice ‘mince pie,’ and now I am going to return her plate”—so saying he turned it over and we saw the tin plate in which the pie had been baked, I transformed by his “magic brush” into a work of j art, fit to adorn the walls of a Fifth avenue draw- I ing-room—a beautiful acknowledgment of her at- ; tention. On the walls of his studio, were hung many | half-finished pen and ink sketches of birds and ! animals. VVe noticed two very human-looking ■ groups of black’birds with swallow-tailed coats and beaver hats. These, no doubt, were intended to embellish the pages of the “Modern Esop’s|Fables” which he is now engaged in illustrating. After an hour spent very pleasantly, we took our leave of this genial gentleman, to whose kind courtesy I was afrerward indebted for gaining access to much that was interesting and instruc tive during my stay in the c ty. One of the most interesting places I visited was the “ Loan Exhibition” at thej“ Academy of De sign.” This I visited with Madame Reche and several of her pupils, and found her explanations to them ko very interesting and improving, as she passed from one work of art to another. I will here mention that this highly cultivated lady, so favorably known to many of our citizens, is now at the head of a high school for young ladies in New York city, where superior advantages are afforded in every department. This Loan Exhibition is a collection of gems of art and virtu, generously loaned by the citizens of New York from their parlors and private galle ries, and was gotten up for the “ Ladies’ Decora tive Art Society,” the object of which is the in struction and encouragement of women in their art work and the sale of it. The loan collection was open only for a short time, an! was one of the most unique of its kind. Here were displayed ten rooms full of whatever was most rare and beautiful. Among the paint ings was a lovely portrait by “Rouse,” the great Boston child painter. But the most valuable in the collection was a small picture by “ Meissounier,” valued at a most fabulous price—by the square inch of canvas ! There i#»nother of “Meissoonier’s” in Mrs. Stew art’s gallery. I could write much more about these articles exhibited—all r.ire of their kind—but fear to tax your patience. But I mtist mention Jerome’s last picture, the “ Sword Dancer,” which I saw at Goupils, valued at $2),00J! —a most exquisite painting of the interior of a Cafe—Turks all seat ed around smoking, while iu the foreground was a lovely figure of a dancing girl, balancing a sword on her head, also one in her hand. Her features were distinctly seen through a green veil that covered her head ; but the crowuiug beauty of the picture was the flood of sunlight which streamed across the entire Cafe from a small casement window. Above and through inis ray of light was seen the dancing figure. The wonderful effect of the reflected light on the dark interior of the old Cafe must be seen to be appreciated. Mast B. Gbbgoby.