146 Letters from the United States of North America- [ Aue. 
Harding (a ‘“ Na-tive,” who is with you now) is another of these men—L 
shall give you asketch of him before I get through ;and Sully—(Th. Sully} 
of whom I spoke in my last—another. Sully was thought a very stupid 
boy. ‘He began his career with a relation who manufactured minia-- 
tures; but having stumbled upon a bit of oil-work by Angelica Kauff- 
man, he threw up the trade of dotting ivory, and took to oil. He would 
sit all day long, and half the night, in a miserable garret, where, to keep 
his feet from freezing, he was obliged to wrap a blanket about them (not 
being able to afford fire), and was really so ignorant of the very art, for 
the practice of which he is now so distinguished, when he threw up 
miniature painting, that he began his first work in oil with a drying oil 
on ¢tin—or perhaps with sweet oil; for it was quite a discovery to him 
when he met with linseed oil. By the way, I must give you another 
anecdote of him, which, so little did he know his own worth, long after 
he had begun to work for alivelihood, might have been made fatal to his 
self-confidence for ever, if it had been persisted in. Cooper, the trage- 
dian—(an actor, by-the-by, whom you ought now to have on your boards 
—for you have no equal, in several characters, and no superior in a mul- 
titude more. His Virginius, for example—though utterly unlike the 
Virginius of your Macready, is quite of a piece with it)—Well, Cooper 
is agreat friend of Sully’s, and is the individual to whom Sully was in- 
debted, when he began his career, for that which has made him what he 
is. Mr. C. had contrived to establish Mr. S. at New York, where Mr. C. 
wasa sort of pacha. One day Mr. C. (he is full of such tricks) stepped 
into Sully’s room, where he found his protegé, Mr. S., occupied with a 
portrait. ‘ How do you like it?” said Sully, with a timid look. « Very 
much, very—but—” “ But what, pray,” said poor Sully, who began 
to be terrified. « Why—to tell you the truth, my dear friend, it ap- 
pears to me to be alittle green.”—“ Green !”——« Yes, green.” “ Why— 
God bless you,” said Stily (examining his pallet, with great anxiety), 
' « there’s not a bit of green on my pallet—nor can I,” (glancing at the 
picture), “nor can I perceive any there.”—“ Oh! it is my mistake, E 
dare say,” said Cooper ; “ don’t give yourself any trouble about it. You 
are a painter: I am not—and | only spoke at random.” After some 
little chat, Mr. C. went away ; but as he was leaving the door, another 
actor came up, who was going to see Sully. “I say, Dick,” said Mr. C., 
* you are going to see Sully ?”—*« Yes.”—“ You will find him at work 
on a portrait ; I wish you would contrive to say, while you are looking 
at it, that it looks a litthe greenish, will you ?”—* Why so ?”—“ No mat- 
ter ; just do as I desire, there’s a good fellow; just ask him, ina serious 
way, if it doesn’t appear to him a little greenish, and then I would have 
you clear out, and leave the rest to me.” It was done—Sully was 
“done up.” He examined his pallet again; every particle of colour: 
every part of the canvas; every pencil—and had already begun to doubt 
whether he had an eye for colour, when a third person called in, who, 
after looking at the picture for a moment or two, said, “ Well—I never 
did see such a complexion before; did you, Sully ?”°— Such a com- 
plexion—how—” said poor S., ready to drop through the floor. “« Why 
—I do not know,” said the stranger, who had also been put up to the 
joke by Mr. C. ; “ only—it appears to me a little—a—a—somehow, 
I don’t know how ; something is the matter with my eyes, I dare say, but 
it really looks to me green.” This was too much: Sully caught up a 
brush, and was about to settle the question for ever, by dashing it over 
the work, when Mr, C. caught his arm, A hearty laugh, and a hearty 
