historians in this country, were certainly men deserving well of their fellows, and to be remembered always on the American Continent, and on those portions of the earth where English is the language and English ideas are found; but why should the others "be passed down through time linked with Solon, Lycurgus, Pythagoras, Archimedes, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, the crowned monarchs of human thought"? There was still a visit to be paid to the Academy of Fine Arts, and I can answer for myself at least when I say it was, though it came last, the most agreeable incident in the long day's work. It is an institution of which the promoters may boast with every reason, and which must in time develop the taste and skill of native artists, of which its walls already exhibit creditable specimens. One little incident of the visit was amusing. In one of the rooms, by way of a surprise to the Duke, and to give a local colour to the place in his eyes, there was in waiting, amidst a group of lady pupils and students of the sculpture models, a full-dressed Highlander. He was all alive, too, and made his bow very nicely, but he was exceedingly disconcerted when the Duke exclaimed, "He has got on his plaid over the wrong shoulder." The Highlander, amid the laughter which followed the remark, merely said in good American, "I'm not a Scotchman nor a Highlander at all." I believe there are many in the kilted regiments at home who might make a similar confession. He had been evidently dressed after a photograph, and the plaid reversed. In development of public spirit and wealth, in the beautiful park, the public buildings, the scientific and literary societies, and commercial activity, the city possesses an indefeasible title to be considered the real capital of the State of Pennsylvania. _April 30th._--After three separate heads had popped in at my bedroom this morning and popped back again, seeing that it was "tubbing" time, at 8 A.M. I bolted the door and proceeded to finish my business. Desperate attempts to get in--knock! knock! knock! "You can't come in! I'm undressed!" "Only for a minute!" "I tell you I'm undressed." A card was pushed under the door. Presently I go to the spot, and find on the card in pencil, "S. Cameron, Harrisburg, Pa." It was my old friend, the venerable ex-Senator of Pennsylvania, Mr. Lincoln's first War Secretary, Simon Cameron! I hurried down-stairs to the office. Mr. Cameron was not staying in the Hotel. After a time it was ascertained that he was quartered at the Girard House, nearly opposite, but he was not in, and I had to go away without seeing him.