"Hain't no opinion of trees," said the old man, shaking his head.

"Well, well, father, you shall have money, and do what you like with
it; for my part I shall be content with fame."

"Fame! what is that?" said the old man, laying down his pipe in
bewilderment.

"Fame! Do you ask what fame is?" exclaimed the romantic boy. But he
paused, convinced in a moment of the perfect futility of attempting to
convey an idea of the unsubstantial phantom to the old man's
intellect. Perhaps the old farmer was the better philosopher of the
two.

But Julian gained his point, and departed for the great city--the goal
of so many struggles, the grave of so many hopes. He was at first
dazzled by the splendors of the artificial life, into the heart of
which he plunged; and then, with a homesick feeling, he sighed for
that verdurous luxury of nature he had left. He missed the trees--for
he thought the shabby and rusty foliage of the Battery and Park hardly
worthy of that name. But, in time to save him from utter
disappointment and heart sickness, there opened on his vision the
glorious dawning of the world of art. He passed from gallery to
gallery, and from studio to studio, drinking in the beauties that
unfolded before him with the eyes of his body and his soul. He was
enraptured, dazzled, enchanted. Then he settled down to work in his
humble room, economizing the scanty funds he had brought with him to
the city. Like many young aspirants, he grasped, at first, at the most
difficult subjects. He constantly groped for a high ideal. He would
fly before he had learned to walk. With an imperfect knowledge of