The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1859-04-07

We acknowledge a certain correctness. We
cannot put finger on this or that, and say,
ait is not like" But we feel no GOODNESS in
the shadow of the rocks--no longing to dint the
soft moss with our weary feet. We do not hear
the FLASHING of the water as we break with our
hands its ripping flow, or the whisper Of the
south wind in the tops of the pine trees.
A child's shoe may be ever so well painted,
and yet be only a shoe. A hat is but plated
straw, and a top, bit of carved and painted
wood. But in the hands of master, the worn
shoe, the battered hat, and bruised top, will
speak of a little form gone back to dust "a 81
lent chamber, wherein the patter of childish
feet will never more be heard-a hearth whose
light, and life, and JOY, are quenched in sud-
den night. What picture thus says to you,
is the measure of its worth to you. You may
see faults many and glazing, but everywhere we
reverence a great purpose even if imperfectly
fulfilled, grand conception faithfully, honest
ly, even if unsuccessfully attempted, rather than
petty ends achieved. Or the picture may be
applauded by every one with unbounded en-
thusiasm, but if your own soul is not fired and
filled, it is no revealerto you. 1t may be from
the old masters or the young pupils-from the
world-renowned artist, or the obscure dentists
apprentice; but you alone must be the judge,
whether its soul speaks to your soul. If the
wise, and learned, and good, are moved by what
moves you, you may be glad thus to recognise
kinship with them; but if otherwise, you may
keep your own counsel, but you must be true to
yourself
Thus it is, that while painting holds out no
invitation to arrogance and conceit, it offers no
encouragement to ignorance. They who have
never looked upon the masterpieces of the old
world, may be lifted to higher level by the
masterpieces of the new. Such an exhibit
ton as that opened by the Washington Art
Association is a most potent educator of the
people. The bad pictures that disfgure 50
many walls must be removed by accustoming
the eye to good ones. Not the least powerful
agent in this work is such a gallery.
You enter it perhaps catalogue in hand, to
find the picture of a friend, and roam listlessly
around, here and there seeing one to which
you think you will return aud you do indeed
return to many of them, no longer listless, but
with heart and lips wide open. "The Last
Sleep" by Lambdin, draws you again and
again by an irresistible fascination. At first
you see only dimly-lighted room, and wonder
why the artist should have chosen such obscure
ty. But as you gaze, you are almost imper-
ceptibly ushered into the solemn presence of
Death-yet without shock-for it is no grim
and CHASTITY King of Terrors, but Death in his
sweetest and saintliest aspect. A fair young
girl, not beautiful, but very lovely, lies on her
couch, pale and still. The calm, white brow,
the composed features, the folded hands, belong
to the sleep that knows no waking. Kneeling
by her side is the lover and husband, whose
home is made desolate. The whole attitude
shows the entire abandonment Of grief. One
hand, clasping hers, still rests on the pulseless
heart. The other, thrown out above the head,
is clutching and convulsed in the first wild bit
terness of sorrow. The face is buried in the
pillow, and you are spared the sight of its utter
hopelessness.
In all this woe you shars Yo sp feel how
it. Everywhere are the tokens of a dainty
hand, Of refined taste. 1t is a modest,
quiet, elegant, not wealthy home. The rose
silk coverlid, the white rose lying on it, the
flowers on the little stand the rufled pillows
and spotless curtains, all bespeak the purity
and grace Of that young life. Through the
open door you see, in the pleasant sitting room
beyond, the little sewing chair, placed by the
favorite window where she used to sit, watch.
ing his coming, smiling " the happy thoughts
she did not care to speak You see the myr-
tie trained by her own hands to climb over
the window, Alas who will care for it now ?
The work-basket, just where she placed it the
last night before her eyes grew dim with illness,
| till mist comes before your own ewes. and Won
can look no longer. Alas alas that there
are SO many homes and so many hearts. Of
which this picture is a truth
There is another picture by the same artist,
but on very different subject One shows us
life at its peaceful close, the other at its happy
beginning. A little girl is swinging in sum.
mer-house, and right pleasant sui nmer-house
it is. A grapevine twines around the lattice
work. and through its broad leaves
| d" Sunshine CLEANS on the roses
| Sunshine drps OH her hair +"
and the leafy shadows heck the grass, and CULVER
in the warm air. Very warm the little maiden
finds it, and the notwithstanding mood
sits dreamily on her now, as she swings care
lessly back and forth There is pot of Grim
son fuchsia whose tossing plumes" excited
her admiration but withered fuchsia, and bro
ken rosebud, and neglected doll lie UNDECIDED
on the ground, and she only swings carelessly
back and forth. AT the moment when YOU see
her, she has also caught glimpse of you and
the listless expression has given way to stead
fast, child-hke, but neither shy nor staring
gaze. Our little lady has been accustomed t.
seeing strangers, has well-acknowledged ranl
in society, and is not to be frightened out o
her propriety or selfpossession by your angus
advent.
Another phase Of childhood is shown i
" The Italian Boy by Latilo He is littl
fellow, the son Of q brigand who was killed i
melee. The child wandered up and dow
among the mountains till forced by hunger t
leave his wild haunts, and here he stands fo
the first time in the streets of Rome. Tn
shaggy jacket is thrown open from his bronze
neck. All the beggar futterS in the rags thu
wrap his little form. The brigand turks in tn
: weapon stuck in his plaid girdle, but the chile
hood is stronger than either brigand or begga
i
The eone-shaped hat cannot retain the straigf
black hair which falls quite over his forehead