and out of this gallery open the exhibition-rooms. There are five of these; one very large and spacious-a truly magnificent room-along the length of the Twenty-third Street side. The others are smaller, but all convenient and full of the best light. The pictures are hung upon the walls of all these, excepting one, which is devoted to sculpture, and the sides of the outer gallery are also covered with them. But the evening of the opening was devoted to other duties than the study of pictures. Here were throngs of the loveliest toilets-for "full dress" was the prescribed rule of the festival-and here were two thousand people constantly moving through the brilliant rooms. If some group paused before a picture it was as picturesque and bright as the canvas upon which it looked; and the occasional bits of Venice, the palaces, the canals, the sunsets, the gondolas, that flashed upon the walls, seemed only the syllabled refrain of the Venetian poem which the evening was. Indeed, as you stepped out of the rooms to descend the staircase, the laughing groups in gay dresses coming up and going down, the jeweled ladies in airy laces and brilliant silks and satins leaning upon the balustrades beneath the marble columns, looking over silent, or chatting and laughing, while the band played passionate waltzes below, presented the very scene that the Venetian Paul loved to paint, and which all his lovers so vividly remember. At nine o'clock President Huntington, of the Academy, with Mr. Bryant and the Rev. Dr. Adams, stepped upon a little temporary dais in the large room, immediately opposite the door and in front of Bierstadt's "Yo Semite Valley," and the hum of the crowd was hushed, while in a fervent prayer the clergyman invoked the Divine blessing upon so fair a work accomplished, and upon the beginning of such influences for the future. He did not say Amen without a touching reference to the common sorrow, and to the universal love for him who had taken his place among the martyrs. And when he sat down President Huntington delivered the address of inauguration and welcome. It was wisely brief, barely alluding to the circumstances under which the building had been erected; but it was cheerful and bright, and ended with a proper compliment to Mr. Bryant. The poet was greeted warmly as he arose and declared frankly that retorting compliments was an art which had been neglected in his education. He then made a very pleasant response, adorned with references to many of the traditional names of the Academy, and to incidents in the lives of some of the noted dead whom he personally knew. The following passage is a proper introduction to the study of the present exhibition: "I congratulate you all, therefore, on the completion of a building not one stone of which, from the foundation to the roof, was laid, and not one beam or rafter framed into its place, for any other purpose than the glory of Art. A little while since I was here, and admired the spacious halls and saloons, with their lofty ceilings and the pure light admitted only from the zenith, bringing with it no tinge of color from surrounding objects. Since that time Art has entered with the works of the pencil and chisel, covering the bare walls and occupying the floors with imitations of nature which we view this evening with wonder and delight-the spring, the summer, the autumn, the winter of our brilliant climate disputing the palm of splendor; the blaze of the tropics and the cold light of icebergs brought into a New York saloon; Italian skies glowing beside them; the wild grandeur of our own Rocky Mountains confronting the majestic scenery of Switzerland; manly faces and the eyes of fair women and fresh-cheeked children looking down upon us; scenes from the domestic fireside; glimpses of camp life and the tumult of war, drawn from our own civil strife; and on pedestals, among the crowd of spectators, the works of the statuary, busts that seem to think, and groups which are tragedies and comedies in miniature. When I look round upon these productions of the genius of our countrymen, and compare them with what we produced forty years since, I can not help imagining to myself what must have been the astonishment of a New Yorker of that day, could he have been transported to a spectacle like this from one of the meagre exhibitions of the old and now forgotten Academy of the Fine Arts, made up mostly of pictures which had appeared on its walls from year to year till they palled upon the eye." The audience hummed and buzzed while Mr. Bryant was speaking, not from any disrespect or indifference, but simply because the throng in the neighboring rooms were moving and murmuring, and perfect silence was impossible. It was a beautiful scene, and no one who was there will ever forget the spectacle of the poet standing in the spacious pictured hall speaking to the brilliant throng, our venerable high-priest of poetry dedicating this noble temple of art upon the eve of a glorious peace. A CRITIC is a formidable creature, and yet all of us who go to see pictures are really critics. We look at the paintings; we have opinions; we express them. That is criticism. Some of us know very little of nature or art, but we have opinions nevertheless, and the more we do not know, the more vehement we are apt to be. The art-criticisms which we brethren of the pen write for newspapers and magazines are our opinions of the pictures. Some of the artists who do not like what we say tell us gravely that we have no business to have opinions. Alas! alas! that is very probable. But we do have them, and what are we to do? If they tell us not to express them, how are they themselves to become known? how is the excellence of their works to be set forth? Fame is but opinion. That kind familiarity of certain names which the proverb describes as like household words, is only the common consent of good opinion. No, we must speak, we must write, we can not avoid opinions. Criticism is, therefore, a foregone conclusion; and, dear brothers of the pencil and pen, whether we make books or pictures, or merely trace such evanescent lines as these, we must lay our account with favorable or adverse judgments of our work. Let us do all we can to make unfavorable judgments impossible. Then, if they come, our withers are unwrung. These reflections and exhortations are not difficult for an old Easy Chair who comes tugging and blowing up that splendid staircase at the Academy, and who has no pictures upon the walls. If he had-let him pause a moment to take breath and to decide-if he had, which one of all these six hundred and forty-seven pictures and sculptures would he wish to be his? That is a tremendous question to ask as you reach the top of the staircase and peer curiously around you. It is a question so tremendous that no Easy Chair, who does not wish to make six hundred and forty-six enemies, will think of answering aloud. In a very low whisper, then, let us say that the fortieth exhibition is not a remarkably good one. Some of the artists whose names are very familiar appear in great force; but the number of fine works is not large. The number also of works interesting from their subjects simply appears to us to be small. The war, for instance, so fruitful of picturesque incident, has inspired very few; and some of those lack that patient and complete elaboration which distinguishes such a work as that of Gerome, "the Almek," which we have all seen with delight at Goupil's Gallery during the spring. Of the smaller works of this year we recall most pleasantly Mr. William M. Hunt's "Listeners" (204), and "The Singers" (210), and Mr. Eastman Johnson's "Christmas Time" (376). Mr. Hunt's method is Couture's, which is the very reverse of Gerome's; but the sweetness, the delicacy, the tenderness, the subtle grace of the two works we name are evident to very dull eyes and hearts. They are mellow and rich, and full of imagination. There are no more purely poetic pictures upon the walls. The interior and figures of Mr. Johnson are evidently portraits; but the treatment is so felicitous that there is no sense of figures posing. We see them as Santa Claus might as he peeps through the Christmas-tree. It is a scene of happy, domestic life; and the conscientious care with which the details are wrought is characteristic of the painter of the "Old Kentucky Home." There is another of the smaller pictures which the loiterer will remember. It is Mr. Lambdin's "Love and Loyalty" (224), a scene of the war. It represents a maiden holding her lover's sword to her lips and kissing the blade. He stands by, with a Captain's shoulder-straps, ready to receive it consecrated by her lips; ready to use the sword in the holiest of wars-ready to die rather than yield it. In the outer gallery there is Darley's drawing of "Dahlgren's Cavalry Charge at Fredericksburg" (29). This, too, is admirable. It is full of the wild tumult of the scene. You hear the clatter, the dash, the shouting, the shot. The men and horses live before the eye; yet in all the whirl there is no obscurity or bewilderment for the spectator. It is a thrilling episode of the war from the hand of a master. Zouave trowsers imposes by his melodramatic swagger upon the negroes. An old gray-headed Uncle Tom bows low before him; others are bringing forage to offer to their friends; and the women with lifted hands and glistening eyes are plainly saying, "Bress de Lord ob heaven, de Yanks is come!" The contrast of the group of officers and ladies with that of the soldiers and slaves is most effective. The eye steals away between them to the fields and river meadows beyond, covered with busy little parties of foragers and troops and slaves, and full of characteristic incident and landscape. Even the universal military bustle is evidently temporary. The languor and luxuriance of Southern nature is hardly disturbed, and seems with placid disdain to await the departure of the intruders. There are other delightful pictures, upon which we can not dwell. We expatiate upon Mr. Nast's because he has but the one, and it is entirely impossible for those who have not seen it elsewhere to appreciate its interest here. Mr. Kensett comes out this year in great force. His "Ullswater" (91) is not often surpassed for delicate detail and happy expression. Mr. Cranch's Venetian scenes have a charm for which the romantic city itself may be largely responsible; but his poetic nature is attracted to such subjects by the deepest sympathy. The novelty of form in Mr. Bierstadt's "Looking down Yo Semite Valley, California" (436), and the ease and power of his treatment give the picture an interest which is, however, hardly equal to so large a canvas. The eye and the imagination each ask for a little more. But a garrulous Easy Chair must stop somewhere, and here perhaps as well as any where. "HAPPY the bride the sun shines on," is the pleasant old proverb that the heart utters to friends married in June and summer. And when they are young and fair, and the soft skies and the bright flowers and the singing birds are truly the outward signs of their own lives and temper, what gifts but roses and pearls seem fit for them? That is a question for poets only to answer, and sometimes a poet answers it. Pearls may be bought and roses may be plucked, but a poet who would bring a special offering to a bridal which his whole heart blesses will go beyond gems and flowers. "Love will find out a way." What if he should make robins and bobolinks sing a song of his teaching at the bride's window? Better still, who but he can make other poets sing for her alone? And what would their carols be, peculiar, individual, special, beyond their common singing, but "OverSongs?" Such a poet there was; and once when, in the full flush of June, a bridal bower was built upon the green banks of a tranquil river, far inland, such was the choir with which he sang his epithalamium. Preluding tenderly, with a thoughtful, inward, musing music, as if he played softly upon his own heartstrings, he murmured: But by a curious infelicity the most interesting war picture is hoisted into a panel over the door by which you enter the main hall, and therefore entirely out of sight. From the head of the stairs you look across and see that there is a picture there which is worth attention. You then go to the spot whence you can see it-and it can not be seen. You must stand with your back to the railing, strain your eyes upward, and then you discover that the light glistens across it so as to shut it out from view effectually. If you could possibly see it you would discover it to be a scene in "General Sherman's March through Georgia-his Advance arriving at a Plantation" (86). It is painted by Thomas Nast, and is full of interesting incident and expression. Indeed, its charm is its dramatic expression, and that is entirely invisible in the height and light in which it is placed. At the right of the picture is the mansion-house. The ladies stand upon the piazza and look curiously and disdainfully After a while there followed a strain like that of at the group of officers who approach, cap in hand, the English nightingale-a note that we had all lateevidently full of amused doubt as to their reception. ly heard clear and gushing-now a sweet minor Under the trees upon the right the soldiers and the melody whose sadness was only the unsatisfied longslaves are fraternizing. One brilliant fellow in reding of the heart in spring: VOL. XXXI.-No. 181.-I "Who giveth of his song's estate "When in a May-day hush The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs; We sigh for tardy spring, And Culvers, when they coo, are Love's remembrancers. But thou in the trance of light And Echo makes sweet her lips with utterance wise, In a wisp of fancies fleet, Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. Her central thought full well Thou hast the art to tell, To take the sense o' the night and to yield it so; To set in a cadence bright The moral of moonlight, And sing our loftiest dreams that we thought none did know. I have no nest as thou, ⚫ Bird on the blossoming bough, So might Bayard have sung, hearing afar the hum of battle. And next a singer with heart's-ease in his hand, musing as he sings: "A flower worth all the gardens of the East, A fading flower that hath not long to live- A prayer that God will add the perfect gift." Look high: if it were a bird you might see him Tilt on an upper spray, an independent singer, nor heed the thin treble that comes piping in beside him: "What shall I say? The blithe birds sing And the June air is murmuring A bridal song for thee." Yet forth on thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, And as the epithalamium closes a tender voice sum Chanting, Forego thy strife, The spirit outacts the life, And much is seldom theirs who can perceive the whole. 'Thou drawest a perfect lot All thine, but holden not; Lie low at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide; That is a nightingale which has sung in all our hearts and homes for two years past. You have not heard this song before. You will not hear it again. Listen, then, once more, and answer, if the first part of the singer's name be Jean, what is the last? Is it too low and sad for the bridal choir? Yet it is not sombre: it is only the deep, dark red of the rose's heart. But here is manly music in another tone: "Good heart, that ownest all! I ask a modest boon and small: Sweeping the map of Western earth, To Powhatan's domain, Could not descry. mons the violets and roses to mingle in the choir: "O Rose-bud, breathe your breath Into the soul of June: And in that fragrant death Strike living Love's true tune; Receiving, high above; And life is love." Might this not be Wordsworth's Lucy who sings? And then the poet who had summoned and led the choir joined hands with them as they surrounded the bower, and sang for them all: "Ah! life is sweeter than life, O lover and friend! for her sharing; -Was it only a dream of summer? Was it only a vision of the Easy Chair?-these lovers and their bridal bower; this poet drawing the singers into a hymeneal choir; these songs of which some strains are here recorded-was it i' the air only? Was the river nameless, in a region never seen? Or did hands of flesh and blood clasp before the altar, and were these "Over-Songs" from the fullness of sympathy actually sung? Perhaps perhaps a delicate, exquisite, illuminated memento of that bower, with all the songs complete, exists, telling no secret but to those who know. out, and General Curtis was "stumping" the State for recruits for the army. The latter had just finished a speech when the Squire approached him very familiarly, saying, 'General, if I was not so old I would enter the service again." "Ah," says the General, "have you been in the army?" "Yes, General; you and I occupied the same building in St. Louis." "Indeed! I don't remember." of whisky, to be used by him to make some medicine." Said Pat: "Will your Honor approve that?" I read it and wrote my approval, and thought no more about it until in the latter part of the day I had occasion to visit the barracks of Pat's company, when I saw a huge glass tumbler, which would hold about a quart, and found Pat and his companions a little set up. I went back to my quarters and called for my commissary sergeant, who soon confirmed my suspicions. Pat had produced his "glass" and his approved order and had demanded the whis "I expect not; for you had the inside and I the ky, and it had been honored. out." It is not often that articles appear in the Drawer from Sherman's web-footed cavalry, but here is something too good to keep. In the battle of March 19, 1865, when four little divisions stood the assault of Johnston's entire army, the Seventeenth New York Volunteers, a portion of Morgan's Second Division of the Fourteenth Corps, were at one time completely surrounded. A reb going from our front toward their line in our rear was astounded at running into a line of Yanks. He was handed over to a soldier as guard over him—a genuine "Bowery boy." The following conversation ensued: REB. "Take me to the rear, quick." YANK. "Can't." REB. "Take me behind a tree, then." YANK. "What's the use; they are firing from both sides." REB. "Take me behind two trees, then" (imploringly)-"take me to your rear. My good man, don't you know where your rear is?" YANK (carelessly). "No, shoot me if I do; do you ?" THE inclosed clip is a verbatim et literatim copy of a decision rendered in a justice's court, and can be vouched for as a fact. Any one acquainted with the justice would need no voucher to establish the fact of its occurrence: Swoitzer v. Pearsons et al., Prairie du Chien, Crawford County, Wisconsin. B. Bull for Plaint. Wm. Dutcher for Def. Before Justice BAKER. Action brought against defendants for shooting plaintiff's Goose and Gander. Defendants admit the killing, and justified that it was accidental. Court, after hearing the evidence, gave the following able and lucid opinion: It is best always not to be too severe on damages, and yet it is best to give damages to the amount of the plaintiff's claim, and inasmuch as the killing of those geese was wrong by the boys. It is the opinion of the court that the two geese were worth two dollars apiece in the SPRING OF THE YEAR, and in all probabilities they would have had twelve goslings, and probably about one half of them would have lived and the other half would have died: and it would not have cost the plaintiff much to keep The next day Patrick was detailed for fatigueduty. He came to me all crouched over, with his arms pressed hard across his stomach, and with one of the most sorrowful-looking faces I ever saw. Said I: "What is the matter with you?" "Och! an' it's nearly gone dead I am intirely in me poor stomach." "Ah, you rascal!" said I, "you have your pay now for the joke you played off on me about that whisky yesterday." "Yes, yer Honor, indade I have; it's the 'rot gut' I've got that will be the death o' me;" and he gave another awful twist of his body, and made another awful face; but all the time I saw the rogue lurking in his eye, and I knew he was trying to sell me again. Said I: "Pat, you need not put on that rye face; you can't fool me again." "Yer Honor must be mistaken, for doesn't me eyes look glassy?” That was too much for me, and I had to laugh; but Pat did his work. THE keeper of a well-known eating-saloon at the dépôt on a branch road running from the "Erie" north, was some years since, and is still, afflicted with inflammatory rheumatism. Several of his friends visited him, one at a time, and told him that unless he gave up drinking it would kill him. At last the doctor, by arrangement, said the same thing, and mine host began to cry, and said, "Jim has been here talking to me about drinking so much, and then Tom came, and after him Sam, and all [boo-hoo!] talking to me about drinking [boo-hoo!], and now you've come; and there isn't nary one of you that considers how dreadful dry I am!" in Broome County, is very much in the habit of MR. M, who lives in the town adjoining this, "drawing the long bow." One of his stories is as follows: "Did you never see one of these here hoop-snakes ?" "No," says his listener; "I didn't think there was any such thing." "Oh yes," says Mr. M, "I've seen one. Me and my hired man was down there in the home lot, by the side of the road, and we seen something rolling down the hill, and says I, I guess that are must be one of them hoop-snakes coming along.' My hired man he was afeard, and clim up a tree; but I took my hoe in my hand, and went out and stood side of a tree in the road, and when he come along I stuck out the hoe-handle, and he hit it slap, and made a noise jes like a pistol; and, Sir, it warn't mor'n a minute afore that are hoe-handle was swelled up as big as my leg!" ONE day early in the session of the Nebraską Legislature a motion was made, in Committee of the Whole, that the committee rise and report pro gress. The motion was adopted. Immediately after it!" She answered, promptly, "Oh, very much, Mr. M, from one of the rural districts, assumed Mr. Young, but it hurts my eyes!" a standing position and remained up. The Speaker recognized him, but the standing member said nothing until some one who wanted the floor asked him what he was up for. "Why," said he, "the motion carried for the committee to rise, and I'm waiting for the rest to get up!" His manifest knowledge of parliamentary tactics brought all hands down. MRS. JONES died a few weeks ago. Upon the day of the funeral the house was visited, as often happens, by numbers of persons unacquainted with the deceased or family. One of these strangers stepped to the coffin, with others, to take a last look at the dead, and exclaimed, sotto voce," I'm so disappointed: I thought it was Mrs. Colonel Jones," an estimable lady of the same name, but another family. In your March Number a California Sheriff has a place. I offer you now a California Justice: Squire W- resided near Chico, in 1852. A man was sued before his Honor by a neighbor in the matter of a disputed account of some two or three hundred dollars. Counsel was obtained from a distance, and the case duly called on, evidence heard, and the law and facts earnestly presented by respective counsel. It so happened that the two litigants owned what was considered fast "quarter horses," and by chance, on the day of the trial, each came on their race nags. The Squire was very fond of the sports of the turf, and after the case was closed and submitted, he observed that the evidence was so nearly balanced that he was in doubt, and, to settle the question, his decision was that the parties go down on a track near by and run their horses-judgment to go in favor of the winning horse! The idea was so novel, and withal so amusing, that attorneys and clients at once consented, and proceeded to try the case, as the Squire expressed it in his instructions to the riders when up, "by the Lever-Power Act, from which there was no appeal." JUSTICES there have jurisdiction to try cases of assault and battery. Two persons having a quarrel in presence of the Squire, one struck the other, and was at once ordered under arrest. In due time the trial came on, and the defendant was ordered to stand up, and asked to plead whether he was guilty or not guilty. The defendant answered, Not Guilty. This was too much for the Justice, who fancied that his own veracity was officially called in question by the plea, and the poor culprit was fined $100 on the spot for the breach of the peace, and another $100 for contempt, the Justice remarking that he "would learn people how to call the Court a liar!" LITTLE STELLA is just beginning to talk. Our minister has engaging manners, and is especially a favorite of children. During a sociable call he sang one of those touching, simple melodies which Stella is so fond of hearing. She was very attentive, and stood quite motionless, gazing on his face with her bright, wondering eyes. As he proceeded tears began to glisten beneath the lids, and glide down her dimpled cheeks. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, "Stella, how do you like A LOUD call having been made for army surgeons by the examining boards of our State, our ambitious and patriotic young friend, Dr. P——, gave up his lucrative (?) practice, and reported himself at Columbus for examination. The applicants, who were numerous, were each handed a list of printed questions, and they were required to write out answers and hand them in to the Board, who voted on their cases according to the correctness of the answers. Our young aspirant got on swimmingly with his list until he came to Question 23: "Where and what is Scarpa's triangle?" This was a poser. He scratched his head in vain for any recollection of such an anatomical structure. He finally approached the President of the Board, and, pointing to the question, said, "Sir, did you mean to ask that question?" To which the president blandly replied in the affirmative. Our young doctor, putting on a look of fierce indignation, exclaimed, "Will you tell me, Sir, what is the use of asking such a question as that when our country's flag is trailing in the dust?" CAPTAIN JOHNSON, of our army, home on leave, was telling his aunt (a kind-hearted, simple-minded old lady) about his marches, etc., up and down the Valley, and in the course of conversation happened several times to speak of his men "winning" chickens, fruit, etc., from the way-side farmers. The old lady, being utterly unacquainted with army slang, anxiously inquired what the Captain meant by "winning." The Captain was momentarily taken aback at this question, for he knew the good dame had the greatest horror of any thing like stealing; but recovering, he straightened out his face like a Supreme Court judge's, and says he: "Ah, yes, you don't quite understand, I see. you ever read the Army Regulations? No, I suppose not. Well, my dear aunt, paragraph 1677 of the 63d edition provides that when an army is passing through a country the farmers shall not be deprived of their live-stock or other property, except in cases of necessity, and even then they are given a chance for their possessions in this way: If a soldier needs a chicken, for instance, he is bound to toss up' with the farmer to decide which shall have it, and" (impressively) "it is really surprising how very generally the 'boys' win." Did A WORTHY master of the rod in Maine writes: During the past winter I have been teaching in the little village of B, in the lower part of this county, and one day caught my youngest boy, aged twelve, in the act of throwing some paper balls at one of the larger boys. I called him out at once, and taking my pointer in one hand and holding one of his hands in my other, explained to him the painful necessity I was under of administering proper punishment. After duly impressing him with this fact I dropped his hand and wound up as follows: "Now, Arthur, I don't want to whip you, so I'll give you your choice between a whipping and sitting with one of the girls." Quick almost as lightning his hand came up, and in a voice eager as one asking a great favor he exclaimed, “Please to whip me! Oh, please to whip me, Sir!" The effect was instantly perceived on the school. GOVERNOR A. G. CURTIN paid a visit in 1862 to the Pennsylvania Reserve Volunteer Corps. |