Newspaper Page Text
ps-w e extract from a package in our hands containing
numerous literary remains of 11. W. Herbert, whose un
timely death has recently caused so painful a sensation,
the following poetical fragment The manuscript stops
short, with the extract given below. We believe the
poem was never finished. It is endorsed in the au
thor’s own hand-writing, “a fragment” as a thing done
with, and to be put away. It is now published for the
first time:
SIB AMELOT DE VEEE;
A FRAGMENT OF UNPUBLISHED ROMANCE.
BT HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT,
Author of The Prometheus, Agamemnon, <tc., itc.
“ If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood’s beautiful Isabel,
For the brightest glance of her azure eye
Thou must be willing to live or die.
For the brightest smile of her radiant lip,
Or a kiss of her finger's rosy tip,
Thou must be willing to cast away
All that thou boldest dear to day—
Kindred and country, and friendship true,
All that is old for one that is new.
Thou must make her famous o'er land and sea.
By dint of thy dauntless chivalry."
Thou must make her adored by one and all,
Whom thy sword shall save from Paynim thrall.
Thou must make her name a sovereign spell,
For all who own Amelot's Isabel,
That they who ne'er saw her. shall strike for her fame,
And then render mercy in Isabel's name.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
You must be first in the battle's brunt,
When the bravest shrink from its iron front;
The foremost to conquer, and first to spare.
Where fame is to win. thou must still be there.
Thou must be first in the courtly hall.
The star of the peaceful festival.
The foremost ever in ladles' grace.
Yet cold as snow to the fairest face.
Men must fear tbee, and women love,
But thou must be true as the widowed dove.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Thou must be her's, and tier's alone,
In every thought thy soul doth own.
Not an eye for the brightest, or ear for the sweetest;
Courteous but cold unto all thou meetest;
Not a hope in thy heart but still to be near her;
All to worshlp.yet something to fear her.
And then, when thy fame is on every tongue,
Broad as thy banner in battle flung—
Then, when thy lance shall have given her glory,
And made her the theme of each minstrel's story;
When Europe, and Afrlc, and Araby,
Bhall own her the brightest and best to be ;
Then, when thy trust is in her alone,
Then, when thy life, thy soul Is her own ;
Then must thou hold thee guerdoned well,
By one cold smile from Isabel.
Like sunbeams on flowers her smiles shall fall,
Lovely and loving on one and all;
And thou shalt win no higher prize
Than leave to look in her lustrous eyes;
Or if she shall give thee her love to-day,
To-morrow’s frost shall freeze it away.
And if thou lay thee down to-night.
Blessed with her promise of near delight,
To-morrow shall find her as cold anti as far,
As the wintry sheen of the farthest far.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood’s beautiful Isabel,
If thou wilt do all this I have spoken,
Thus as I rede thee, tby fate shall be wroken.
Thou shalt make her proud, herself to sec
In the mirror of thy chivalry; ,
Thou shalt make her to love thy fame as her own ;
To live in the light of thy great renown ;
In thine absence to blush, w hen thou art but named ;
To be eloquent if she hear thee blamed;
Yet then she shall love thy deeds, not thee,
For false is her bosom, and false shall be.
She shall wear thy hair, and wring thy heart,
Yet from her thrall thou shalt not depart.
She shall work thee wo. she shall work thee shame,
Yet shalt thou worship her still the same.
Thy friends she shall sever, thy peace undo,
Yet still shall thy love be loyal and true.
All but thine honor slialt lose for her sake—
Pause then, nor rashly the strife undertake.
“If thou wouldst win her, mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel,
Grant her the sweetest child of earth,
The lovliest creature of mortal birth,
Grant, if thou wilt that she may be won,
As all things may beneath the sun.
By talent and toil, by sorrow and sinning—
Mark me well. Is she worth the winning ?”
He started front his magic sleep,
Beneath a cedar's thicket deep,
In a glade of Lebanon.
And was it fancy, was it sooth,
A form of air. or a thing of truth?
Athwart the setting sun.
Clad in a robe of hazy light,
There seemed to tlont a vision bright
Between him and the hoary height
Os the old sacred hill.
He gazed, it faded from hiseyn,
'Till he could see the sunbeams shine
Beyond, in many a misty line,
And tip the given with golden hue,
And stream that waning vision through ;
And yet could see it still,
lie bounded forward. It was gone,
And in that haunted glade alone,
With bristling hair, but dauntless breast,
The chosen champion of the West
Stood like a carved stone.
Still in his ears those tones were ringing,
Softer than sweetest human singing;
Still he could hear the burthen float,
Clear as a seraph's liquid note :
“ If thou wouldst win her. mark me well,
Ravenwood's beautiful Isabel."
“ And I will win her, by the grave,
We fight from Infidels to save 1
Nor might of nin nor le n in’s power,
Shall turn me I Ts she not the flower,
The pride, the gem of English earth,
Where more of sweetness hath its birth,
Than in the world beside ?
And whoso sailh she hath a peer
Beneath bright Heaven, I tell him here :
1 tell him. Amelot de Von—
Let him be man of human mould.
Or fiendish knight, such as of old
With mortal champions vied,
Let him do on his arms of proof,
Or hold his coward head aloof—
I tell him, he hath lied I"
He paused, as though he thought to sec
The gleam, of fiendish panoply.
With blazoned shield and waving plume,
Emerging from the cedar's gloom.
But all was silence deep and still
On Solomon's Immortal hill.
The sunshine slept upon the sod,
The very cedars ceased to nod—
So tranquil was the glen,
lie turned—he started, and his hand
Fell to the guard of his good brand—
Was it a trumpet's tone,
That startled all the forest round.
And wakened, with defying sound,
The mountain echoes lone ?
'Twas silence all: or if that peal
Was sooth, which made his senses reel,
EKE SOUTKE&M FIJBLB JUS® FXIUKSX®*.
8o soon it passed away,
That Amelot uncertain stood,
Whether the demons of the wood,
Or the mere coinings of his blood.
Distempered, and his dreaming brain.
Hail mocked him once and yet again.
With cheats most like reality ;
And to his dying day
lie knew not. For such things fell out
In after time, as made him doubt
Almost his own identity.
But now he turned him to the host
Encamped on Syria's sultry coast.
And as he passed the mountain down.
Amid the shadows falling brown,
And heavy dews, he only said.
With resolute gesture of his head,
And hand npon his war-sword's hilt.
The cross—“ By all the blood we've spilt!
Let them bring all the powers of Hell
To aid—l will win Isabel!"
**••**•
—sal
At the request of an old friend, whom it
will ever be a pleasure to us to gratify, we re-pub
lish from the Columbus Corner Stone, the follow
ing notice of an interesting social meeting, which
took place in that town, with the accompanying
effusion, in the form of a letter signed L—6B, to
which the notice gave occasion. L. is one of the
most valued regular contributors to the Field and
fireside; and we do not agree with the friend at
whose instance we give it place in our columns,
that “such a piece can be of little interest to any
but the old men to whom it is addressed.” We
are sure that hundreds of our readers in Geor
gia, and elsewhere, will peruse with pleasure
this spontaneous effusion of over flowing friend
ship in connection with proper names that have
long been known in Georgia, as synonyms of
all moral excellence, and of piety:
From the Corner Stone.
The following thoughts were suggested by hearing of
the death of an old and valued friend:
About the 25th of last month, (April), at the
close of the Baptist Convention in Columbus, the
amiable and excellent Mrs. Elizabeth Shorter
gave a dinner, abundant, and in excellent style,
to a few of her old friends and the friends of her
departed father. There were six gentlemen pre
sent, and, I think, four ladies. The Rev. George
Stewart asked a blessing, standing. Four of the
guests, whose ages together amounted to three
hundred and fourteen years, were the Rev. Diel
Sherwood, sixty seven; Chas. D. Stewart, seven
ty seven ; Vincent Sanford, eighty two; and John
Bethune, eighty eight—these, with Rev. George
Stewart, the son of Mr. Charles D. Stewart, and
Daniel Sanford, the son of Vincent Sanford, con
stituted the male part of the guests. We enjoy
ed the dinner with great pleasure and harmony.
When about to separate, the oldest of the com
pany sang the Indian Farewell Hymn:
1. When shall we all meet again—
When shall we all meet again ?
Oft shall glowing hope expire—
Oft shall wearied love retire;
Oft shall death and sorrow reign,
Ere we all shall meet again.
2. Though In distant lands we sigh,
Parvhed beneath a hostile sky:
Though tha deep between ns rolls,
Friendship shall unite our souls;
And in fancy’s wide domain
Oft shall we all meet again.
8. When our furrowed locks arc gray,
Thinned by many a toil-spent day;
When around the youthful pine
Moss shall creep and ivy twine.
Long may the loved bower remain,
Ere wc all shall meet again.
4. When the dreams of life are fled.
When its wasted lamps are dead;
When in cold oblivion's shade.
Beauty, fame, and wealth are laid
Where immortal spirits reign—
There may we all meet again.*
In that short time, one of that little company
is gone—Viueent Sanford is no more. Peace to
his memory. j. b.
MBS. SHOBTEB'S DINNER.
To Gen. James N. Bkthcnk:
Oh, that dinner, that dinner, The
dinner given to the Patriarchs of Greensboro’!
I would rather have been at it than at a festival
of as many Emperors, all doing me reverence.
The tear rolls down my cheek while I write
about it—why, I hardly know myself—partly a
heart-warm tribute to dear, good- old brother
Vincent Sanford's memory—he was ripe for
heaven three and forty years ago; and, if possible;
improved in holiness to the day of his death —
partly from hallowed associations which cluster
around every name that graced and consecrat
ed my dear Elizabeth’s table—partly, perchance,
the sign ofan old man’s weakness. Well, let it
flow; there is friendship in it, at least, as pure
as ever bosom chambered.
The hostess herself! She was but a child
when I first formed her acquaintance—a sweet
child. I saw her rise to early womanhood, and
then we parted. I can only see her now as I
saw her then; but there is a moral in her hos
pitality that tells me she is even better now than
she was then. Her most excellent father did
me a kindness when most needed, and least
expected, which I could never repay. To my
best of friends, he was also one of the best of
friends. Her sainted Aunt! oh, how I loved
her! Who that knew her, did not? Lovely,
beautiful specimen of the Christian character!
Meek, gentle, lamb-like, charitable. Her son
“asked the blessing." Worthy son of the
worthy mother !—like her in feature; like her
inmor.ls. God bless him! and God bless all
his mother’s children I
Rev. Adiel Sherwood —67! My fellow-laborer,
and most efficient laborer in the great temper
ance reform, to which, in all likelihood, Georgia
owes, in no small measure, her rank in the sis
terhood of States. Sweet converse have we
often held together, and sweeter prayers.—
Chance made me his sister's first Georgia ac
quaintance, and good fortune made me her es
cort to her brother’s arms—far, far away from
their paternal homestead, in a land of strangers.
My residence was the place of meeting—my resi
dence, but not my property ; yes, it was mine,
for what was Mr. Torrence’s was mine, as freely
as my own. The best of men, among the very
liest! Here my tears gush, and my eyes scarce
ly see the pen which traces these lines. You.
friend Adiel, officiated in the pulpit, with warm
John Howard, when, for the first time, with my
bosom friend, I bowed a penitent at the altar.
Your sister stood by me, and prayed with me
through all the struggles of the new birth. Oh,
what a revival did we lead oft'! Oh, what hap
py weeks followed ! Your sister is gone, Adiel
mv household friend is gone. They had a hap
pier meeting in the house not made with hands than
the brother and sister had in his hospitable
mansion. We still beat about on life’s troubled
ocean, driven wide apart for many years past —
* This sung Is saifl to have heen composed by three
young Indians, who graduated at Some college at the
North, and composed it when they were about to part—
It wub afterwards set to sacred music.
so wide, indeed, that all hope of ever seeing yon
again long since forsook my bosom. But Provi
dence has returned you to my native State.
Welcome, thrice welcome, back to it, de*r friend!
It owes, you a debt, I know—may 1 live to ac
knowledge it for her to you in person!
Charles D. Stewart —77! Thy name comes
as a light through the gloom that overshadows
me. It is but a flash, however. We were
closely bound in friendship's bonds ere sweet re
ligion strengthened them into love. We sported,
laughed, and jested together. There is not a brook
around the dear village whose margin we have
not trod together. We set out for the kingdom of
Heaven together. I sickened ere we set our faces
heavenward. Your means, your medicines, your
comforts for the sick, were ample. They were
all at my service unasked for, and day by day,
and night by night, administered to me by your
own hands. But still I sunk, until I reached" the
very brink of the grave. At length, the anxious
looks of friends around my bed, and sobs from
an adjoining room, reminded me that my case
was hopeless. I felt my pulse, or rather felt for
it, for it fluttered imperceptible to the touch. My
mind was clear, and, strange to tell, was undis
turbed by fears. “You will find,” said I, “in
such a drawer my will, complete all to signing;
hand it to me.” It was brought to me. One of
two offices you performed for me, I do notremem
ber which; you held me up while I traced my
name, and then laid be gentlv down to die: or
you held the will for my name, and then attested
it as a witness. The day passed, and 1 still breath
ed—another, and hoped revived ; another—and I
grew better—a week, and I was out of danger.
Ten thousand praises to Almighty God that he did
not make that sickness my last! No living being
out of my family showed more delight at seeing
me on my feet again, than did you, my dear,
dear old friend. For aye since, my house has
been thine, and thine has been mine.
John Btthune —Bß 1 God bless him! God did
bless him, with His greatest earthly blessing,
fifty years ago; and that was but an earnest of
still greater blessings now within a few days of
him. John Bethune and Vincent Sanford 1
Forty-three years ago, and for many succeeding
years, their names, like partnership names,
were pronounced together, whenever piety
was the theme. The one a Methodist, the other
a Baptist, but undistinguished by their walk
and conversation. One slight difference I used
to observe betwen them—when Jesse Mercer
preached, brother Vincent brightened a little the
most, and when Lovick Pierce preached, broth
er John brightened a little the most. But no
matter who preached, both were certain to
hear the sermon. At all religious services they
were found together. In all benevolent offices
they were as one. Almost alone as representa
tives of their respective churches, they stood in
the village for years; but brightly beamed their
light in the darkness which surrounded them,
and God let them live to see the day when al
most every habitation in the village was a
house of prayer.
And have you, brother John, up to this time,
been adding to the large store of faith, hope, and
charity, which you had forty-three years ago?
Why, you will be made ruler over ten cities to my
one. You named a son after me, and sympathiz
ed deeply with me when I lost my first born;
but not more than 1 did with you when you lost
your Julia. Five more of mine have followed
my first born; and as many of yours (?) have
followed your Julia —my namesake, amohg the
rest. And yet we live. Are we fortunate, or
unfortunate? What penalties are attached to
longlife? If I live to see the next autumnal
equinox, I shall have completed my sixty-ninth
year. I have been deemeu, auU Lava
been, one of the happiest of men; and yet vhat
sorrows have I seen 1 Os my father's friends,
whom I well remember in all the gaieties of life,
not one survives. Os the companions of my ea rly
boyhood, but six survive. Os my first brethren
of the bar, including three circuits and the city
of Savannah, but seven are left. In the village
where I first took you by the hand, but one head
of a family remains, and he had become such
only the year before we met. Os all the adults
of the village, I cannot count ten who yet lives.
Gone, gone, dear ones of every age—gone down to
the chamber of silence! To witness these things,
interspersed with a thousand lesser ills, is the
lot of old age in its best estate.
“ Beyond the flight of time.
Beyond the vale of death,
There surely is a blessed clime
"Where life is not a '.reath,
Nor life's attectioM tr.-nsient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.”
And yet, old age is not without its joys; and if
preceded by a well ordered morning and meridi
an, the evening of life is the sweetest and hap
piest of the term. The troubles incident to
youthful indiscretions, we know no more, brother.
Those who, in manhood’s prime, harrassed, per
plexed and annoyed us, now do us reverence.
If death has hewed down most of our former
friends, he has intensified our love for the rem
nant that is left, and re-duplicated the happiness
of our intercourse with them. We have no
anxieties about time’s future, for time has left us
no future to provide for. The bustliug world
has pushed us away to the narrow belt which
separates it from the realm of death ; but it is a
quiet, peaceful spot. Here, we find refuge in
hearts which cannot displace us—hearts of our
own begetting, over which we still exercise a
kind of lordship. These, with the little ones
they place around us, are ceaseless fountains of
joy—the purest, the holiest that earth can give.
Here, we calmly wait the summons to joys un
speakable andfuVof ylory. Upon the whom, we
are fortunate, brother. I could not be with you
at our dear Elizabeth's table, but I hope soon
to be with you and her, and all her guests, at
the marriage supper of the Lamb, where our
banquet song will no longer be, “ When shall
we meet again?" but “Alleluia! Let us be glad
and rejoice, for the marriage supper of the Lamb
is come. Worthy is the Lamb to receive honor
and glory, and blessing, for he hath redeemed us
to God by his blood, and made us kings and
priests unto God.” L 68.
The Bersaglieri, who are so often mentioned in
connection with the Sardinian troops, are among
the most dashing soldiers in the world. As
their name indicates, they are riflemen, sharp
shooters. In the battles between the Sardinians
and the Austrians, in 1848-'49, they were the
most effective men who entered the contest —
The uniform consists of a very dark green frock
coat pants of the same color, and hat of a soft
feltv substance, in form like the “Kossuth.” —
The only ornament to their head piece is a flat,
flowing plume, composed of black cock feathers.
Many of them from boyhood have been taught
the use of the long rifle in the Alps of Savoy.—
They, in their hardy chase of the chamois, are
almost unerring in their aitn. In their bravery,
dash, and enterprise, they resemble the Texan
rangers, while, saving the color of their uuiform,
they look in their simple dress like hunters on
our western plains. Under such leaders as
Garibaldi and Cialdini they will make their mark
in the present war.
New York Journal of Commerce.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE GOOD HUSBAND.
BT A LADT.
You may know him on the street, by bis elas
tic step and bright eye; by the ready smile,
and word of welcome that he has for all he
] meets. He is cheerful, for he has a stout and
! hopeful heart. His life, perhaps, is a hard one ;
! his affairs do not prosper; his toil is not reward
ed; a thick cloud seems hanging over his for
tunes. Often he is almost in despair; but he
thinks of the loved ones at home, who are de
pendent upon him ; and, at the thought his heart
bounds again—he feels renewed energy within
him, and hopefully and bravely lie pushes on
ward once more.
His may have been .a life of joy and sorrow—
of youthful hopes suddenly crushed—of ener
gies wasted—of friendships betrayed. Who lias
not experienced, who may not fear, these trials
in life ? It is well for him that he has those
whom, at the close of day, he can rejoin—in
whom he can unsuspectingly confide —in the
“ sober certainty " of whose love lie may forget
for a while the troubles, cares, and annoyances
of the world without!
As the evening declines, and the evening
shadows lengthen, his heart and his steps be
come lighter, in pleasing anticipation of the
evening that approaches. He feels that “the
long weary day,” with its strifes, is over; and
he knows a white cottage by the roadside, where,
i already, there arc eyes turned to find him, and
i busy hands finishing for him some little work of
ever-thoughtful love. What a beautiful smile
illumines his face, as, in imagination, lie sees the
little feet that are running down the garden
walk, and the little face peeping through the
garden-gate, to be the first to meet him! And
he feels, as lie holds these to his heart, that file
has no toil too hard for him to undergo for their
dear sakes—no sorrow that can be intolerable
while these remain to reward and bless him!
Thank God! he has a brief eylyiesun like this;
else, strong though he lie, he might fall in the
battle of life, and bis spirit sink within him.
Thank God! he has loviug hearts to cheer
him. that in the morn he may go forth again re
freshed and ready for another day’s labor.
He has a great spirit, and willing hands, and
oh, what a kind heart! She who treads life's
pathway, by his side, can tell of that—of care
cast off for her—of risks incurred that she might
not suffer or fear, of sleepless nights and anx
ious days—and of the cheerful smile ho ever
wears that she may not be disquieted and unhap
py. He never brings sorrow home; no impatient
words escape to break the harmony that reigns
when he is there. No wonder she runs to meet
him—smoothing, in playful fondness, Ins care
worn hour ; no wonder every thing there is ar
ranged for the approval of his eye, for the grati
fication of his taste, no wonder she wears her
neatest dress and her brightest smile, though she
too may be weary anti worn—and, no wonder,
when she kneels down, at night, she pours out
her soul to God, in prayer, that he will bless and
spare to her, her husband! for she knows that
without him life would he a dreary, barren, hope
less waste.
And we say too. God speed him! Surely he
will lie blest; and although, fora season, clouds
are over his sky; yet the sun will cast out with
cheering and brilliant rays at last, and he will
enjoy the fruit of all his labors. Erie.
—
DB. FRANKLIN AND THOMAS PAINE.
When Paine was writing his infamous attacks
on the Christian religion, he submitted a part of
his manuscript to Dr. Franklin, for his inflec
tion and opinion. The ftiiiuwiiig is the auswer
of that great philosopher and patriot:
Dear Sir : I have read your manuscript with
some attention. By the argument it contains
against a particular Providence, though you al
low a general Providence, yon strike at the foun
dation of all religion. For without the belief of
a Providence that takes cognizance of, guards,
and guides, and favors particular persons, there
is no motive to worship a Deity, to tear its dis
pleasure, or to pray for its protection. I will
not enter into auy discussion of your principles,
though you seem to desire it. At present, I shall
only give you my opinion, that, though your rea
sonings are subtle, and may prevail with some
readers, you will not succeed so as to change
the general sentiments of mankind on that sub
ject, aud the consequence of printing this piece
will be a great deal of odium drawn upon your
self, mischief to you, and no benefit to others.
He that spits against the wind spits in his own
face. But were you to succeed, do you imagine
any good will be done by it ? You, yourself,
may find it easy to live a virtuous life without
the assistance afforded by religion : you have a
e'ear perception of the advantages of virtue, and
the disadvantages of vice, and possess a strength
of resolution sufficient to enable you to resist
common temptations. But think how great a
portion of mankind consist of weak and ignorant
men and women, and of inexperienced and in
considerate youth, of both sexes, who have need
of the motives of religion to retain them in the
practice of it till it becomes habitual, which is
the great point for its security. And, perhaps,
you are indebted to her originally, that is to
your religious education, for the habits ot virtue
ujion which you now justly value yourself. You
might easily display your excellent talents of
reasoning upo" a less hazardous subject, and
thereby obtain a rank with our most distinguish
ed authors. For among us-it is not necessary,
as among the Hottentots, that a youth, to be
raised into the company of men, should prove
his manhood by beating his mother. 1 would
advise you. therefore, not to attempt unchaiuing
the tiger, but to burn this piece before it is seen
by any other person, whereby you will save
yourself a great deal of mortification from the
enemies it may raise against you, and. perhaps,
a good deal of regret and repentance. If men
are so wicked with religion what would they be
if without d t 1 intend this letter as a proof of
my friendship, and, therefore, add no profession
to it; but simply subscribe, yours,
B. Franklin.
The Franking Privilege. —To-day, passing
the post office, says the Philadelphia Bulletin,
we saw, lying among the mail-hags about to be
despatclied to the South, the following articles,
each addressed to a member of Congress from
this city, at Washington ;
One wooden box, about a foot square, labelled
“Dr. ’s Universal Remedy."
One jointed fishing-rod, carefully done up in
brown paper.
One Old Dominion coffee-pot, large size.
These were to go free, mailable matter, but
being of rather inconvenient shape to be pack
ed with letters, they were suffered to go sepa
rately.
Ip you have great talent' 5 , industry will ap
prove them ; if moderate abilities, industry will
supply their deficiencies- Nothiug is denied to
well directed labor; nothing is ever to be at
tained without it
CHARLES ROEERT LTRTTP
Tills distinguished painter, whose name is one
of the brightest in the annals of American Art,
died in London on the sth of Way last. We
have collected from the American Encyelopadia,
and various biographic sketches that have ap
peared in the papers, the facts that compose the
following notice:
Charles Robert Leslie was born in London 19th
October, 1794. Both of his parents were Amer
icans by birth, natives of Maryland, to which
province his great grandfather, Robert Leslie,
had emigrated from Scotland, shortly subse
quent to the rebellion in 1745. When Charles
was at .out tive years of age, his parents return
ed to the United States, where they made Phil
adelphia their residence. Charles had already
given evidence of an extraordinary talent for
painting. His first attempts were upon the
slate; representations of horses, houses, sol
; diers—rude, of course, but remarkably spirited
and correct in so young a child. At the age of
six, he could sketch, from recollection, and with
great accuracy, the likeness of any person whom
lie was in the habit of seeing. Having reach
ed the age of thirteen, he was taken from school
[ and placed as an apprentice with Bradford, a
j book-seller of Philadelphia. Charles was faith
j f'ul to the duties of his situation ; but they were
| distasteful to him. Ilis heart was with his pen
cil. and all of his leisure moments were sedu
lously devoted to the cultivation of his favorite
art. He was much struck, at the theatre, with
Cooke’s personation of Richard 111., and leaving
the house as soon as the tragedy was over, he
began at home a sketch of the famous actor in
this, his most famous role. When the family,
who had stayed to see the farce, came in, they
found Charles’ sketch almost completed, it was
a happy hit; the sketch was much admired,
and gave the juvenile artist, who was then but
sixteen years of age, an enviable notoriety.
Soon after this, the means were afforded the en
thusiastic youth, who earnestly desired to adopt
painting as his profession, to pursue the course
that his genius jointed out. He was sent to
Europe that he might enjoy advantages for im
provement which his own country could not af
ford him. Mr. Bradford generously surrender! d
his indentures in furtherance of this object. It
was Mr. Sully who directed young Leslie's first
attemjit at oil-painting, which was a small head,
from one of the old masters. Shortly after his
arrival in London, he sent home his first original
oil-picture of W. Ik lor nine, from the “The Lay of
the Last Minstrel,” by Walter Scott. This pic
ture is now in the Acadimy of Philadeljihia,
His first professional instructors in London
were both American-born artists, the venerable
President of tl e Royal Academy, Benjamin West,
and Washington Allston. Mr. Leslie was eh jt
ed an associate of the academy in 1821, »u<? a
royal academician in 1826. In 1832, he accept
ed the position of Professor of drawing at West
Point, which he filled for a few months, and re
turned to England, where he has ever since re
sided. But notwithstanding his constant resi
dence abroad, and his English birth, Leslie al
ways considered himself a citizen of the United
States, and this country as his home. His most
distinguished productions have been almost in
finitely copied and engraved, and must be famil
iar to all. “Lady Jane Gray prevailed on to ac
cept the crown” —Falstaff dining at Page’s
house”—“ Slender courting Anne Page”—
“Touchstone and Andrey”—“May day in the
reign of Elizabeth”—"Sir Roger de Coverley
going to Church”—“Sancho Panza and the
Duchess' —or example, will occur to many < /
our readers, as among the flings that have made
him iintnorMij. Many of his best works are
owned in this country.- The exhibition of the
academy for this year contains two of his pic
tures, viz.: “ Ilotsjiur aud Lady Percy,” and
“ Jennie Deans and Queen Caroline.”
The great art-critic, Buskin, said of Leslie
and his own works :
“The more I learn of art, the more rcsjiect I feel
tor Mr. Leslie’s [tainting; and for the way in which
it brings out the exjiressional result he requires.
Given a certain quantity of oil color to be laid
with one touch of pencil, so as to produce the
subtlest and largest exprcssional result possi
ble, aud there is no man now living who seems
to me to come at all near Mr. Leslie, his work
being in [daces equal to Hogarth for decision,
and here aud there a little lighter and more
graceful.”
Leslie wrote as w’cll as he painted. He pro
duced a life of Constable, and oue of Reynolds.
He was a professor iu the Royal Academy, and
his lectures have been published us a "Hand
book for young painters.”
England has been indebted to America for
some of the most renowned of her painters.
Copley, the father of Lord Lyndhurst, hud ac
quired a high reputation as an artist (a fact ig
noied by All n ( unniiigham, in his life of Copley.)
before he left this country for England. And
there are scattered over the Eew England
States, as well as New r York, many of his best
works, executed before he went to Loudon.—
Benjamin West, the Philadelphian, was a great
American, liefore he lie became an En
glish, painter. Washington Allston resided
more years in Great Britain, and produced many
of his finest works there ; and we have seen
him claimed as an English painter. But his best
efforts w : ere those which he designed and exe
cuted in the United States, his own native land,
in which he died.
What is Meerschaum? —In the islands of
Negropont and Samos, in the Archipelago, a
jieculiar variety of magnesite, or carls mate of
magnesia, is found on the coast, beneath a thin
strata of earth. When first obtained, it leseni
bles the fouin or froth of the sea. and heme is
termed meerschaum by the Germans, w hile the
French style it ecmue de mer. Analysis proves
that it is composed of magnesia, carl onic acid,
water, and about four per cent of silex. The
idea, so common in this country, that meerschaum
is the foam of the sea, originated in the resem
blance referred to, and afro to the old fashion of
calling meerschaum pipes " sea-foam pipes.”—
When first dug from the earth, the magnesite is
soft, and easily moulded into any shape that
fancy may dictate. In this condition it is formed
into "pipes nnrf cigar holders, and exposed to the
action of the air until it haidcns. Before being
boiled in wax or oil, it is nearly as light us pith,
and fid/ of minute pores, through which a jiin
or kmfe may be stuck, witli no more damage
than would result from the si.me operation per
fumed on a flue sponge. The pipes are boiled
in wax or oil. in order lo give them a polish, as
well as to rt nderthem more durable; but smok
ing soon bums out llie oleaginous secretions,
and the “oil of smoke” sinks into the pores
gradually until the outer surf ce is colored.
N. Y. Sunday Mercury.
-
There is a man in Mississippi so lean that he
makes no shadow at all. A rattlesmke struck
at his leg sixteen times in vain, and then retired
in disgust. He makes all hungry who kx kat
him; and wheu children meet him in the street,
they run home erying for bread.
43