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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
18 PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING
Bv WILLIAM H. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
Office on Randolph street.
THE WORLD IS BRIGHT BEFORE
TIIEE.
BY FIT 7, GREEN IIAI I.ECK.
The world is bright before thee,
lu< summer flowers are thine ;
Its calm blue sky is o’er thee—
Thy bosom virtue's shrine;
And thine the sunbeam given
To nature’s morning hour,
Pure, warm, a- when, from heaven,
It burst on Eden’s bower.
There L> a sons; of sorrow—
The death-dirge of the gay—
That tells ere dawn of morrow
These charm may fade away ;
That sun’s bright beam be shaded.
That be blue no more—
The summer flowers be faded,
And youth’s warm pronii-e o’er.
Believe it not: though lonely
Thy evening home may be —
Though beauty’s bark can only
Float on a summer Ha;
Though time thy bloom is stealing,
There’* still beyond hi* art,
The wild flower wreath of feeling—
The sunbeam of the heart.
TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES.
BY AI.ARIC A. WATTS.
Thrice happy babe ! what radiant dreams are thine,
As thus thou bidd’st thine air-hom bubbles soar;
Who would not Wi dom’s choice.-t gifts resign,
To be, like thee, a careless child, once more ;
To share thy simple sport*, and sinless glee ;
Thy breathless wonder, thy unfeigned delight,
As, one by one, those sup-touched glories flee,
In swift succession, from thy straining sight!
To feel a power within himself to make.
Like thee, a rainbow wheresoe’r lie goes ;
To dream of sum bine, and like thee to ‘wake
To brighter visions, from his charmed repose.
Who would not give his all of worldly lore,
The hard-earned fruits of many a toil and care, —
Might he but thus the fad ad pa t re tore,
Thy guileless thought- ana blissful ignorance share? |
Yet Life hath bubble*, too, that soothe awhile
The sterner dreams of man’s maturer years;
Love—Friendship—-Fortune—Fame, by turns beguile,
But melt, ‘lieaia Truth’s Ithuiiel-touch, to tears.
Thrice happy child ! a brighter lot is thine ;
(What new illusion e’er can match the lirst ?)
We mourn to see each cherished hope decline:
Thy mirth is loudest when thy bubbles bunt.
m is cell anemia.
[Front Arthur’s Home Gazette.]
THE SHEPHERD.
ritOM THE FRENCH.
BV *BBTIII2H WBTIIERALD.
About the middle of the year 18—, a little
shepherd of fifteen or sixteen years, but who
looked much younger, drove before him, with
that meditative, melancholy air peculiar to
persons who pass a portion of their lives in
solitude, a small flock of sheep, which would
soon have been dispersed bad it not been for
the active vigilance of a large, black dog,
who brought back to the principal group the !
slow and capricious, never letting them stray !
far from their companions.
Romances had not turned the head of little
Peter, (for that was his name, and not Lyci
das or Tircis) —lie knew not how to read.
Nevertheless, lie was a dreamer; he remain
ed whole days with his back leaned against
a tree, his eyes wandering to the horizon in
a species of ecstatic contemplation. Os what
was ho thinking ?—he was ignorant himself.
Unlike other peasants, lie watched the rising
and the setting of the sun, the play of the !
light amongst the foliage, the different shades
of the distant landscape, without knowing
why lie did so. He even thought the empire
exercised over him by the waters, the trees,
and the heavens, betrayed in him a weak
ness of mind, and he said to himself—
“ There is nothing very curious in all that;
the trees are not uncommon, nor the earth
either. Why should I then stop for an hour
before an oak tree, or a hill, forgetting to eat
and drink—forgetting every thing! Had it j
not been for Fidele, 1 should have lost more j
than one sheep, and my master would have j
discharged me. Why am I not like other |
shepherds—large, strong, full of song and
laughter, instead of watching the grass grow
which feeds my sheep ?”
Little Peter complained that he was not I
stupid—was lie in the wrong?
Doubtless you have already thought our j
shepherd was in love; he will he, perhaps; !
but he is not yet.
Having passed the edge of a declivity, cov- !
ered with rich green turf, and studded with j
picturesque clumps of trees, fastened to the j
earth by singular, knotty roots, he stopped, ‘
seated himself upon a portion of rock, and, j
with his chin leaned upon his staff, (a crook |
like those of the shepherds of Arcadia,) he !
abandoned himself to his usual meditations.
The sagacious dog, judging that the sheep I
would not stray far from a place where the
grass was so thick and tender, lay down at j
the feet of his master, his head stretched on
liis paws, and his eyes had that earnest, at- j
(entire look, which makes the dog appear
almost like a human being. The sheep were
grouped here and there in happy disorder.
,\ ray of light stole through the leaves, and
(Caused die dew-drops on the grass to glitter
iiike diamonds fallen from the jewel-box of
Aurora, not yet picked up by the sun. It
was a picture ready-made—finished by the
hand of God.
fio thought a young woman who was en
tering the other extremity of the valley.
“What a lovely spot! I must make a
sketch of it,” said she. taking an album from
the hands of the maid who accompanied her.
She seated herself on a mossy stone, at the
risk of soiling her white dress, and placing
her sketch-book upon her knees, began draw
ing with a light, though practised hand.
Over her fine features fell a light shadow
from her large straw hat, as in that delicate
sketch of a young woman, by Rubens; her
hair, of a rich blond, fell in curls on her beau
tiful neck. She was altogether lovelv.
Little Peter, absorbed in his admiration of
a beautiful chesnut tree, did not at once per
ceive the arrival of anew on the tran
quil seeng. Fidele had raised his head, but
not seeing any cause for uneasiness, had re
sumed his attitude of sphinx-like melancholy.
At length, Peter was aroused, and the
sight ot that graceful and beautiful young
woman had a singular effect upon him; he
felt a strange oppression at his heart, and to
get rid of this feeling, he whistled to Uis dog
and began to walk away.
But, this did not suit the young woman, as
the shepherd and his flock were indispensa
ble to the success ot her landscape. She
threw down her album and pencils, and, run-
VOL. 11.
•ling after little Peter, soon brought him back
to the corner of the rock on which he had
been seated,
“You will remain here until I give you
leave to depart,” said she. “Bring this arm
a little more forward—your head more to the
left.”
As she spoke, she touched the tanned
cheek of Peter with her white hand, to place
it in a proper position.
“What beautiful eyes he has for a peas
ant!” she remarked to her maid.
Having arranged her model to her mind,
the young lad;* soon finished the sketch; and
then she said to Peter—
“ You may go now. if you will; but it is
right that I should first pay you for setting
there like a. wooden saint. Come hither.
The young shepherd walked slowly and
bashfully towards her. She slipped a piece
of gold into his hand, saying—
“ This will buy you anew vest for the
Sunday dance.”
The shepherd, who had cast a stealth}’
look on the open album, remained as if stu
pified, and thought not of the glittering piece
of twenty francs which lay in his hand; scales
seemed to fall from his eyes—a sudden reve
lation was made to him. He repeated, in a
broken voice—
“ The trees, the stone, the dog, myself, are
all there, and the sheep also, in a sheet of
paper !”
The young lady, amused at bis admiration
and artless astonishment, showed him many
drawings of lakes, chateaux, and rocks ; then,
as it was growing late, returned with her
maid to the country-house from which she
had come.
Little Peter followed her with his eyes,
long after the last (old of her robe had disap
peared behind the hill ; even Fidele, with ail
his arts, could not draw him from his medita
tion. The humble shepherd began to com
prehend confusedly the use of looking at the
trees, hills and clouds. The admiration he
had felt in presence of a beautiful landscape,
was not so senseless as lie had supposed.
He was neither silly nor a fool. He had
seen, hanging over the fire-places in farm
houses, some rude wood engraved portraits
colored yellow, red, and blue, worthy of the
savages of New Zealand; but these had
awakened no idea of art in his mind. The
sketches in the album of the young woman
so neatly executed, and with forms and
things so well delineated, were altogether
new to him. The picture in the parish
church was so black and smoked, that one
could no longer tell what if was, and besides,
he had hardly dared to cast his eyes upon
it from the porch where he knelt.
Evening came. Little Peter shut up Lis
sheep in their fold, and seated himself on the
threshold of the wheeled cabin which served
him as a house in summer. The sky was of
a deep blue. The seven stars of the chariot
shone like nails of gold in the ceiling of hea
ven. Cassiopeia Bootes twinkled brightly.
The solitary shepherd looked with emotion
on this magnificent spectacle—on this splen
did fete—which heaven, in its careless mag
nificence, gives to a sleeping earth.
He also thought of the young woman, and
almost fancied he felt again her soft hand
upon his cheek; it was a long time before
sleep visited his eyelids, and when he did
sleep he dreamed.
He thought himself seated upon a portion
of rock, with a beautiful landscape before
him. The sun had just risen, the hawthorn
shivered under its wealth of snowy blossoms,
the grass was covered with dewy pearls, the
hill appeared clothed with a robe of azure,
mingled with silver. After sitting there a
few moments, he thought he saw the beauti
ful lady of the valley before him. She ap
proached with a smile, and said—
“ You must not only look, but act.”
Having spoken thus, she placed upon the
knees of the astonished shepherd a box on
which was a sheet of drawing paper, and a
pencil ; she then stood near him watching
his efforts, hut his hand trembled like a leaf,
and the lines were consequently uneven.
His strong desire to do well, and his emotion
and shame when he found himself succeed
ing so badly, caused the perspiration to stand
on his temples. He would have given ten
years of his life rather than have shown such
awkwardness in her presence—hut in his con
fusion he drew worse and worse, until the
lady, taking pity on him, put into his hand a
gold pencil case, whose point sparkled like a
flame. Then all difficulties vanished, he
drew as if by magic; the forms of animals,
trees, plants, every thing he wished, was soon
upon the paper. The lady bent over his
shoulder and watched the progress of his
work with a satisfied air, saying from time
to time—
“ That is right, continue to do so.”
‘A hilst bending over him, one of her long
curls was swept against his cheek by the
breeze, and from the shock, appeared to come
a thousand sparks like those from an elec
trical machine; one of these atoms of fire
seemed to fall upon his heart, and 1 e felt it
burning within him. The lady perceived it,
and said to him—
“ You have the spark, farewell.”
The dream produced a strange effect on
| Peter. His heart was, indeed, on fire, and
‘so was his head. From that day there was
a change in him ; he was destined to do some
! thing before he died.
In the morning he took a piece of char
coal and began drawing at once on the planks
j of his cabin.
With what should he commence? With
the portrait of his best, or to speak more
properly, his only friend, Fidele, for Peter
was an orphan. This dog was all his familv.
The first drawing, we must confess, resem
bled a hippopotamus almost as much as a
dog; but by rubbing out and doing it over
again, (for Fidele was the most patient model
in the world,) he succeeded in passing from
the hippopotamus to the crocodile—from the
crocodile to a young pig, and at length to a
figure in which one would have been ill-na
tured not to recoguize an individual belong
ing to the canine species.
To describe the satisfaction felt bv Peter
when he had finished his drawing, would be
impossible. Michael Angelo, when he had
given the last touch of his pencil to the Sis
tine Chapel—and drew back, his arms cross
ed on his breast, to contemplate his immortal
work, felt no deeper or more profound )ov.
“If the beautiiul lady could only see the
portrait of Fidele,” thought he.
We must do him the justice to say, how
ever, that this intoxication lasted but a short
I time. He soon saw that his sketch was
(Hk Soufljccn Sentinel.
poor, and unlike the real Fidele. He effaced
it and tried to make a sheep. This time he
succeeded a little better. He already had
| some experience. But the charcoal crum
bled under his fingers, the badly planed
i board was against him.
“If I had paper and a pencil I should suc
’ ceed better; but how shall I procure them ?” j
Little Peter had forgotten his money; he ,
: soon remembered it, however, and one day,
confiding his flock to a companion, he went
resolutely to the city, and, entering a store,
enquired for drawing materials. The aston- ;
ished merchant gave him paper and pencils
of different kinds. He then returned to his !
sheep, and without neglecting them, conse
crated to drawing- all the time usually spent j
by shepherdsin playing on the pipe, whittling
sticks, and setting traps for birds and small
animals.
Peter often led his flock to the place where
| he had sat for the young lady, but many days
! passed without seeing her. Was he in love
i with her? No, not in the sense we attach to
the word; such a love was too impossible. I
The most humble and simple heart requires a
ray of hope, and simple and rustic as Peter
; was, he felt there was an abyss between him,
; a poor shepherd, ragged, ignorant and un
j cultivated, and a young woman beautiful and
rich. Does any one in his senses fall se
riously in love with a queen? Is any but a
| poet wretched, because he cannot embrace
the stars ?
Little Peter thought not of lcve. The lady
appeared to him white and radiant with her
gold pencil in her hand, and he adored her
with that tender and fervent devotion the
Catholics of the middle ages felt for the Holy
Virgin.
One day he heard upon the stony road the
quick gallop of a horse. Fidele uttered a
long bark, and Peter soon saw the lady upon
a fiery courser, which was evidently fright
i ened and running away. He rushed down
the hill to her assistance, but before he reach
ed her she had been thrown by the unruly
animal, and lay senseless on the ground.
Peter ran for some water, which he threw up
on her face. To his great terror he saw
some drops of blood mingling with the water
on her temples. She was hurt. Drawing
from his pocket a poor plaid handkerchief he
endeavored to staunch the blood which trick
led slowly from the wound. Once she open
ed her eyes and threw upon Peter a vague
look of gratitude, which penetrated his soul.
The party with whom she was riding now
1 came; they raised her from the ground and
placing her in a caleche, soon drove off.
The shepherd wrapped up his handkerchief
: stained with her precious blood, and placed it
in his bosom. In the evening he went to the
! chateau to enquire after her. She was not
; dangerously hurt. ‘Phis good news calmed
Peter a little, who had believed all lost when
he saw her carried away pale and inanimate
as a corpse.
The season was advanced ; the inhabitants
of the chateau returned to Paris, and although
i little Peter had only occasionally, and by
stealth as it were, seen the straw hat and
| white robe, he felt more solitary than
ever before. When too sad, he drew out the
handkerchief with which he had staunched
! the lady’s blood, and kissed it. This was
! some consolation to him. He also contin
j ued to draw, and had almost exhausted his
I provisions of paper. His progress was rapid,
1 for he had no master; no system interposed
’ between him and nature ; he copied what he
saw. His designs were still rough, though
artless and natural; he labored in solitude,
under the eve of God, without counsel, with
out. guide, except his own heart.
Sometimes in the night he saw again the
beautiful lady, and with the golden pencil in
his hand, traced marvelous designs ; but when
morning came, all had vanished, his pencil
was rebellious as usual, and the forms as dis
ficult to fix.
One day, however, he had drawn an old
mossy cottage, from whose chimney rose a
spiral of blue smoke, through the tops of
trees almost entirely despoiled of their leaves;
a wood cutter, his task accomplished, stood
upon the threshold; smoking his pipe, and
through the open door one caught a glimpse
of a woman, who was rocking a cradle and
spinning at the same time. It was Peter's
chef-d’-ceuvre; he was almost content with it.
Suddenly he perceived a shadow on his pa
per—a shadow of a three-cornered hat,
which could only belong to the pastor. It
was indeed his. He had been silently watch
ing the little artist, who blushed to the eai's
when thus surprised.
The venerable ecclesiastic, although not
one of those sprightly priests extolled by Ber
enger, was a good, honest and learned man.
When young, he had lived in cities, and lie
had a taste and liking for the fine arts. Little
Peter’s drawing appeared to him very remark
able under the circumstances, and promised
well for the future. The good priest was
touched by this solitary vocation—this un
known genius, re-producing, as it were, some
fragments of the wonderful work of the great
Creator.
| “My little friend,” said lie, “though modes
ty is praiseworthy, 3-011 need not blush so
deeply. If you have done this in the sincer
ity of your heart, and have taken all the
pains you could, why be afraid to show it ?
There is no harm in drawing, unless you neg
lect your duties. It is much better to spend
your time thus than to waste it in idleness.
There is considerable merit in this sketch, the
trees are well executed, the grass looks nat
ural. I feel that you have contemplated the
works ot the great Master, and vour ad
miration ot them ought to be great, for if
it is so difficult for you to make a rude and
imperfect copy, what must it have been to
create all out of nothing?”
Thus did the good pastor encourage little
Peter ; he was the first confidant of this lat
! ent, afterwards so widely known.
“Work away, my child,” said he to him,
“you will, perhaps, be another Giotto. Giot
to was originally a shepherd, and he became
so great a painter that one of his pictures,
| representing the holy Mother of our Saviour,
was carried in a procession through the streets
of Florence by’ the enthusiastic people.”
The pastor, during the long winter even
ings when Peter was at leisure, taught him
to read and write, thus giving him the two
keys of knowledge. His progress was rapid,
i for his heart as well as his mind was interes
ted in acquiring information, and it was a
great pleasure to the pastor to witness his
i improvement
The ice melted, the snow-drops and prim
roses began to show themselves, and Peter
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, MARCH 27, 1851.
again went out with his flock. There was a ;
great change in his personal appearance,—!
he was larger and stronger. The develop-!
ment of his brain had caused his temples to ,
enlarge. His eye was clear and firm, his j
faee had a happy, intelligent expression. He
was not devoured by a precocious ambition ;
but the wine of science, though poured out
by the good priest with a prudent hand,
caused in this new soul a species of intoxi
cation which might have turned to pride un
der other circumstances. Fortunately Peter
was alone. Neither the rocks nor trees are
flatterers. The immensity of nature, with
which he was always surrounded, admonish
ed him of his own insignificance. Abun
dantly supplied by the pastor with paper and
pencils, he made a great number of draw
ings, and sometimes when wide awake, he
almost fancied he heltHlie gold pencil with
the sparkling point in his hand, and that the
lady bending over his shoulder, said to him,
“It is well done, my friend, you have not suf
fered the spark I kindled in your heart to be j
stifled. Persevere and you will have your j
reward.”
Little Peter having acquired a knowledge 1
of form, comprehended now to what extent
the lady was beautiful, and his breast, swelled
at the thought. He looked on the handker
chief stained with her precious blood, with in
creased devotion and fondness.
With the same sincerity with which we
maintained a short time since, that Peter was
was not in love, we must now confess that lie
is so, that he loves with all his heart. Her
cherished image never leaves him. He
sees it in the trees, in the clouds, in the foam
of the cascades. And he has improved won
derfully. This feeling has helped to give
force and power to his drawings.
An event very simple in appearance, and
not in the least degree dramatic, occurred at
this time, and by changing the vocation of
Peter, changed altogether the course of his
life.
The deputy of the department had oh- 1
tained from the minister of the interior a re- j
ligious painting for the church of . The ;
painter, who was a talented man and careful ;
of his works, came down with it himself; he i
wished to choose the place where it should
hang. He Went to the pastor’s house, who
spoke to him of the shepherd’s talent for
drawing, and of the progress he had already
made. Peter’s box was emptied before him ;
and Peter himself stood by, pale as death,
and with a swelling heart. He waited in si
lence the condemnation of his dream, for he j
could not imagine that so great a man as the ;
artist appeared to him, and the painter of a i
picture surrounded by a golden frame, could j
find the least merit in his pencil sketches. j
The painter looked over some drawings j
without saying anything, then his face lighted j
up, and he began to utter short exclamations: j
“How good that is, how natural, not the j
least fault. Corot could not have done bet- j
ter; here is a thistle that Delaharge might en- I
vy. This sheep lying down, is altogether in
the taste of Paul Potter.”
When he had finished, he rose, walked j
straight to Peter and shook hands with him
cordially, saying—
“ Though it is not very creditable to some
of our professors, my dear hoy, you know
more than all my pupils. Come with me I
to Paris. In six months 1 can give you the !
instruction you require; after that you will
walk alone, and if you do not stop, I dare
venture to predict you will go far.”
Little Peter, after being thoroughly lec
tured and forewarned of the dangers of the
modern Babylon, set out with the painter, ac
companied by Fidele, with whom he was un
willing to part, and the artist, with that kind
feeling which ever accompanies talent, would
not insist on his doing so. The dog would
not suffer himself to be hoisted on the coach
roof, hut followed the vehicle in great aston
ishment, reassured, however, by the good na
tured face of his master, who smiled on him
through the coach window.
We cannot follow, day by day, the pro
gress of little Peter; that would take us too
far. The works of the great masters which
he visited assiduously in the galleries, and of
which he made frequent copies, taught him a
thousand means of expressing his thoughts
which it would have been difficult to arrive at
alone. He passed from the severities of
Gasper Poussin] to the luminous softness of
Claude Lorraine ; from the wild impetuosity
of Salvator Rosa, to the truthful style of
Ruysdael; hut he did not become imbued
with the style of any one in particular, his
originality was too great for that. He had not,
like too many of our artists, begun in the stu
dio, and then visited nature in excursions of
six weeks, intending to paint afterwards by
the fireside, rocks from an arm chair, and cas
cades from seeing water poured out of a fla
gon by a complaisant valet; no, it was when |
familiar with woods—his eyes with rural ;
prospects —after a long and discreet familiar- !
ity with nature, that he had taken up, first
the pencil, afterwards the brush. The assis
tance of art came early enough to prevent
his taking a wrong course, yet so late as not
to interfere with his truthfulness.
After two years of unintermitted labor,
Peter had a picture admitted and remark
ed upon at the exhibition of the Lou
vre. He had greatly desired to see again
the lady with the golden pencil, hut though
he had looked attentively at the promenade,
in the theatre, and in churches, at every wo
man who bore any resemblance to her, he
could not recover her trace. He knew not
her name, all he knew of her was her ex
ceeding beauty. A vague hope nevertheless
sustained him. Something in his heart,
whispered they were destined to meet again.
Though modest, he was now fully aware of
his powers, and he felt that the distance be
tween himself and the star of his dream di
minished each day. From time to time, our
young painter sought the neighborhood of
his picture, and leaning upon the balus
trade, affected to look attentively on some
microscopic frame, while listening to the re
marks of the spectators ; and then he thought,
i not without reason, that the lady, who drew
herself, and who appeared fond of landscape
scenery, would certainly come to the exhibi
tion if she were in Paris. And, indeed, one
morning early, before the crowd assembled,
Peter saw advancing towards his picture, a
young woman clothed in black; he did not
see her face at first, but a small portion of
her white neck visible, and he was certain at
the first glance it was she.
It was indeed herself. The mourning she
i wore caused her to look fairer than ever, and
in the black framing of her hat, her pure pro-
file appeared like Parian marble. This ;
mourning dress troubled Peter. t ,
“Whom has she lost? her father—her motli
er? or perhaps she may be free,” said he to
himself in the most secret corner of his soul. ,
The landscape exhibited by the young ar
tist, was the same drawn by the lady when ;
himself, Fidele and his sheep sat for her. He ,
had naturally chosen for his first picture, the
place where the revelation ot art had been
made to him. The grassy declivity of trees,
the gray rocks piercing here and there the
earth’s green mantle. The craggy and curi
ous trunk of an old oak tree stricken by light
ning—all were there. Little Peter was paint
ed leaning on his crook with a beautiful air,
Fidele at his feet, and in the position indica-;
ted by the lad}’ herself.
The young woman remained for a long
time before the picture, which she examined
thoroughly, changing her position in order
the better to judge of the effect. ’1 hen a
thought struck her, she opened the catalogue
and sought the name of the painter and the |
subject of liis work. The name was un
known to her, and it was simply called a
landscape.
After having looked at some other pictures,
hut with a fatigued, indifferent air, she went
out with her companion.
Peter could not help following her at a j
distance, and when he saw her enter a car- |
riage, he sprang into a cabriolet, and told the
driver not to lose sight of the carriage lie I
pointed out.
By this means he found out where she re
sided. It was in a handsome house, St.
To know the street, and number of one’s
ideal is something gained. Peter thought so,
but he had still “to learn her name, to make
her acquaintance, and to win her affections,
and how to bring all this about strangely puz
zled our ex-shepherd.
Happy chance came to his assistance. One
morning shortly after his adventure in the
gallery, a charming little note was brought to
him. It ran thus :
Sir —I have just seen in the exhibition a charrrfing pic
ture of yours, which I should he happy to possess in my
little gallery, but I fear being too late. Ii it belongs to
you still, will you have the goodness not to sell it to any
other person, but. when the exhibition closes send it to
mv house, St. H St. No.— I will pay whatever
you ask. G. d’Escars.
The street and number were the same Pe
ter had marked. There could he no mistake.
Madam d’Escars was indeed the lady of his
dreams, the giver of the money with which
he bought his first sheets of paper—the lady
whose precious blood he still preserved on
liis handkerchief.
Our artist went to Madam d’Escars’, and
they soon became intimately acquainted.
The upright, artless mind, enthusiastic and
sensible at the same time, of little Peter, (for
so we shall call him to the end of our history,
that we may not divulge a celebrated name)
pleased the lady infinitely; she did not re
cognize in the young artist the little shepherd
who had served her as a model, but she
thought from the first visit he paid her, that
she must have seen his face somewhere.
Madam d’Escars had not told Peter that
she drew, for she was in no hurry to display
the talents she possessed; but one evening
the conversation leading to it, she confessed
that she had some sketches, which she would
have already shown him if she had thought
them worthy that honor.
She placed her album on the table, and
turned the leaves more or less rapidly, as
she thought the drawings worthy or unwor
thy of examination. When she came to the
one where little Peter and his flock were rep
resented, she said to him :
“This is the same scene you have repre
sented in your painting, which I bought, that
I might see realized what I wished to exe
cute. The coincidence is curious. You
have been to S , then ?”
“Yes, I passed some time there.”
“A charming part of the country, unap
preciated, and containing beauties one gener
ally seeks at a great distance from home.
But since I have drawn out my alburn it shall
not he for nothing. There is a blank page
you must draw something upon it.”
Little Peter drew the valley in which she
had been thrown from her horse. He repre
sented her on the ground, sustained by a lit
tle shepherd, who bathed her temples with a
wet handkerchief.
“How singular,” said she, “I fell from my
horse in a place like this, but no one witnes
sed the accident except a little shepherd
whom I remember to have seen indistinctly
when recovering from my swoon, hut whom
I never saw afterwards. Who can have re
lated this to you ?”
“That little shepherd and myself are one
and the same person,” said the artist, “and
here is the handkerchief with which I wiped
the blood as it flowed from your temple,
where I now perceive a slight scar.”
Madam d’Escars gave her hand to the
young painter, who kissed it respectfully;
then in a voice tremulous with emotion he
gave her an account of his life, the vague as
pirations which troubled him, his dreams, his
efforts, and lastly his love; for he now saw
clearly into his soul, and felt that though he
had once adored her as a superior being, he
now loved her as a woman.
What more need we say; it is not difficult
to guess the end of this history, and we
promised in the commencement there should
he neither catastrophe nor surprise. Madam
d’Escars after a few months became Madam
D , so that little Peter had the rare hap
piness of espousing his ideal, and felt that by
his industry and perseverance he had render
ed himself worthy of her. He loved beauti
ful scenery—he became a great landscape
painter. He loved a beautiful woman—he
married her. Happy man ! But what may
not one accomplish with a pure love and
a strong will.
OLD FASHIONED HONESTY.
Some years ago, two aged men, near
Marshalton, traded, or according to Virginia
parlance, swapped horses, on this condition—
that on that day week, the one who thought he
had the best of the bargain, should pay to the
other two bushels of wheat The day came,
and as luck would have it, they met about
half way between their respective homes.
“Where art thou going ?” said one.
“To thy house with the wheat,” answered
the other. “And whither art thou riding ?”
“Truly,” replied the first, “I was taking
the wheat to thy house.”
Each, pleased with his bargain, had thought
the wheat justly due to his neighbor, and was
going to pay it.
THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS.
BY FELIX.
“Oh, dear! I am so miserable!” saida lady,
throwing aside a book she had been reading.
“Life grows more and more a burden every
dav. What would I nos give for the secret j
of happiness!”
The lady sat half buried in cushions, in
a luxuriantly furnished apartment. She was ,
in the possession of everything that wealth ;
could purchase ; yet she was not happy.—
Leaning back in her cushioned chair, she j
closed her eves and remained in a listless,
fretful state of mind for many minutes. All \
at once she became conscious ol the presence
of a stranger who had entered and stood look
ing upon her. The intruder was a plainly
attired young woman ; but there was some
thing in her calm features and steady, pene
trating eyes, that inspired a feeling of respect
and deference. j
“You are unhappy ,” said the stranger, ad
dressing the lady.
“I am wretched,” was the reply.
“You have wealth, and all that wealth can
procure.”
“But there is here,” and she laid her hand
upon her breast, “an aching void; and Wealth j
cannot till it.”
“One thing thou lackest vet,” said the vis
itor.
“Ah! if I but knew what it was! If I |
could but learn the secret of happiness!”
“You may easily learn the secret. I will |
impart it.”
“Speak ! What would I not give to know!”
“It lies in human sympathy,” said the vis
itor.
The words sounded strangely in the lady’s
ears She did not comprehend them.
“Self-love corrodes the heart. When our
thoughts and affections are turned inward,
they lie upon the spirit as an oppressive bur
den. God made us for mutual sympathy and
affection. This is the true order of our be
ing ; and a perversion of this order brings a
consequence of pain. If you would be hap
py, you must think beyond yourself. You
must engage in things useful to others.—
There is no other way to purchase the bless
ing of contentment.”
And saying this, the visitor turned and slowly
retired. There was a moment of confusion
in the mind of the ladv, and then she was
conscious of having passed through a vivid
dream. The words of her visitor remained
as distinctly in her memory as if they had
been heard in wakefulness; yet they were far
from being entirely comprehended.
The incident aroused the lady’s mind and
rendered it more active, and in this very ac
tivity there was a sense of pleasure.
“It lies in human sympathy.” Thus she
mused. “What does it mean \ How will
this bring happiness ?”
As she thought thus, her eyes rested upon
an open letter, which had been hurriedly pe
rused and tossed aside some hours before.—
It w’as from an did friend, who, breaking
through a silence of years, had written and j
opened her bosom to one had long ago j
sympathized with her <ls a sister. But its de- !
tail of heart-trials since the parting came with
no interest to the lady who had grown self
ish in her isolation. Now she took the letter
and read it again with new emotions. Hu
man sympathy was awakened from its long
sleep. She felt the trials of her friend, and
her heart yearned with a desire to relieve
them. Sitting down under this impulse, she
wrote a long and tender letter. When she
arose, it was with a calmness of spirit un
known for months.
While in this state, she remembered a friend
who was in sore affliction; and with the remem
brance came a strong desire to comfort her
with sympath\\ Acting from this feeling,
she visited this friend, and in doing so felt a
pleasure that was pure and refreshing.
“It lies in human sympathy,” said she, on
returning home, and recurring again to the
sentiment of her dream. And now she un
derstood its meaning more clearly. Acting
in this new light, she comprehended daily more
and more intensely the words she had heard
in a\ision. She is happy, because she has
human sympathies. She is blessed, because
she seeks a blessing for others.
RESULT OF PRACTICAL JOKING.
Our lions are already named, and amongst
them we have been encouraged to reckon up
| on Madame M , who was once the till -
glorious star of the imperial reunions, and
bosom friend of Josephine, whose powers of
fascination she was said to rival, if not sur
pass. She returns stricken in years, bowed
down and grief-worn, with no other motive
for returning to Paris but that of being laid
| by the side of one to whom she has zealous
ly devoted her life, and whome she will not
I desert even in death. The history of her
withdrawal from France made a noise at the
time, and has been a subject of remark for
the chief officers of Napoleon’s household;
, she was, indeed, highly celebrated all over the
kingdom, for her grace and beauty, and ex
ercising unlimited sway over the court of
Josephine. A contemporary writes:
“Madame M is an enchantress; she
can do every thing in perfection; she can
; dance, sing, play—in short, do all things with
elegance and grace ; she excels in every art
except cela de s’ennuyer.”
It was this single incapacity which, indeed,
: rendered every other talent useless, and caus
ed her ruin and that of one of the bravest
| and most beloved of the young officers on
whom the army had founded its hopes of fu
ture greatness and glory.
It was during one of her annual visits to
the little town of P . where her family
j resided, that she was called upon most par
ticularly, one certain sultry afternoon, to ex
; ercise that very faculty the want of which
has been noticed by her contemporary, and
j to ennuver herself with all the courage she
could master. She was alone in the house ;
the maiden aunts, her guardians, were at
church—the gouty old general, her father,
| was slumbering in his study. She was not in
the humor to read; she was too much en
nuyed to work; in short, as she has since
owned, she vvas just in the cue for an adven
ture. But the little town of P was no
place for any thing of the kind. She went
to the window of her salon, which looked
out upon the Grand Place, but not a soul was
stirring; every blind was drawn down, every
jalousie vvas closed, and she wa3 about to
withdraw in despair, when, suddenly, to her
great delight, a detachment of soldiers was
seen to enter the Place, and there to halt, ev
idently bent on repose after a weary march.
At that moment, her -H! Genius, in the
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NO. 13.
j shape - of her bosom friend, entered the
room,- and the two ladies together proceeded
to* make some remarks upon the officer in
. command, who had accidentally stationed
himself beneath the balcony. It was the
Count F , one of the most brilliant sol
diers of Napoleon’s own creating, one who
had sworn allegiance to glory alone, and had
vowed that no other mistress should woo him
; from his worship of ambition and the ompe
| ror. Madame M ,on hearing this, de
j dared that the young count should alter his
mind in less than an hour, and that he should
woo her as a lover, and become desperately
I enamoured before the day was over.
“But the regiment will depart in Jess than
half an hour,” replied the friend; “the sol
| (Iters aro'only allowed to halt for a few min*
utes; you see they do not even refresh theni
; selves ; they are on their inarch to join the
i army for Spain.”
“I will bet yoa this garnet ring,” said Mad.
( M——, and immediately, without any other
thought than that of amusing herself, set about
the means of accomplishing her design.
Among other talents, she possessed that of
playing on the harp with great taste and skill.
1 She accordingly began to try its effects upon
j the poor doomed Count de F . The
friend stood behind the curtain and reported
i progress, while Madame M ran over the
! most fashionable airs. At first, the count
paid no heed to the syren ; soon, however,
’ perhaps under the same influence as herself,
he began to look around to see whence the
sweet sounds issued ; lie looked up—the friend
on the balcony smiled ; he bowed respectful
ly, and the friend then ventured to ask if she
had not the pleasure of beholding Count
F , whom she had danced with at the last
: ball at the Tuilleries.
| Soon Was the cAnnt seated in the salon, re*
| gretting the shortness of the time allotted to
him for cultivating the acquaintance of two
i such charming ladies, and vowing that, al
i though compelled to depart, the remembrance
j of their beauty would attend him forever, &c.
Wine and refreshments were brought; the
count drank hastily and plentifully ; he grew
more and more charmed with his hostess;
the time sped on ; no one had seen the Cotmt
enter the house; the soldiers stood upon the
Place, awaiting the command to march, which
Came not. It was almost dark, when the se
cond detachment, commanded by Geit. Mor
tier, marched into the town, and the dismay
created by the discovery of the long halt of
the party sent forward so many hours before*
and the absence of its commander, may be
well imagined;
Ail this while, the cause of the confusion
was lying insensible upon the sofa of Mad.
M ’s drawing room. Whether the wine,
from previous heat and exhaustion, had taken
undue effect, or whether she had mixed any
deleterious drug with it, has never been ascer
tained ; but the officer lay there until late the
following night, waking to a consciousness of
disgrace and dishonor, and scarcely remem
bering what had taken place. His despair
was terrific ; and in the first moments of the
| discovery of his position, he attempted to
blow out his brains, in the presence of Mad
ame M , who in vain sought to soothe him
by declaring that the affair was a harmless
joke ; that her father’s influence would save
him; that the emperor would pardon him for
her sake. It was in vain ;he was not to be
Comforted;
The wound, hovVever, was not mortal; not 1
did death ensue from despair; but the help*
less state of idiocy into which he was plung
ed after a violent brain fever, continued until
the hour of his death, which happened only
last month at Spa;
During all these years, Madame M
j never once left his side, but tended him with
i untiring love and devotion, thereby, in some
| degree, expiating the thoughtless folly of
which she had been guilt}'. And she now re
turns to France for the first time bince the
I adventure, bringing with her the corpse of
I Count F . amid his ancestors. —Letter
I from Paris.
TRUTH IS POWER*
W’ise sentiments, eloquently expressed,
are often to be met with in the fugitive liter
ature of the day, and are generally suffered
to perish. Years since, the following scrap
from an anonymous pen, was published in
some of the newspapers, and will bear to be
again sent abroad:
“Some men say that ‘wealth is power,’ and
some that ‘knowledge is power; above them
all I would assert that ‘Truth is Power;*
Wealth cannot purchase—talent cannot re*
| fute—knowledge cannot overreach—author*
ity cannot siience her. They all, like Felix,
| tremble at her presence. Fling lier in the
I most tremendous billows of popular commo
tion ; cast her in the seven-fold heated fur
nace of the tyrant’s wrath—she mounts
: aloft in the ark upon the summit of the del
uge,—she walks with the Son of God un
i touched through the conflagration. She is
i the ministering spirit which sheds on man
that bright and indestruetable principle of
light and glory, which is given by its mighty
1 Author, to animate, to illuminate, and to in
; spire the immortal soul; and which, like
I himself, is the same yesterday, to-day and
forever! When wealth and talent and
j knowledge and authority; when earth and
heaven itself shall have passed away, truth
shall rise, like the angels of Manoah’s sacri
fice, upon the flame of nature’s funeral pyre,
;j and ascend to her source, her heaven, her
home—the bosom of the mighty and eternal
’ God!” ___
j Aspect of Death in Childhood.—
Few things appear so very beautiful as a
j young child in its shroud. The little innocent
face looks so sublimely simple and confiding
amongst the cold terrors of death—crimeless,
| and fearless, that the little mortal has passed
alone under the shadow, and explored the
mystery of dissolution. There is death in
its subiirnest and purest image—no hatred, no
hypocrisy, no suspicion, no care for the mor
row, ever darkened that little face ; death is
! come lovingly upon it; there is nothing cruel
or harsh in its victory. The yearning of love,
indeed, cannot be stifled, for the prattle, and
smiles, and the little world of thoughts that
were so delightful, are gone forever. Awe,
too, will overcast us in its presence, for we
are looking on death; but we do not fear for
the lonely voyager—for the child has gone,
simple and trusting, into the presence of its
all-wise Father; and of such we know is the
Kingdom of Heaven.
o tr Let a mother feel as she ought, and sho
: will look as she feels. Mach of a child’s ear
; fjost moral traininr h bv looks and gestures.