l do; say no more. None of the artists'
beards here, can compare with one belonging to a buffalo-and-prairie
painter who lives out in St. Louis--it is so long he ties the ends
together and uses it for a boot-jack. Good-night, boys, good-night!'

A CALICO-PAINTER.

Rocjean was finishing his after-dinnerical coffee and cigar, when
looking up from _Las Novedades_, containing the latest news from Madrid,
and in which he had just read _en Roma es donde hay mas mendigos_, Rome,
is where most beggars are found; London, where most engineers, lost
women, and rat-terriers, abound; Brussels, where women who smoke, are
all round--looking up from this interesting reading, he saw opposite him
a young man, whose acquaintance he knew at a glance, was worth making.
Refinement, common-sense, and energy were to be read plainly in his
face. When he left the cafe, Rocjean asked an artist, with long hair,
who was fast smoking himself to the color of the descendants of Ham, if
he knew the man?'

'No-o-oo, I believe he's some kind of a calico-painter.'

'What?'

'Oh! a feller that makes designs for a calico-mill.'

Not long afterward Rocjean was introduced to him, and found him, as
first impressions taught him he would--a man well worth knowing. Ho was
making a holiday-visit to Rome, his settled residence being in Paris,
where his occupation was designer of patterns for a large calico-mill in
the United States. A New-Yorker by birth, consequently more of a
cosmopolitan than the provincial life of our other American cities will
tolerate or can create in their children, Charles Gordon was every inch
a man, and a bitter foe to every liar and thief. He was well informed,
for he had, as a boy, been solidly instructed; he was polite, refined,
for he had been well educated. His life was a story often told:
mercantile parent, very wealthy; son sent to college; talent for art,
developed at the expense of trigonometry and morning-prayers; mercantile
parent fails, and falls from Fifth avenue to Brooklyn, preparatory to
embarking for the land of those who have failed and fallen--wherever
that is. Son wears long hair, and believes he looks like the painter who
was killed by a baker's daughter, writes trashy verses about a man who
was wronged, and went off and howled himself to a long repose, sick of
this vale of tears, et cetera. Finally, in the midst of his despair,
long hair, bad poetry and painting, an enterprising friend, who sees he
has an ey