e your
pictures. You lack a firmness and certainty of touch that nothing but
practice will give. But your forms are faithfully drawn, your eye for
color is sharp and true, and, what is more than all, you have the poetry
which informs, harmonizes, and crowns all."

"I am grateful for your friendly criticism," said Greenleaf, with a
sudden flush. "You know that people call you blunt, and that most of the
artists think you almost malicious in your severity; but you are the
only man who ever talks sincerely to me."

Easelmann noticed the emotion, and spoke abruptly,--

"Depend upon it, if I see anything faulty, you will know it; if you
think _that_ friendly, I am your friend. But look over there, where the
sunset clouds are reflected in the Back Bay. Now, if I should put those
tints of gold and salmon and crimson and purple, with those delicate
shades of apple-green, into a picture, the mob would say, 'What an
absurd fellow this painter is! Where did he find all that Joseph's coat
of colors?' The mob is a drove of asses, Greenleaf."

"Come, let us take our evening stroll."

"Have you seen Charbon, to-day?"

"No. But I should like to."

"We'll call for him."

"Yes, I rather like his brilliant silence."

"Next week, let us go to Nahant. I want you to try your hand on a coast
view. But what, what are you about? At that trumpery daguerreotype
again? Let me see the beauty,--that's a good boy!"

"No!"

"Then put it up. If you won't show it, don't aggravate a fellow in that
way."

[To be continued.]

SPIRITS IN PRISON.[3]

I.

O ye, who, prisoned in these festive rooms,
Lean at the windows for a breath of air,
Staring upon the darkness that o'erglooms
The heavens, and waiting for the stars to bare
Their glittering glories, veiled all night in cloud,
I know ye scorn the gas-lights and the feast!
I saw you leave the music and the crowd,
And turn unto the windows opening east;
I heard you sigh,--"When will the dawn's dull ashes
Kindle their fires behind yon fir-fringed height?
When will the prophet clouds with golden flashes
Unroll their mystic scrolls of crimson light?"
Fain would I come and sit beside you here,
And silent press your hands, and with you lean
Into the midnight, mingling hope and fear,
Or pining for the days that might have been!

II.

Are we not brothers? In the throng that fills
Th