d hate the evidences of prosperity he
saw about him. He railed against those pursuits of life which made men
rich and prosperous. He began to think with the French demagogue, that
"property was a theft," and to regard with great favor the socialistic
doctrines then coming into vogue. The American social system he
pronounced corrupt and rotten, and deserving to be uprooted and
subverted. And this was the rustic boy, who, a few months before, had
left his home so full of hope, and generous feeling, and high
aspiration.

There were times when he yearned for the humble scenes of his boyhood.
But he was too proud to throw up his pencils and palette, and go back
to the old farm house; and so he found a vent for his home feeling in
painting some of the scenes of his earliest life--the rustic dances,
the huskings, the haymakings, and junketings with which he was so
familiar.

One of these pictures--a rustic dance was the subject--he sent to a
gilder's to be framed. He had consecrated three dollars to this
purpose, and went one day to see how his commission had been executed.
He found the picture framer, who was also a picture dealer, in his
shirt sleeves, talking with a middle-aged gentleman, who was praising
his performance.

"Really a very clever thing," said the gentleman, scanning the
painting through his gold-bowed eye glasses.

"The composition, coloring, and light and shade, are admirable; but
the life, animation, and naturalness of the figures make its great
charm. Ah, why don't our artists study to produce life as it exists
around them, and as they themselves know it and feel it, instead of
giving us the gods and goddesses of a defunct and false religion, and
scenes three thousand miles and years away?"

"Mr. Greville," said the picture framer, "allow me to make you
acquainted with the artist, Mr. Montfort; he's a next-door neighbor of
yours--lives at No ----, Broadway."

"Mr. Montfort," said the gentleman, warmly shaking the hand the artist
shyly extended, "you found me admiring your work. And I'm sure I did
not know I had so talented a neighbor. I shall be glad to be better
acquainted with you. I presume your picture is for sale."

"Not so, sir," replied the artist, coldly. "It is a reminiscence of
earlier and happier days. It was painted for my own satisfaction, and
I shall keep it as long as I have a place to hang it in. It is a
common mistake, sir, with our patrons, to suppose they can buy our
souls as w