riage of the back and head, and the firm planting of the feet. The resemblance to the late President suggested a comparison between the two heads, and I remarked a difference, in the much larger combativeness of the Spaniard, Taylor having been moderately developed in this animal organ, and drawing his courage from the better controlled organ of firmness. I had very little idea that I was thus unconsciously comparing the heads and motive principles of TAYLOR and PAEZ!

The commanding officer at the Point kindly presented me to the Venezuelan hero, as we stood in a group of listeners to the music, a few minutes after, and I had an opportunity of observing his face and mien more closely. PAEZ is a most powerfully and compactly framed man, not very tall, but with all his physical faculties in admirably perfect development. His brow is well rounded, his eyes are good-humored and alive with perception and prompt fearlessness, his skin is dark, and the lines about his mouth full of chivalric expression. A grey moustache, clipped short, gave a rather more heroic look to his compressed lips than they might otherwise have had, and possibly the military music added to this, for I observed that he was very much moved by it. With one air, particularly, which returned, at the close of each measure, to a rapid crescendo on the drum, (please ask your cadet boy the name of it, dear Morris,) the famous South American was delighted quite beyond his soldierly reserve. Standing with folded arms almost immovable, during the drills and the other portions of the music, he turned to the several gentlemen around him, at each successive putting on of the vehemence, and expressed his pleasure, with a smile and some good round syllables of Spanish ejaculation. It brought out the awakened glow

136

EDITING OR SOLDIERING.

of his face, and showed us how the hero may have looked, when, but for the music, we should have seen only the man.

The little band of gray-coats performed beautifully. This learning the trick of making ten thousand legs and arms move to the thinking of one brain, is a very picturesque process, though, ́ as an actor in it, I should prefer some directly opposite system, which would give us the use of more brains for our legs and arms. Looked at from "the ranks," indeed, the two professions of soldier and editor are in direct contrast in this respect-a soldier's duty being but the ten thousandth of one man's thinking, while an editor's duty is to think for ten thousand. Since this has occurred to me, I have taken back a kind of sigh I remember, while looking on at the parade, (for I fairly wished my drudged brain were under the cap of one of those handsome cadets, learn-、 ing glory, with a commanding officer to think for me)—and I shall use it as a lesson of content. Please remind me, when I next murmur at my lot, of the above mentioned difference (or this view of it) between serving subscribers and serving one's country.

Speaking of gray coats, I understood, at the Point, that this classic uniform of the Military Academy is to be changed to a blue frock. It will be a sensible and embellishing alteration, and the cadets will look more like reasoning adults and less like plover in pantaloons-but what is to become of all the tender memories," thick as leaves in Vallambrosa," whieh are connected with that uniform only? What belle of other days ever comes back to the Point, without looking out upon the Parade from the window of the Hotel, and indulging in a dreamy recall of the losing of her heart, pro tem., on her first summer tour, to one of those gray-tailed birds of war? A flirtation with a gray coat at

the Point is in every pretty woman's history, from Maine to Florida. Suppress those tapering swallow-tails! Why, it will be a moulting of the feathers of first loves, which will make a cold shiver throughout the Union. I doubt whether the blue frock, with its similarity to the coats of common mortals, will ever acquire the same mystic irresistibleness which has belonged to that uniform of gray. The blue may be admired, but the pepper-andsalt of other days will be perpetuated in poems.

I went, of course, before leaving the Point, to see what WEIR had upon the easel. His picturesque studio, with its old carved cabinet and heaps of relics and curiosities, was in as rich and artistic confusion as ever; but, though the room was up to one's chin in lumber, there was standing room in front of his easel, and a sweet picture, just finished, stood upon it. The mind of the painter runs upon sacred subjects, and this was an ideal embodiment of devotion-a young girl of saintly beauty, with her hands clasped unconsciously in devout thought, and her calm eyes turned upward. It was an exquisite piece of colour, and conceived in a pure-hearted inspiration. I found the hands a little too slight to be in keeping with the full health of the face, but, as such inequalities of development do occur in Nature, and a transparent thinness of hands gives a look of more unimpassioned and spiritual delicacy, perhaps the artist was right. He showed us also a portfolio of drawings from Scripture subjects, full of original vigour, and it seems to me that Weir's genius so runs upon this vein, that he would work altar-pieces and church pictures to more advantage than other branches of Art. Whatever he should do in this way, he would do with all his heart.

Bayard Taylor was at the Point. Rider's Hotel was full of good company, and all rejoicing in the presence of Mrs. General

Scott, which, besides much other pleasure that it gave, brought the band, two evenings in the week, to play, as a compliment from the Commandant. It is a remarkable band, by the way, or scenery heightens music, or, possibly, Nature's monotones give us a relish for brass. After hearing crickets and Katy-dids for a month, one's ear gets a hunger even for a trumpet.

In so dull a vein, this letter must be long enough. So, adieu.

Yours, &c.

LETTER FROM HIGHLAND TERRACE.

Invalid's Difficulty in Writing-Meeting with Durand the Painter-His Residence on the Quassaic-Sheet of the Hudson as Middle-ground to Landscape-Morris's Residence at Undercliff, in the Distance-Misnaming of River-Need of a Usage as to Name-giving-Process of Naming"Nigger Pond"-Mysterious Package by Post-Delay in Delivery of a Missive-Arrival of what was Destined for me in the Time of our Saviour Head of Homer in an Intaglio-Object of Fate in having it Cut and Forwarded, etc., etc.

DEAR MORRIS-If a letter find its way off the point of my pen to-day, it will be by force of natural declivity, for I am rallying after a week's illness; and to slope a quill toward your name is the most of a 66 continuity" " of which I feel any way capable. I shall write, if it please Heaven. What we should chat about, if you were here, may possibly slide off "with intermissions," but, as to the subjects, I shall take them as they come, and obstinate sentences may "perish in their sins." Look for nothing that does not run trippingly off.

Pottering about in a farmer's wagon, last week, (on my summer's business of looking up scenery,) I overtook DURAND at the outlet of one of the ravines opening into the Hudson. The great master of landscape was taking an evening walk with his daughter,