intending to order a picture from Mr. Allston, and this
circumstance amply justified Mr. Cogswell, in his own opinion, for the
stratagem employed to gain us admittance. Mr. Allston was surprised but
not disconcerted by our entrance, and proceeded to do the honors of the
rather bare apartment with genial grace. He had not then unrolled his
painting of Belshazzar's Feast, which, begun many years before that
time, had long been left in an unfinished condition.

As I remember, the great artist had but little to show us. My father was
especially pleased with a group, one figure of which was a copy of
Titian's well-known portrait of his daughter, the other being a somewhat
commonplace representation of a young girl of modern times.

My father afterwards told me that he had thought of purchasing this
picture. While he was deliberating about it Thomas Cole the landscape
painter called upon him, bringing the design of four pictures
illustrating the course of human life. The artist's persuasion induced
him to give an order for this work, which was not completed until after
my dear parent's death, when we found it something of a white elephant.
The pictures were suitable only for a gallery, and as none of us felt
able to indulge in such a luxury they were afterward sold to some public
institution, with a considerable loss on our part.

Some years after my marriage I encountered Mr. Allston in Chestnut
Street, Boston, on a bitter winter day. He had probably been visiting
his friend Mr. Dana, who resided in that street. The ground was covered
with snow, and Mr. Allston, with his snowy curls and old-fashioned
attire, looked like an impersonation of winter, his luminous dark eyes
suggesting the fire which warms the heart of the cold season. The
wonderful beauty of the face, intensified by age, impressed me deeply.
He did not recognize me, having seen me but once, and we passed without
any salutation; but his living image in my mind takes precedence of all
the shadowy shapes which his magic placed upon canvas.

Boston should never forget the famous dinner given to Charles Dickens on
the occasion of his first visit to America in 1842. Among the wits who
made the feast one to be remembered Allston shone, a bright particular
star. He was a reader of Dickens, but was much averse to serials, and
waited always for the publication of the stories in book form. He died
while one of these was approaching completion, I forget which it was,
but