The growth of a poor young artist into public favor is slow enough. But
even poor young artists have their temptations. When Elkanah hung his
first picture in the Academy rooms, he thought the world must feel the
acquisition. Now the world is a notoriously stupid world, and never
does its duty; but kind woman not seldom supplies its omissions. So it
happened, that, though the world ignored the picture, Elkanah became at
once the centre of admiration to a coterie of young ladies, who thought
they were appreciating Art when they flattered an artist, and who, when
they read in the papers the gratifying Intelligence (invented by some
sanguine critic, over a small bottle of Champagne cider) that the
American people are rapidly growing in true love for the fine arts,
blushingly owned to themselves that their virtuous labors in this
direction were not going unrewarded.

Have you never seen them in the Academy,--these dear young ladies, who
are so constantly foreseeing new Raphaels, Claudes, and Rembrandts?
Positively, in this year's Exhibition they are better worth study than
the paintings. There they run, up and down, critical or enthusiastical,
as the humor strikes: Laura, with big blue eyes and a loud voice,
pitying Isidora because she "has never met" that dear Mr. Herkimer, who
paints such delicious, dreamy landscapes; and Emily dragging everybody
off to see Mr. Smith's great work, "The Boy and the Windmill,"
which--so surprising is his facility--he actually painted in less than
twelve days, and which "promises so much for his success and the future
of American Art," says this sage young critic, out of whose gray eyes
look the garnered experiences of almost eighteen summers.

Whoever desiderates cheap praise, let him cultivate a beard and a
sleepy look, and hang a picture in the Academy rooms. Elkanah received