# A Tribute to W. W. Corcoran, of Washington City/Chapter 5

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THE CORCORAN ART GALLERY.
Chapter V.
HE main gallery of paintings we now desire to make a separate theme. On entering the door, the full length figure of Mr. Corcoran—the grand painting by Elliott,—first greets the eye. It seems to extend a cordial welcome to all, and representing the donor of the art treasure around, is, therefore, par excellence, entitled No. 1. Nos. 2 and 3, are "The Departure and Return," by Thomas Cole and are most interesting in their inspiration. Although linked by a mutual tie, or their characteristics being similar, they are entirely distinct in the elements of joy and sadness, sunshine and gloom. In the first picture we are to go back to the feudal times, and clothe our imagination with heroism and romance, as we glance at noble cavaliers, richly clad, mounted on splendid horses, and their passions all aglow, bent on some military exploit. We see these spirited knights bearing spears and shields, having just bade farewell to a castle, whose stout walls are the pledge of safety and shelter, to mingle with an uncertain venture, or the warfare that leadeth to victory. Of defeat or death they do not dream; for all nature is smiling, the vernal winds piping in concert with the bugle's martial music. The bright, early morn gives glorious promise—the green-sward ​begemmed with sparkling dew, meets most kindly the tread of the gay steeds prancing to be off, and even the scarf that is worn about the manly form of the leader, must have been decked with a flowery "God speed" from wife or maiden. We will not follow them through the weary months, when the storm of battle swept o'er many a gallant form, and laid them low like the leaves of the forest; but let us direct our attention to the other delineation, "The Return," and in pensive thought contrast it with the gladness that is past. Autumn has saddened the scene, and the sun is going to her rest, as if willing to hide her face from the remnant of that hopeful band, whose steps once buoyant are now measured in weariness and grief. They follow their leader, borne upon a litter, whose death wound will soon tell a mournful story amidst the requiem of the sighing winds, and the prayers of the monks of yonder abbey. The riderless steed is one of the saddest looking mourners. The artist in choosing subjects that appeal so strongly to the sympathies has given evidence of his elevated taste, and any poetical license that he may have used, is agreeably accepted. His death occurred in 1848, and our country has deeply felt the loss of a genius that had reached the proudest pinnacle of fame. No. 4. Hunters and Game, by Stanley. Successful Nimrods have they been, as the floor of their dwelling is literally covered over; the noblest thing secured being a large stag, which must have died hard in the chase, and is now a disputed prize. No. 5. A small Landscape, by Thomas Doughty, in which is a streamlet of water in the foreground, with ducks swimming on the surface, also a river in the distance, with sailing vessels. It finds its best description in the one little word gem. The works of this artist have always been celebrated ​for their true feeling for nature. The Boston Athenaeum has one of his landscapes, and several are to be seen at the Philadelphia Academy of Pine Arts. Nos. 6 and 7, are Portraits of General Warren and Mrs. Warren, by J. Singleton Copley and C. W. Peale. The first claims our warm interest, as the memory of the man is identified with the days of the Revolution, and his heroic death at Bunker's Hill. Mrs. Warren is a dignified lady, dressed in the attractive costume of "ye olden time." No. 8. A Battle Scene, on copper, by Breughel. In the distance lies a peaceful country, but the foreground is filled with a heterogeneous mass of beings and cavalry amid great confusion and strife, and yet all the miniature details are wonderfully distinct. No. 9. A Winter Scene, by Regis Gignoux, 1850, is a true delineation of the severity of the ice-king and the cold, cold snow, at the same time shows how rigor can be tempered by the rollicking spirit of youth. Skimming over the frozen water are several skaters enjoying the jovial exercise, but one boy has unluckily lost his equilibrium. The driver of a rude little sledge has trusted to the thickness of the ice, and stopped to look on at the sport. He seems very comfortable in his warm wrappings, as also his horse in a close fitting blue blanket. The wheel of the old mill has stopped its revolutions, and from its icebound sides are pendant icicles. The trees look bare and skeleton-like, with only a fine powdering of snow. No. 10. A Lake Scene, by the same artist, portrays a pleasant and inviting spot, the trees overshadowing the water, and affording agreeable shelter for the groups that sit beneath them—be they sentimental lovers, or happy children resting from their play. No. 11 Mount Washington, by J. F. Kensett, 1851, is painted with that rare finish for which this artist was ​eminently distinguished. Numberless trees on the plain are comprised within the small limits of the picture, and in the remote back ground rise the towering peaks, white with the "virgin snow," untrodden in that lonely and lofty isolation. This is the original sketch for the large picture engraved at the expense of the American Art Union, some years since. No. 12. The Adoration of the Shepherds, by Raphael Mengs, was brought to the United States by Joseph Bonaparte. It is one of the largest pictures in the gallery, and is considered a chef d'œuvre. The infant Christ wrapped in swaddling clothes, is supported on his humble bed of straw by the Virgin, whose uplifted eyes are filled with an expression of blest content. Her drapery of blue forms the most important coloring in the painting. A beautify silvery light envelops these two figures, and the dawn is breaking in the East with a new glory that shall wake the world to the consciousness that the "Prince of Peace" is born. The shepherds are gathered near, wearing a blended look of rhapsody and awe, and several strive to manifest their joy through that expressive medium—the hands raise aloft, or half clasped. One adorer has dropped his crook, and fallen upon his knees at the feet of the Virgin, with head bent low, whilst the angels in an ecstasy scarcely less demonstrative are hovering within the humble abode—beautiful messengers sent from God with blessings for the "new-born king." The artist was born in Bohemia, and died at Rome in 1779. His works won for him warm admirers in various cities of the old world. At the early age of seventeen, he was appointed court painter, by the King of Poland. Some of his best pieces are preserved in Spain, Italy and England. He was also a writer upon art subjects, and described notable pictures with great ability. Nos. ​13 and 14. A View of Venice, and a Seaport, by Canaletti. In the first our thoughts are pleasantly drawn to that interesting city "the Bride of the Sea," with its eighty inlets, numberless canals, beautiful palaces, its fairy-like gondolas "gliding over streets as in a dream," to say nothing of its gorgeously tinted skies, and the many memories, historical and poetical, to add to the potent charm. The second view gives to our American eye, all the attributes of some foreign shore—the high cliffs and castellated buildings, the curiously ornamented vessels, and many oared barges. No. 15. Flowers, by Gustave Couder—one of the valuable selections made by Mr. Walters, of Baltimore. There is a magnificently carved table of large dimensions, which, from its elaborate design and workmanship we suppose to be the property of some palatial residence abroad. Heavy green drapery, with corded fringe, falls gracefully upon the left side, partially covering the table, upon which rests a fallen vase of exquisite roses. Their bloom is not scattered, except by a single leaf or bud, which could not withstand the sudden rude shock of the fall, brought about by nothing less than a big cat. Having mounted in precipitate haste in search of sweets, or what was not her business, she has unawares turned over the vase. "What have I done?" says the cat, in an attitude of amazement and fear—the elevated high back assuming a slinking air, the letting down of the tail, and the gradual descent of the paw (one of which must have done the inglorious work), the drawing back of the ears, a dilation of the eyes, and the wide open mouth showing four long teeth, as a guard to a cavernous entrance so dark seems the way. Puss cannot swallow the flowers, which she would like to do no doubt, to wipe out the traces of the accident and we, who are lookers on at her half sad, half roguish plight, ​must imagine a second scene, where some fair owner or stern host of the mansion, walks in to discover the damage done. In the roses lies the great merit of the picture, and such perfect roses as would almost shame natural ones. Nearest the mouth of the vase is a delicate tea-rose in very full bloom, wearing the appearance of falling apart, and diffusing its last breath of sweetness. Half way over its frail leaves, bends a superb queenly rival in a wealth of bloom, white and faint pink, tending to a deeper tint as it reaches the heart of the flower; and just above on a noble curving stem is the bud unfolding the rarest beauty. In abject fallen state is a twin-sister, pleading seemingly to be lifted up because of its loveliness. The colors are mingled with a gracious charm, the cloth of gold with the bright pink, the salmon with the crimson, whilst miniature buds and green leaves constitute not a little of the charming feast. Couder,s talent in this line cannot be excelled, and it is not too much to style him a god among the roses, to whom they might pay their sweetest tribute. This artist belongs to France, and if he gives so much satisfaction in the delineation of flowers of that bright land, we would also like him to send us some bunches of grapes; if not fresh from the vine, from his own skilful hand. No. 16. A Swiss Scene, by Seefisch, 1850, pretty and bright with its picturesque cottage, blue water and sunlight. No. 17. Scene in France, by Mr. Bouquet, having all the beauty of those leafy green bowers, where the spirit of valor and gallantry is sometimes met. Lo! here advances a mounted cavalier! The bugle is sounded, and what is to be done worthy of chivalrie France? No. 18. The Sea Coast, by Charles Lanman, a Washington artist and author. This is a small but meritorious picture. The fragments of a wreck blown ashore, tell of the ​treachery of the sea; and what is more sad to the human eye than such a spectacle, waking up memories of danger and disasters? No. 19. Spring, by Japy, 1873, selected by Mr. W. T. Walters. Greetings to the artist for his faithful delineation! The bright garniture of green that pervades the landscape "tells like a tongue," the joy of the earth, when waking from her frozen spell, she arrays herself with beauty. The sky is clear with patches of blue and creamy fleck, smiling in concert with the brightness below. Such radiant scenes make music in the heart, recalling the glad days of youth, when the stream proved a mirror for the rosy cheek and laughing eye, when nimble feet embedded the bright green moss, or careless fingers pulled at the wayside flowers. Youth makes a glad part of this picture, as near the brook stands a little child gazing into its mother's face, whilst its wee hand grasps a fugitive wild blossom. The adult figure is seated, giving the inference of content and ease. If these are the principal individual features, we may not overlook the animal life in a group of cows that are evidently reveling in high clover, and sniffing in the aroma of spring, not less gratefully than their keeper or the dairy maid. The shadows on the stream from the overhanging trees, and the shooting spires of grass that dot here and there the water, are wonderfully true to nature. The heavy laden boughs of apple blossoms give rich promise, and even the hard old rocks and stones, and some grim battlements at the extreme right, seem to lose half of their sternness in the delicate surroundings that come and go at the will of the Author of the Seasons, His vernal gift to earth being full of loving kindness, and far more beautiful and entrancing than the fairest bride decked out in marriage garments. No. 20. A Western Landscape, by Brewerton, ​presents to view mostly a wild uncultivated ridge of land, with a little streamlet meandering near the foreground. The Rocky Mountains stretch away in the distance. A long line of wagons is advancing slowly, showing how the tide of emigration is westward bound. No. 21. Shepherd and Sheep, by Robbe, who shows his thorough acquaintance in the art of sketching animals. No. 22. Italian Ox Cart, by A Roviard. This picture was painted at Rome, in 1860. It represents a huge lumbering wagon or cart, drawn by oxen, the driver being seated on high in a fine position to survey the beauties of nature. The road over which they are slowly making their way is in the mountains, and the surrounding elevated peaks are touched with a hue as deep as indigo. The poor lone occupant is in the act of lighting his pipe for company. He wears a Tyrolean hat, and his strong limbs are slashed up to the knees with black bands, after the fashion of his country. Raised to such an altitude, his thoughts, we imagine, must be stamped with loftiness, or he feels the truth of the words, "Who so brave as the mountaineer?" The huge beasts have been doing honest service, yet with all their labor and the oft told look of sadness or weariness in their eyes, they are evidently enjoying more freedom than the two white chickens in the cart which are tied together, and are ignominiously suspended, heads downward. No. 23. A View on the Amazon, by Church, 1854. How truly welcomed is this name among the noblest artists whose works grace the gallery! And this production bears the most critical examination, so delicate and fine is every stroke of the brush. The placid water reflects the shrubbery and houses, also the canoe lying in close proximity to the tropical verdure, and the tall graceful palms. The distant mountain peaks, and the ​gradual sloping of the range towards the shore, are drawn with marvellous accuracy, whilst the dim purple tone has all the truth of nature. The merit of the painting brought an equivalent price—among the most costly in the gallery. It is also especially admired and appreciated by Mr. Corcoran. No. 24. General Washington's Headquarters on the Hudson, by Cropsey. This little picture enlists our patriotic valuation of that great struggle in American history, when the noble spirit of Washington was striving for our rights. The little lone house in the valley, so very humble beside the towering hills, rises to the importance of some magnificent castle or palace, because associated with him who held judicious counsels there, the impulses of his truly heroic heart vieing with the grandeur of nature. No. 25. A Lake near Lennox, Mass., by Oddie. A beautiful tranquil scene that would make the roughest and most uncouth nature learn something gentle from association therewith; the clear, still water, the green hills, the flat with browsing cattle, the sky with floating, fleecy cloudlet, and the sweet quiet that reigns. No. 26. A Landscape, by Robbe. A line of trees takes up considerable space; several little children are waiting on the movements of some cows which, ere they are driven home, choose to sprinkle their hoofs with the water of the pool. No. 27. Sea-piece, by Joseph Vernuet. This is certainly a gem, and will be duly appreciated by those who have witnessed from the shore the sublimity of a gathering storm. A promontory where rests a castle, is beaten by the lashing surf, that throws high its spray and sets the fishermen to the work of collecting their nets. The sailing vessels thus far, are riding triumphantly on the waves, but the storm cloud is threatening, the sea gulls are on the wing, the wind is tossing and twisting the branches of the trees, and who can tell where the worst ​fury of the gale shall be spent? No. 28. The Death of Cæser, by Gerome. Selected by Mr. W. T. Walters, and to whom a large vote of thanks is due for having chosen a subject so grandly historical. At the base of Pompey's statue lies the body of the murdered Cæesar. The senate chamber on the fatal ides of March is deserted, the conspirators having first fled from the cruel work of their jealousy and passions. The silent halls, the cold stones, the motionless statues, even seem invested with the air of the dreadful deed committed, as all around is a solemnity that would still the pulses and paralyze the senses. Through the mind rushes a host of emotions at the sight of the bleeding corpse, the great man valiant in battle, kingly in intellect, vigorous in body; the invincible Roman cut down in a moment in the zenith of his glory, the keenest blow being that such sovereignty was ended by treachery under the guise of friendship. What is victory, fame or power now? What are temples, altars, and fickle honors worth, in that everything once bright with loyalty and homage is tarnished with falsity the most impious? All the grandeur and pride of the assembled senate, and all the bravery that is conceded to the Roman character, suddenly pales and deteriorates in the thought of Cæesar's assassins being men of dignity, high office and estate. Gerome is the great artist of this grand and difficult subject, and his successful handling of the same would entitle him always to select heroes and princes. He has drawn the figure painfully true to the death struggle, as the body wears the hue of violence, and appears as if the giving up of life were not an easy thing, even under the torture of three and twenty wounds. The toga enwraps the body, and it seems, indeed, worn as a mantle of dignity, the whiteness of which is stained only by the "ruddy drops" that Shakspeare describes ​most touchingly in the tender words of Brutus to his loving wife Portia. At a little distance from the body is the scroll or schedule of the preconceived assassination, given into the hands of Cæser ere he entered the capital by Artemidorus, who would have saved him from his wretched fate. But no time being vouchsafed to Cæsar, it remained unread, and lay upon the tesselated pavement, an accusation of disgrace upon his countrymen. The chair of state is represented thrown down in the fray, hurled low upon the steps near the feet of its dead occupant. The lonely, awe-inspiring presence of murder is well calculated to call up all the vivid and powerful description of that senate scene by the immortal bard, but these words lie with greatest weight upon the memory: "Stoop, Romans, stoop, and let us bathe our hands in Cæsar's blood up to the elbows, and besmear our swords. Then walk we forth, even to the market place; and waving our red weapons o'er our heads, let's all cry, peace, freedom, and liberty!" No. 29. The Amazon and her Children, by Leutze, 1854, commands particular attention, partly from associating our thoughts with those ancient times when, if we are to believe in tradition, the prowess of female warriors was widely felt and commemorated, and because of the celebrity of the artist. The classic subject is faithfully treated—the Amazon with less of feminine charm than we would ask, reclining upon the ground, every feature being stamped with the undaunted spirit of the race, whilst her love of martial exercises (it is plainly evident) she would instil into her offspring yet of tender years. They crouch affrighted, unwilling to accept the teachings so threatening and daring but to beat a retreat from that ferocious look and heroic mien, will be less easy than to handle the ow and arrow, or to wield the battle axe. No. 30. A ​Winter Scene, by Emile Breton, 1872. Selected by W. T. Walters. "A thatched Cottage," cold and dreary as it looks, with its covering of snow, can still suggest a thought of "Home," and although in the humblest meaning of the word, doubtless to those who enjoy its shelter "there is no place like it." So says the man standing a few paces off, who will shortly leave the cheerless scene outside, and the occupants of the wagon who are nearing home at the close of day. The moon has risen above the outskirts of the horizon like a fiery globe, as if in disdain of the pure mantle overspreading the ground, the locked up stream, and the bare trees. The gray sky looks as cold as the scene, but for the warm-glowing orb that must gradually mount high up in the vault of heaven, and assume its wonted lustre. The artist has thoroughly understood effect in employing the two extremes, the purity of snow and the "jewel of night," clear-cut in ruby-tinted beauty. No. 31. A View in Holland. 'Tis a moon-lit night in an old Dutch town; the boats are coming up to the quay; the lamps are lighted, throwing out a cheerful glow from the many windows with which the houses of Holland abound. No. 32. Shakspeare and his Friends, by Faed, 1851. This is truly a royal picture in size and merit. There sits the mighty bard with book in hand, at a table overspread with immaculate whiteness, and dignified with several large volumes, an inkstand and hour-glass—fitting accompaniments for those great minds assembled, viz.: Silvester, Camden, Seldon, Earl of Dorset, Beaumont, Fletcher, Bacon, Ben Jonson, Daniel Donne, Sir Walter Raleigh, Earl of Southampton, Sir Robert Cotton, and Dekker. Most of these men are grouped around the table as if in the discussion of a grave matter, requiring deep study and thought. The dross of these courtiers is recognized as belonging ​to the Elizabethan age—the high-fluted ruffs at the throat, the stock-i-net, gay velvet coats, &c. The saloon is very rich in all of its appointments, such as carvings and drapery. On a stand at a little distance off are a silver pitcher, a wine bottle and glasses, by the side of which have been laid a sword, a mantle of ultramarine blue, and a hat with a white feather. The artist has been very successful in the likeness. Intellect is stamped upon every face; but chief of all is the great Shakspeare, whose high, full forehead is wonderfully indicative of the brains that have conceived and built up a world of knowledge. Upwards of 14,000 engravings have been made of this original picture, and sold in England and the United States, for which Mr. Corcoran most generously gave the copyright. No. 33. Castle Gondolfo, Lake Albano, Italy, by Cranch. A fine large picture, showing a harmonious union of color, and a high order of talent. Nos. 34 and 35. Happy and Unhappy Families, by Fde. Brackaleere, 1852. This artist has admirably dealt with the sunshine and shadow of life. In the former we are imbued with the idea that a Dutch home can be made very jolly. In the poorer ranks the spirit of content The children are to our eye is always very striking. The children are having a high festival over a wooden doll-baby, stiff and ungainly in itself, but with two long strings tied under its arms, and managed by the dexterous hand of a little child, we must imagine it a graceful figure under the inspiration of grandpapa's fiddle. His frow stands by his side and claps her approbation, feeble old woman that she looks! A middle-aged visitor also seems well pleased, and holds his pipe in his hand, waiting to indulge after the frolic is ended. The mother of the little children is about to step forward with some "good cheer," to refresh the "inner man." ​Naturally enough we might ask, "Where is the sourkrout? The Unhappy Family takes away our smiles and cheerful feeling. A lantern's light, hung from the rafters of a poor dwelling, is the only ray that beams athwart the gloom of ill-fortune. There is an air of despondency in the wearied wife who sits beside her baby in its cradle; the little one, all unconscious of trouble, sleeps soundly, as also the tired, bare-footed boy resting against his mother's knee. But the person upon whose lineaments broods the sorrow of poverty or distress, is the father who, entering the room, has to meet the tender caresses of his other children. His burden seems heavier than ever, his parent heart sympathizing in the woes of all his family. No. 36. A Swiss Landscape with Mill, by C. Tribel, 1849. The eye is never wearied with scenes from nature, should we meet them at every other step. No. 37. A Vase of Flowers, by Jeannin, 1873. One of the most charming selections of W. T. Walters. The artist has combined art and nature with the most pleasing skill. Almost the entire surface of the picture displays a faultless shade of cerulean blue, figured in a pearly white, to represent a rich brocade satin drapery, that conceals, magically as it were, from view, a little stand or table. A rich, white silk scarf or drapery also falls gracefully, and in folds so careless that none but a true artist could depict them. This scarf would be fit apparel for a queen; it has for a border a fine net of lace work, with a design of leaves and flowers, all snowy white; and the heavy white fringe, a quarter of a yard in length, has so much of the soft, flossy appearance of silk, that it seems impossible for it to be a counterfeit. These regal draperies, in conjunction with a superb gilded bronze vase, with the design of two cupids in the act of an embrace, form what one would style art, whilst ​the contents of the vase, numbering a hundred or more delicate blossoms, all of one kind, yet varying in the hues of lilac, pink, groseille, and white, comprise the natural portion of the picture. The vase has more than brimful measure, as the flowers running over hide the heads of the saucy little "gods of love,"—a charming place to nestle, say they, where the wild blossoms revel in beauty. Some single colored sprays have fallen on the white drapery, serving to make tis purity the more observed, and one green leaf has found a resting place at the foot of a miniature article of vertu—a little gilded figure, set a few inches distant from the vase. the colors in this picture are truly beautiful, and in a powerful light, anything less than a young and strong eye might be pained by their brilliancy. No. 28. The Coquette. Artist unknown. There is some witchery in this picture, and if the personal attractions of the young lady win us over to admiration, we must still admit that some of the fascination is lost in the thought of the delusive spell that binds the lover. A soft, white, little hand steals aside to deliver a billet-doux to a negress hard by, who understands for whom it is meant. The ebony face wears a broad grin at the treachery of fair woman, and we ourselves are wondering at the credulity of man. No. 39. "The Flagellation of Christ," by Van Dyck. Turn we now to this solemn and painful subject, which will not only call forth profound emotion and sorrow for the indignities and sufferings heaped upon the Saviour of mankind, but being the work of one of the most celebrated masters of the Old World, will make us add to that tenderest of all sympathies a silent tribute to the hand that has long since mingled with the dust. No. 40. Life size Figures at the Well, by Vely, 1873, selected by W. T. Walters. "Le puits qui parle" is ​the pleasant little title that greets the eye, and gives a coquettish interpretation to the charming picture. At the side of an old stone well whose sides are rent, and upon which a tiny vine creeps upward from the base, stands a beautiful peasant girl. She is leaning against a high wall, that allows only a portion of her pretty uncovered head to rise above its gray altitude. How bewitching her costume, with its variety of color, her snowy chemisette blouse giving a softness to the attire, and adding not a little beauty to the bright winsome face! There is a look of sweet surprise and innocence in her eyes as she rests her arm upon the bucket, and listens to a mysterious voice, be it the music of the rill, a fairy whispering out the depths of the well, or a little bird, hidden from view, singing a delicious lovesong. She is entirely unconscious of any one's presence or approach, nor does she stir, herself, for see how firmly her bare feet press the ground! But we, whilst gazing at her "blissful ignorance," observe just beyond the wall the peering face of a gay young cavalier, who has stolen softly nigh with tread as velvety as his grand dress coat. He leans in dangerous proximity to the beauteous maid. She is captured beyond doubt in one sense, for his arm affords a sort of frame to her glossy hair so neatly braided, and his lips are also very near, making the music that has brought her to such a pleasant thraldom. To our eye this is very engaging, and the result should bring about mutual joy, and yet we have a feeling of mistrust and pity. The favorable termination is quite as far off as the castle, which, embowered in trees in the distance, tells of high born hopes and destiny, and has nought to do with the pretty maid, except to lend a voice for the moment to whisper sweet things beside the well. No. 41. Rebecca, by Rossiter. An exceedingly attractive picture of the ​damsel whom the Bible states was very "fair to look upon." The artist has done justice to the subject, as the maiden possesses great beauty. Her complexion and large lustrous eyes have the true oriental charm; her garments that easy flowing grace peculiar to the women of old. The gladness of her heart is revealed through those wondrous eyes that have seen "the golden ear ring" and the "bracelets of ten shekels weight;" and her amiability is exemplified in the words, "Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also." No. 42. A Small Bouquet, by Couder, 1872, selected by Mr. W. T. Walters. The flowers are carelessly put together in an ordinary glass tumbler, half filled with water, and set upon a medium sized volume, bound in calf skin. The book looks as if it had been hastily laid down, and the bunch of flowers, so perfect in their naturalness (consisting of fine delicate white bloom the wall flower and a crimson blossom), suggests the idea that some fair lady has just gathered them from the garden, and left them in the select and eloquent company of literature. What author would not feel happy in being thus associated with beauty and perfume? No. 43. Child Reading (a copy), by J. G. Meyer. A happy specimen of youthful intelligence. What a charming little store of information is being gathered in, eloquently told in a pair of eyes brimful of merriment Pray tell us the secret of this "battery of bliss," whose light shot off is drawing us into sympathy, the most contagious? No. 44. Milton at Home, by Leutze. Oliver Cromwell and his family are paying a friendly visit to the poet, and listening to his performance on the organ. Seventeen figures are embraced in the group, and upon every countenance is deeply impressed a sense of the power of music when pathetically rendered. The look is earnest and enwrapt, as if there were no other ​moment than the present, or that all else by the sweet strains were banished from the thoughts. At the instrument, seated low, is the inspired poet and musician, with his face averted from the keys, as if drinking in with spiritual waves of melody the same entrancement that his guests enjoy. Behind him, forming the two central figures of the group, are seated Cromwell and his wife, whilst the grandchildren near by with pensive air, are no less engrossed than the great Protector of England. The youngest girl has cast away her basket of flowers, and lying against the knee of an elder sister, throws her arms upwards as it in intense delight. Cromwell has planted his cane upon the floor, and clasping it with both hands, sits rigidly back in his chair, ready to exclaim, "How sublime!" and his goodly wife folds her hands upon her lap, a true model of motherly dignity. The attitudes of the other figures are equally good, some leaning against the wainscoted walls, and others sitting with eyes glancing upwards, as if in sympathy with the heaven-ascending sound, or lowered, as though in prayerful gratitude. The fair haired damsel by the side of Cromwell has gathered together her hands, and elevated one shoulder so as to leave us no doubt that the thrill had passed even into her finger tips. Another female figure seated beside the organ supports between her knees a little boy, who has stretched out his arms, appearing more like some grave statesman than a buoyant youth. On a high shelf are several books, a bust of Cato, a globe and a clay pipe. An old fashioned tall clock would carry us back to the time of our great, great grandfathers. Let us leave the music by which Milton makes all happy, and sing our own key-note of praise to Leutze. No. 45. Fanny Ellsler as Sylphide, by Begas, ​President of the Berlin Academy. There is a great deal of poetical license in this painting, in that the figure is poised above a wealth of flowers, with Cupid presiding. To employ the most enthusiastic utterance as agreeing with here extraordinary skill as a dansense, we might quote―
   "When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet."
Or again another stanza―
No. 54. Dutch School by De Block. Oh! ye who have taught the "young idea how to shoot," pray sympathize with the taskmaker who sits forward in his high arm chair, holding a book whose teachings are being slowly hammered into a half dozen or more rock-like craniums. The master is a man of years, and one might study arithmetic, or at least a sum of addition from the accumulated wrinkles in his face. One little culprit has been called to take his place, but his recitation is doubtless as weak as his knees, or he may be in the act of contrition "bowed down with weight of woe." Another has just passed ingloriously from the same ordeal, for his book is opened to learn his lesson over again. Two boys lean up against the desk, one of whom is grinning because he is in the rear, and his time has not yet come. Several more are on their knees clustered around the teacher's chair, which we suppose is a "stool of repentance" for their ignorance. But in the distance, and not overlooked by any means, is a poor little fellow, his bag of books, strapped to his side. His slow dragging footsteps give evidence of the hard road he has to travel, whilst he wipes his eyes, and is just about to boo hoo, wishing he had never been born. From all appearances these boys will never make sages, or they show us that the ​application to study is like a sharp stinging briar in the pathway of youth. Nos. 55 and 56. Cabinet Interiors, by Demarne. These are diminutive pictures, but are very highly valued. Their finish is simply exquisite. In one there are ten figures, several of whom are enjoying some social sport "making merry" after the French style. In the other they have settled down to a parlance, in which even the dogs seem to take part. No. 57. Count Eberhard of Wirtemburg weeping over the Dead Body of his Son, by Ary Scheffer. Selected by Mr. W. T. Walters. This is really a chef d'œuvre, embodying all the expressive mournfulness of its title―an emotional scene, appealing most strongly to the heart, for whilst it has the cold and rigid gloom of death, it as well portrays the extreme anguish of the living. We behold the strong man bent with sorrow not that stony obdurate grief, but the tender love of the parent heart welling out in tears that gush like fountains, and cannot, will not be held back. Mark the strange contrast between this spontaneous betrayal of emotion (not less restrained than if a weak, feeble woman) and the powerful martial bearing of the man, clad in armor, who under other circumstances would be as stern and unyielding as the iron of the cannon! See also, the humility with which the hands are folded (across the heaving breast) that had boldly wielded the sword and braved the issues of war! The pitiless shot had mowed down many, the banners were streaked with the blood of the slain, but now a death wound has cut deep into the neck of his beloved son―a youth delicate and fair, and a "shining mark." Thus death befallen this dear treasure has dashed pride, glory and victory aside. The grievous thought of the great crimson tide flowing from the breasts of unnumbered slain is forgotten in the few trickling drops from the ​wounded child, showing how strong can be the ties of love, and how cruel the decrees of fate. Sad, indeed, that remorse adds a sting to the sorrow of the Count! It is told that his son Ulrich had previously lost a battle and been wounded, and when he met his distinguished sire at the dinner table, the wrath of the parent was so great on hearing of the disaster that befell their arms, that he sized upon a knife and cut the table cloth between them. This act so ignoble and harsh to a brave young spirit was so keenly felt, that the youth, anxious to retrieve his wounded pride and honor, rushed into the next battle, gaining victory, but losing his own life. The coloring of this picture is truly wonderful in its ardent depth, richness and substantiality. Scheffer has won imperishable renown; nearly all of his great works partaking of sadness and sorrow. No. 58. Emigration, by A. Fisher. Here is the solemn spectacle of an Indian band driven forth from their hunting grounds in obedience to the demands of civilization a true portraiture of the words, "The old order changeth, yielding place to new."" The day is darkening o'er the beautiful valley where they have stopped in their march to look back on what is lost to them, and as they catch a gleam of the distant camp fires, where the white men gather, content in their new possessions, we can almost hear (in imagination) the sad echoes of their farewell answering from the hills, or read upon their troubled faces the unhappy destiny—"Wanderers forever! where shall our wigwams remain unmolested?" The landscape adds to the sadness by being tinged with autumnal hues. No. 59. Twilight, by Japy, 1878. Selected by Mr. W. T. Walters. A river is visible in the distance, over which the pale crescent risen high sheds her faint light. The firmament wears mingled tints of purple and blue, ​and the western sky dips its rosy trail towards the earth, lighting up a little inland pool of water, from which a white horse has turned away. The foremost engrossing feature of the landscape is a group of trees, growing in such shape as to form a pleasant bower of green, and not far off is a feeble curl of smoke from some burning brushwood, wherefrom several figures are seen retreating. If in the picture of Spring by the same artist there is all the emphatic impulse and energy of a bright sunshiny day, this Twilight scene possesses not less the opposite in the stillness and sombreness that accompanies the decline of day; for it is not the hour when nature grows dreamy and hushed, when the birds seek their nests, and the only sound is that of the insect's hum, and the croak of the frogs? It is the hour besides that renders home sweet and welcome to the tired laborer, for then God throws the veil of darkness over the beauty of the world, that men may slumber and view in visions the greater light of His mercy and love. No. 60. A Landscape, by George Inness. This gives a view of some hills and verdure, a brook and a roadway—the man on horseback (followed by a boy), riding along leisurely. No. 61. A small Flemish Picture, by Laboria, 1619. Interesting on account of its ancient appearance, and the uncommon subject, viz.: a young warrior wearing all the martial accoutrements, and urged by Time to leave his lady love and hasten on to war. Old father Time displays a large extent of wing as well as a huge scythe; and his hour glass with its falling sands gives mournful sign of the flight of precious moments. No. 62. The Pets, by E. Johnson, 1856. Surely will this picture elicit praise, not only from juveniles, but adults who have not quite forgotten the days when some household treasure in the form of a dog or kitten, lay claim to affectionate ​regard. A young maiden sits in quiet contemplation of her several pets—a parrot, cat, gold fish, and Guinea keats. Her hands are folded, and she occupies an arm chair, that looks as though it had been made for some gouty old gentleman. All of Barnum's museum has not as much value in the eyes of this little girl as her miniature possessions. No. 63. Dog and Parrots, by F. Lachenwitez, 1847. The birds have left the imprisonment of wires, and seem to be in a sort of chatty ire with the dog, who has laid down facing the open door of the cage, looking very much like an august owner or dictator. Their talking and barking therefore leave us no voice to settle the dispute, and we pass on to No. 64. Return from Market, by W. Brown. This English artist has represented a country inn with an old fashioned door, over whose slanting canopy is hung as an advertising sign, a picture of the mighty bard, entitled "The Shakspeare Inn." There are three on horseback, one of the men (doubtless the proprietor) bringing with him a heaping basket of supplies which he hands over to a woman of the house. The love of newspaper intelligence is shown by the eager individual who has siezed upon a "daily," and is devouring the contents. Let us note his dress and attitude!—a low dumped hat, light coat, shrunken bottle-green breeches, and feet turned out at an alarming degree; (in short, his legs describe a parenthesis,) and his face puckered as if under the influence of persimmons. We wonder if he ever had a sweetheart, or if he will not be brought up in a divorce suit should he marry? There are two dogs, one a specimen of fierce energy, and the other looking lazy enough to have been asleep a hundred years. The horses are spirited enough to have us stroke their manes and say a kind word to them. No. 65. Great Falls of the ​Potomac, from the Virginia Side, by Wm. MacLeod, 1873. This sketch possesses a local interest, independent of the praise which must accrue to the artist for his fidelity and skill. It is welcome to the many persons familiar with that wild, romantic scenery, and to us particularly, who have viewed it on a bright summer's day, when the sparkling water dashed over the rocks, forming numerous eddies and a trailing line of foam. At a time too, when nature all around wore the beautiful imprint of June, and merry voices kept up the pic-nic glee, it proves a most grateful remembrance of happy hours. It is not an exaggeration to state that Mr. MacLeod approximates the style of Church in the truly natural tint of the water, the easy flow, &c. No. 66. Moonlight in Italy, by Tuvernier, 1849. There is a pleasant shadow of green thrown over the scene, diffed with the mild radiance of the moon, and somehow in the mysterious light so peculiar to the clime, we are taught to think of peace, love, and other kindly emotions. There is poetry also in the conception. Under the umbrageous trees is a fountain, whose waters glimmer with the silver sheen, and offer besides grateful refreshment. A peasant woman approaches with a jug on her head, and several persons have dismounted from their horses. No. 67. Gen. Andrew Jackson, by Sully. An admirable work of art, and a faithful likeness. it is both graceful and noble of the great hero of Hew Orleans. He stands within sight of the lurid fire and smoke of battle, and the troops marching on, yet near his tent and a mounted cannon. He wears his long military cloak, and is in the act of writing down some important order, using in his haste his chapeau as a support for the paper. One gauntlet has dropped at his feet. His countenance stamped with a thoughtful expression and ​inspired with hope, is a tell-tale of the glory and fate of our nation. No. 68. Portrait of Lasleyrie. A pleasant, intelligent old face, and the original likeness of this distinguished French economist and author; the first who formed a general museum of specimens of natural history and art to contain every article useful to man, either in its natural state, or its artificial preparation. Author of works on the merino sheep, cotton, &e. Painted in wax, at Paris, by Rembrandt Peale, for the Philadelphia Museum. No. 69. Portrait of Thomas Sully—painted by himself. Successful with others, he has also proved a good artist for his own physiognomy. No. 70. Iris (copy). Charming Goddess of the Rainbow! What is so beautiful or poetical as the arch of colors that sometimes suddenly fixes our gaze upon the heavens, and upon which we look almost amid tears, the rain drops lessening after the profuse shower? And what more appropriate to grace the name and thought of a rainbow than a lovely female form, with a spiritual glance and an air of beauty in the figure floating upwards to the sky. Iris is represented as rising from the landscape below, where is the outline of a cave with a tiny streamlet. The faint curve of the rainbow is encircling her limbs, and tending in the direction of her flight. The tinge of light in the colors is in accord with her floating tresses of gold, and the etherial like drapery sporting with the breeze. The beautiful arms of the figure are raised far above the head, as if in the high attainment of bearing aloft the golden flagon, and the pressure of one hand keeps afloat a cloud-like veil sweeping gently backwards, scorning to hide a face so fair. That face is turned toward the golden rays beaming in glad welcome to her approach. No. 71. The Drought in Egypt, by F. ​Portaels, 1873. Selected by Mr. W. T. Walters. ("How he had wrought His signs in Egypt, and His wonders in the field of Zoan: And had turned their rivers into blood and their floods, that they could not drink."—Psalm lxxviii, v. 43, 44.) This sad group of sixteen figures makes us at a single glance appreciate the nature of the woe that Egypt felt when her children were perishing from the drought. The dreary surroundings where no green thing is seen save two stunted withering palms in the distance, and the one conspicuous feature—the empty well, are noticed jointly with the poor sufferers gathered around the dried-up fount—nature sympathizing with humanity. The massive stone cover to the well has been thrust aside, and eager eyes have looked strainedly into its depths for one crystal drop of consolation. The tall figure of the priest with patriarchal beard, and all the dignity of his holy calling, looms up centrally, and resting his head upon one hand, looks down on the sorrow of the people, impotent to relieve, and silent through despair. At his feet one poor mother sits, and having just seen her child die, raises her eyes imploringly to heaven. The struggle past and suffering ended for the little one, it lies extended across her knees, with one hand still clutching at her bosom, and the other receiving the tender clasp of the agonized parent. The eyes of the child show the heaviness of intense suffering, and the blueness of death settling around the mouth, tells most painfully those baby lips must have famished for a single drop, which neither nature nor maternal love could yield. Another mother, clad in white garments, clinging closely to her form, has passed through the same sorrow, and with the last strength of anguish has gained a standing position, holding above her head the little dead babe. In her face we read her surrender to ​the God who hath the right to claim, and yet we seem to hear the wail of the blackest sorrow that has ever fallen upon her soul. By her side are three figures resting against some stone masonry. One head is nearly lost to view, being bent in tribulation. The next, a beautiful young girl, with perhaps more trust and hope in her countenance, holds a water vessel, set upright in the palm of her hand, and the other, a youth in shadow, drops his head in a somnolent attitude. Filling up the circular space nearest the well are two women, both clasping their flagons. One seems shut off and alone in her gloom, so absorbed is her look, and so deep are her thoughts. The contraction of the brow describes the pang at her heart. The other, with sweet, mild submission, bends her head on her hand, a large, pearly tear-drop escaping from her eye. The come the two foremost figures on a line with the well. A graceful female is one, enveloped in beautiful drapery, leaving bare her arms and feet. She sits on the ground, gazing steadily at the stones of the well. The other woman in the death-throes has sunk down exhausted, her weight being partially supported by a slave, who has removed from the dying figure some valuable ornaments, and is holding them up as an offering to heaven or oblation to bring unto them―Water! Water! Still another dark figure crouches down in prayer, and far off in the elevated background are two more sorrowful ones at an empty well, bearing jugs wherewith to be disappointed. This painting received the special gold medal at the Crystal Palace Exhibition, England. No. 72. Portrait of Baron Von Humboldt from the life, by Madame Richards. The dark crimson background brings out most clearly a face, which though marked with the lines of age, has preserved its purity and ​softness of complexion, and the mild blue eye is directed at the spectator with all the earnestness with which he undertook the mighty labors of his life. It is a remarkable countenance, yet gentle as a woman's, the broad high forehead whereupon the light falls gloriously, and the full snowy locks enhancing the glow upon the cheeks, whilst the pleasant mobile expression of the mouth suggests speech not less eloquent than the language of his eyes. The high old fashioned stock, with the slightest approach to a standing collar, supports in quiet majesty the head, and just below the throat left side, a medallion, star-shaped, gleams out from his simple black attire. Humboldt must have found a warm admirer in Madame Richards, from the evident care with which the portrait is executed; and as the work of woman's hand, it deserves the highest commendation. No. 73. Portrait of Bernard St. Pierre (author of Paul and Virginia), by R. Peale, 1818. Donation from George W. Riggs, Esq. Who that has read the interesting history above mentioned, will not dwell upon the benignant and intelligent features of this distinguished writer with true admiration and friendliness? No. 74. A Portrait of Henry Clay, by H. Inman. A good likeness of our great and favorite statesman, upon whom we must ever look with pride. No. 75. Portrait of a Lady (unknown), by Sir Peter Lely. Goodness more than beauty in this instance might attract. No. 76. Portrait of President George Washington, by Miss Stuart, daughter of Gilbert Stuart, of Rhode Island. This is a copy of her father's celebrated picture of Washington. He is represented with all the benignity of moral worth, and all the attributes of high station. The sword in his left hand, speaks like an oracle of how bravely ​he battled for our independence. Two large volumes resting against the table are entitled "Statues of Va.," and "Constitution of the U.S." No. 77. The Huguenot's Daughter, by W. D. Washington, 1854. We view the interior of a Catholic chapel, at the altar of which two religious faiths are to be cemented in the love that springs from true and faithful hearts. The maiden is fair and lovely, and the cavalier at her side brave and manly. The priests, delegated to their sacred office, are about to seal the happy union, when suddenly the solemnity of the scene is invaded by the entrance of the bride's menacing parent and his followers. There is wild fury in their glances, disappointment and despair on the faces of the betrothed, and terror and agitation on the countenances of the priests. The censer has been overthrown in the confusion. "The tapers that light and odor gave, are changed to burning sighs," and heaven's blessing that was nigh, is lost in a father's curse. No. 78. On Catskill Creek, by W. B. Boggs. A work of fine finish, and particularly in the foliage that lines the banks of the swift current. No. 79. On the Coast of Calabria (artist unknown). A small chapel on a slight eminence overlooks the water, which is as blue as the azure of the sky. The cliffs along the border are bathed in the same hue, yet a single peep from the early moon has invaded this exquisite color, and cast a delicate trail of light on the mirrory surface of the sea. A stone bridge leads to the chapel, in front of which, at a little distance off, is a tall cross, where the pilgrim might bend his knee and say an "Ave Maria," ere entering the holy precincts. The lamps are lighted at the entrance of the shrine, and two of the monks or priests stand outside. Peasant women are lolling on the bridge, and some of the men are still busy with their fishing poles. ​Curving ledges of rock that assimilate the opening to a grotto, form a sort of bower to the pretty view, and stont sides are overrun with a delicate vine, making up something of the poetry and beauty of foreign scenery. No. 79. Moonrise in Madeira, by Hildebrandt. This title can convey to the reader no other idea than the usual light that streams from the gentle orb of night, but the rare tone of coloring in this picture might have been dipped from the tropics in its fiery splendor and glowing beauty. Some few strips of the island are jutting out into the water, whose every ripple is lighted up with burnished gold, whilst the horizon has a warmth so intense as to make the wings of the sea-gulls appear blood-stained. On the shore a group of natives are sitting by some lighted brushwood, and the effect produced by these few firebrands is quite brilliant. Several boats lay at anchor. The artist enjoyed the intimate regard of Baron Humboldt, through whose instrumentality the picture was painted for Mr. Corcoran. No. 81. A Female Figure from the Bath (oval) unknown. No. 82. Child and Nurse, by Begas (copy). Here is beautiful youth in a natural state, as the fair complexioned, golden haired child has just undergone an ablution, and is pleased to return the compliment of the nurse's services by sponging the face of "dear old black mammy," who, alas! cannot be made white as snow. In a vine-clad recess near the boudoir are some baskets of flowers, and a little fountain splashing water, as though in company with baby's fingers in the miniature bath. No. 83. Duck Shooting, by W. Ranney, 1850. Several sportsmen are surveying the successful result of their expedition. A sagacious dog is holding a fine duck by the wing, and looks as if he were wishing them to admit that some praise is due to his exertions. The sky wears the autumnal dark, the gray and purple shades. ​No. 84. Ball Flaying among the Sioux Indians, by Captain Seth Eastman, U. S. A. In this game may not the red man be more happy than when he flourishes his tomahawk in quest of scalps? If such amusements could the more frequently fill up the hours of these brothers of the forest, many a misguided thought of passion and evil deed might be checked. No. 85. Farm House by George Moreland. This rustic scene must be studied in all of its excellent points, as the work of one of the most celebrated painters of the English school. How happy looks the old countryman who returns home well provisioned, but the brightest reward for him is the welcoming smile upon the faces of his family. Who can dispute that a cottage sometimes ranks above a palace in the content that reigns undisturbed? No. 86. Leisure and Labor, by F. B. Mayer, 1853. Here we see the interior of a blacksmith shop. The owner is busy at his work shoeing a fine looking horse, and leisurely leaning against the doorway is a tall sapling-like fellow, wearing a broad brimmed hat, various colored clothing, and characteristically thrusting his hands in his pockets. His graceful greyhound at his side is very erect, and looks with as much wonder as his master at mechanical industry. On the outside of the shop is a comical sign with a cadaverous figure of old Time, making long strides with his skeleton limbs, and these explanatory words as a libel on orthography—stop thiefh. No. 87. Out-door Concert, by E. T. Eckhout. A lady in rich costume is sitting with her feet on a cushion, and her poodle near by, whilst a courtly group of admirers are rendering homage through the sweet influence of music. No. 88. Mercy's Dream by D. Huntington, 1850. Illustrative of a scene in Bunyan's Pilgrim Progress. The landscape lies chiefly in shadow, except ​where the distant hills are tipped with the sunset's ruby and gold. By the margin of a stream reposes in a half recumbent posture, a female figure, representing Mercy. She has closed her eyes, and an almost saintly peace enwraps her features. Her attitude so gently drawn is in unison with her mild, benevolent spirit, that is harmonizing all things, making earth seem a part of heaven. One hand is laid upon her breast, the other composedly rests upon the turf, as if in support of the upper erect portion of the body. The golden hair is half concealed by a sweeping veil of blue, and her garments are of white, gold and rose color. An angel has descended holding a crown, surmounted with tiny crosses, one of which is lit up with the divine glory of the sky. The seraph points to the heavenly realm, whose immaculate light is tinging drapery and wings. With face bent towards Mercy, he is about to bestow the glittering reward. This is perfect, and full of the sublimity which the subject demands. No. 89. The Letter, by H. Helmick, 1868. A beautiful picture, showing the interior of an humble French home. The old people are listening to the perusal of a letter from America, addressed to their daughter. The contents we may not know, but there is something wonderfully interesting, the father having stopped his smoking, and the mother her domestic work. No. 90. The Blonde Brunette and Medium, by T. P. Rossiter. The types are faithfully executed, and we will not say to whom shall go our chief praise. No. 91. Autumn on the Hudson, by Thomas Doughty. "Charming!" will be the exclamation when this picture is viewed in its faultless beauty. It makes us feel more than ever that the noble Hudson has a high claim upon our admiration—the rich autumnal tints coloring the trees in contrast with those yet ​untouched, and the sunshine falling here and there with brightest glow. Such a scene seems to have been laid out for an enthusiastic and finished artist, and it need ask no higher renown than to have won the admiring eye of Doughty. No. 92. Beggar Girl, by Begasse. How plaintive the air of this child! Although not having yet felt the pinching want that so often reduces the frame and thins the visage of many of her class, still, in her eyes one can read the sad knowledge that with all the plenty of this world, there are some who can only feed upon the husks. She wears a tidy garb, her pretty face and glossy dark hair being set off by a white handkerchief tied under the chin. Her right hand is extended for charity, which may not be slow or stinted when beauty is the petitioner. No. 93. Allegro and Penseroso, by J. G. Brown. These are small figures but will certainly challenge the closest examination in their remarkably fine drawing. Each face represents admirably the emotion for which it is named.
On the 19th of January, the gallery was opened for the first time, invitations having been extended to the President, Governor of the District, Cabinet Officers, the Senate and House of Representatives, the Judiciary and Diplomatic Corps. The President arrived at 10 a. m., accompanied by Ex-Secretary Borie. There was a constant stream of visitors during the day and evening, the ladies in rich toilettes enhancing the brilliancy of the scene. Mr. Corcoran occupied a seat, and bore remarkably well the fatigue of receiving unnumbered congratulations. The wish was universal, that he might long live to enjoy the beautiful shrine of Art. Many of the visitors were interested in a valuable old English Bible of six immense volumes, printed and illustrated in 1800, and dedicated to His Royal Majesty, ​George III., the Queen and Prince of Wales; and also some interesting Italian works, "descriptive of the Vatican," &c. The library is daily receiving valuable additions. In a few years with all the accumulating and varied treasure, this, the substantial foundation, will have grown into a monument, not to be surpassed by any in the country.
And now we bid farewell to Mr. Corcoran and the evidences of his noble philanthropy. Having pictured him mostly as an active and zealous man, amid his charities and the outside haunts, we see him last under his own roof, happy and blessed, daily receiving tokens of the gratitude of the people, thus reaping a reward that any might envy. The brightest picture, more to be valued than all the wealth of the gallery, is this beautiful mansion, the owner surrounded by three lovely grandchildren (two boys, and a fair, golden-haired little girl, named Louise), whose company and tender warmth of affection make up the overflowing drop to the cup of happiness. Miss Eustis, the sister of their deceased father, is also an ever watchful and devoted guardian, her presence adding to the delights of a home over which may the brightest sunshine ever dwell, and the blessings of heaven ne'er be denied!