FREDERICK ASHLEY.

BY J. KENRICK FISHER.

CHAPTER I.

THE past, the future, all times but the present, are romantic times: the noble, the beautiful, abound in them; the present only, of all time, is utilitarian and coarse; the men around us are uninteresting— we pass them by without notice; or if we are constrained to speak with them, we speak about the weather, and do not look into them, to see if they have thoughts and aspirations and sentiments that might entertain us, if we would call them forth. In youth, if we have not read books of travel and newspapers, to make us acquainted with the world, the present may claim something of our admiration: fair lands abroad may be resplendent, unclouded, with balmy air and unfading verdure; their sages and heroes may rival those of Greece and Rome; and their daughters may be beautiful and accomplished. We have faith in manhood, in our credulous youth, and will not believe that the golden age is past wholly away: it must linger somewhere, we are sure. But riper years and riper wisdom dispel the fond faith of early days; and stern truth admonishes us that the innocence and virtue and

beauty of times less artificial and depraved have vanished-but not forever. Hope lingers still, in the box that our curious wisdom has opened.

Rash complainer! that which thou desirest is ever near thee: the beautiful, the virtuous, the noble, are about thee, in thy native village, in every throng, though thou seest them not, blind complainer! thy native hills might delight thee, if thy taste were developed; thy native stream, like the smooth-gliding Mincius, might grace undying song, if thou wert a Virgil. Place and Time affect not the quickened spirit, that is in heaven, because it is buoyed up by affections and desires of spiritual origin, which the less potent desires of the senses cannot pull down. Wait not for the time to come; change not thy place to fair lands abroad; but look around thee! seek, and thou shalt find; in the chaff, thou shalt find wheat; in the dull crowd, thou shalt find the noble, the generous, the beautiful; thy pen shall celebrate them; and in future ages, they shall be admired by lamenting dreamers, who sigh for the golden age that is departed, and hope for that which is to come.

I have looked about, from land to land, from house to house, from person to person, from book to book, from picture to picture, from statue to statue, and seen many caskets, and opened a few; and in some I found gems, that did not rattle to tempt my

search. I have retraced my steps, and looked again at the old discarded things; and some of them had changed-I found pleasure in them and the dull old acquaintances, that used to talk about the weather and play whist, had changed — I was entertained, delighted. I have gone back to my childhood's home, and the monotony had vanished from the woodlands, the hills, the sheltered dells and mirroring river, in which I used to catch fish - like a blind animal; the beautiful was even there. And the old neighbors, that used to scold me -I deserved it-they had changed-generally for the better.

Let us call a public meeting, and get up an institution, a society, something to bring on that golden age. If we fail, let us console ourselves by crowded parties, and spend much money, and exercise our understanding with fiddles;-something to call forth the hidden gems from our caskets. Meetings of six or ten, with cheap and contemptible tea, such as we usually have, will not bring great things to pass newspapers will not celebrate them.

Alas! the crowd will not move. We must get hold of some one person, and make the most of him, or her. Can we trade with him? No. Cannot worry him? No. Can he help us to trade or to worry? No. Then what do we want of him?

"That talk is worth printing," said my friend

Ashley, as we sauntered toward Florence, from San Miniato, where we had lingered until twilight, admiring the beautiful scenery around us, but confessing that the Delaware, the Hudson, and other rivers of our own, had beauties not less than the Arno, with its valley and terraced hills. "You shall write down, to-night, the speech you have been delivering; show it me to-morrow; and when you get home, print it. Take care that you run on in the same track: I will not have it improved: I'll scratch out and correct, if you embellish or curtail: when a man really lets out, the world should know it. We have big volumes from the head, but little from the heart, when one writes, and wants to be very fine. We live in an age of art-in-infancy; all is contrived and affected; the golden age of simplicity has departed; and that of mature art, that forgets itself, and leaves the heart again free, is not yet come but this speech of yours is a touch of it: print it."

"Very well, if you will allow me to print your own talk with it, so that it may come off naturally."

"Print whatever you choose that I have already said, but nothing that I may say hereafter: I am now shut up; thrown out of gear, as the machinists say: the moment I am called on to cut a figure, in any way, I become awkward and constrained: I am an artist-in-infancy, so soon and so long as I

cease to forget myself: I can't even think naturally; all the good ideas I turn out come by dreaming."

"Like a soldier, my dear Ashley: the stiffness of his movements wears into ease and freedom after long drilling; and then his second regenerated nature appears with its true advantage; in him liberty and law are one. So the talker, when he begins to select from what comes uppermost, that which is fit for the person and the moment, loses fluency, becomes abashed, more or less, talks from his headnot from his heart through his head,—his casket closes, his gems cease even to rattle: but drill! drill the regeneration may take nine years, and the growth a life-time, and a million years hence it may still be possible for knowledge to be increased, and wit to be sharpened, and the power of pleasing to be improved ad infinitum. Speak your speech with due regard to the rules of art, though it move like a stump orator strutting through a cotillon; by and by, like a well made machine, you will move with ease and precision, without looseness or noise."

Pedantry! all pedantry! Well that is the donkey's bridge which we must cross before we reach the land of promise. Here is B.'s; let us go in, and spend the evening."

Our friend B. was an old English gentleman,