forts and indulgences. There will come to this intellectual shrine uncounted numbers of men, women and children, in the breasts of some of whom but little of the real Promethean fire or enthusiasm will sparkle; still, even a step toward the object in view is a point gained, and soon the cultivated taste may follow. We know that the ugly, uninteresting root, begrimed with dust, shoots up into the lovely flower, and may not rugged minds also put forth beauty of instruction? To those fully alive to the attractions of art, the Corcoran gallery will be a treasure house, where they must linger long, keenly sensitive to the amount of talent garnered within those stately walls. They will feel around them the breath of genius, which their slightest whispers shall fear to disturb; they will see the canvas graced by a peasant's bright eyes, adding to it the surmise of some grave, perhaps wrinkled face—this last the artist's—and praise and sympathy will go out together from their generous hearts. In a word, their own delicate taste and refinement will find a sister spirit in congeniality, and the meeting will partake of a rhapsody, so full and complete will it be. The works are well chosen, and the colors of some from that classic land across the sea, fair Italy, are like the tints of her wondrous skies, where the roses' crimson dye and the violets' tender blue are blended in sympathy with the purple of the grape and the sunlight's gold. Here is life pictured so true and beauteous that we dream many an hour away in pleasant reveries, and steep our souls in an intoxication of delight, quaffing delicious draughts from that rare and intellectual fount, the communion of spirit with art, and the oblivion of self! If our need of praise goes out abundantly to foreign lands, we are not without our loyal homage to the artists of our own country. If we
