Here it is,” producing the painting from a corner, and wiping off the dust. “It is for sale--but its value has never yet, to my idea of its worth, been adequately appreciated--and I would not part with it.” “What is its price?” “I have done affixing any nominal sum. I have always, so far, exceeded my offers. I leave it for you to name the price.” “Will four hundred pounds be an adequate recompense?” “It is more than I have ever asked for it.” “Then the painting is mine.” The stranger introduced himself as the Marquis of Stafford; and he became, from that moment, one of the warmest friends of Mr. Allston. By him Mr. A. was introduced to the society of the nobility and gentry; and he became one of the most favored among the many gifted minds that adorned the circle, in which he was never fond of appearing often. “The instantaneous relief thus afforded by the liberality of this noble visitor, was always regarded by Allston as a direct answer to his prayer, and it made a deep impression upon his mind. To this event he was ever after wont to attribute the increase of devotional feelings which became a prominent trait in his character.”--_Boston Atlas._ ALLSTON’S DEATH. “Notwithstanding the general respect which is manifested to the memory of this distinguished artist, there are unsympathising, ice-hearted men of the world who yet reproach him for uncontrollable events in his career. The actions of the painter, the poet, and the musician, are dictated often by other motives than those impelling the arm of the mechanic, or the tongue of the advocate. Men of genius are of a more delicate organization than those possessing inferior abilities, and are swayed by emotions the most lofty that can actuate humanity. The world’s neglect, the contempt of critics, depressed spirits induced by pecuniary embarrassments, blast their hopes, enervate their energies, and deprive them of the potency to cope with the heartless world. Men there are who would visit the generous Allston with censure, because, while laboring under disappointments, ill health, and crushed anticipations, he failed to finish his painting of Belshazzar’s Feast, a theme that possibly became uncongenial to his pencil. May their ill feeling be forgotten, and, if the fountain of their sympathies be not wholly dried up, may it yield a little lenity towards one of America’s noblest sons. It may not be inappropriate to insert a tribute to the memory of Allston, which will serve to vindicate his character from his aspersers, and exhibit it as traced by one for many years connected with him by the dearest ties of friendship: ‘PARIS, November, 1843.