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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 It is now published for the first time: SIB AMELOT DE VEEE; A FRAGMENT OF UNPUBLISHED ROMANCE.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