last moments and thoughts were occupied entirely with one thing—his art—showing that when on the confines of eternity, the grand occupation of his life merged into beautiful visions, typical of heaven and the angels. "Oh! what beautiful horizons! Oh! what lovely faces! Quick, quick, my pallette! my brushes! what a picture I shall make! I will surpass Raphael!" Let then the motto for artists be, "Festina Lente," and like Wiertz approach gently, but surely the empyrean heights of fame. Precipitancy is like the empty bubble that dances awhile in the sunbeam, but is lost by the weight of a single drop of dew. A specialty in talent or an adherence to a particular style, is too frequently disregarded, hence the mediocrity of so many that take up the brush.
Our American artist, George Catlin, who died in Jersey City, at the age of seventy-six, devoted his lifetime we may say, to the study of Indian life and character, in order to give to his country a faithful portraiture of the red men of the forest. He literally pitched his tent among them, and fearless and true to his fond taste, his spirit never drooping through trials and danger, accomplished the ambition of his life. Steadily he worked to leave a monument to that race less favored than ourselves, who, although rude and uncivilized, love nature's haunts and abide in the faith of the "Great Spirit." It is to be hoped that our National Congress will purchase this series of paintings, and not permit any other country to outdo us in appreciation of American fame. There is a word to be said in favor of the encouragement of artists, and especially the young student exhibiting talent. It is the duty of society to foster and reward all such, and not to chill by indifference their noble efforts. Let us draw for ourselves a picture of the birth of talent
