My friend, Ralph Willinton, is a man of adventures. More strange things have happened to him than to any dozen people I ever heard of, in what are called “the common walks of life.” Ralph is by no means an extraordinary individual. If the North River waited for him to set it on fire, it might flow on through the Highlands unscorched forever. He was not born to greatness; he will never achieve greatness, nor will greatness be thrust upon him. But do not misunderstand me: Ralph, as the gentleman felicitously remarked of Shakespeare, “is no fool.” On the contrary, he is a fellow of parts. He never dazzled in conversation by a coruscation of mother-wit; but when he has heard a happy rejoinder, he remembers it, and has the skill to use it to advantage. Ralph is the happiest mimic in these _Untied_ States, as they may sooner or later be called. There never appeared an actor in any one of our theatres whose voice and manner he cannot imitate with marvelous verisimilitude. Moreover he sings a very good song, though with no very powerful or melodious voice. He can write Magazine articles on music, composes occasionally himself, and writes love ditties, such as they are. Add to these accomplishments a manner irresistibly winning, and tones in speaking as sweet as those which the author of Guy Mannering gives to Rashleigh Osbaldistone, and you are possessed of the sum total of Ralph’s recommendations. The sum total do I say? when I have but obscurely hinted at his extraordinary gift or faculty of story-telling, by which, like Hamlet’s Yorick, he can set the whole table on a roar. In sooth, he is the most diverting of dinner-table companions. He richly earns his invitations, of which no man has more. You can bear to listen to those stories of his (which are nothing when any one else tells them) a hundred times. They are “ever charming, ever new.” Age cannot mar nor custom stale his infinite variety. His profession is the law, and his practice is amusement. Ralph is, in fine, a capital fellow. It is a pity that he should have a capital propensity. He is the hero of all his romances. Had he been Macbeth, he never would have exclaimed, “Thou canst not say _I_ did it!” He would rather have had the _credit_ of murdering Duncan himself than have been thought to have no hand in the “bloody business.” Ralph is the most ubiquitous of mortals. To have effected an iota of what he attributes to his own talents, valor and industry, to have done one in fifty of those deeds of which he asserts “_quorum pars magna fui_,” he must have been in a very considerable number of places at once. Nevertheless and notwithstanding Ralph Willinton is a glorious good fellow. Reader, did you ever meet with Ralph Willinton? * * * * * A VOICE FROM THE WAYSIDE: ABOUT A GENIUS. BY CAROLINE C——.