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cut his sweetheart's name on Jefferson's Rock.

VI.

"Virginia seems to be fast becoming the centre of romance, "says a Northern paper." Sully's Note Book.

I was reading the other morning some old numbers of the Southern Literary Messenger; and found unusual interest in many of the articles, which, though written in a rough and homely style, very frequently, yet contain much matter. Among the papers which I perused was one upon the "Literature of Virginia" by "B." who seems to have been a clergyman from an allusion to himself in the concluding paragraph. The charge of roughness could certainly not be brought against this paper however-many of the sentences possessing a rare beauty.

The author thinks-or thought, for since the lines were written, twenty years have rolled away and he may be asleepI say it was the writer's opinion that there was as fine a field for historical composition in Virginia for the Virginian, as there had been in Roman annals for Livy. He supports this declaration with forcible arguments and then passes to a consideration of the probable appearance of Virginia historians and writers in other branches; recommending action by the Legislature.

Here is the mistake. It will always be impossible to create a body of authors by legislative enactments. That rests with the people, and until public attention is attracted to home scenes and annals, I fear there will be no work of any merit produced. The author lives both materially and morally upon popular sympathy. If this sympathy is "i' the air" the general atmosphere-then we shall have a great series of books. Not until that time however. At present we are too fond of chopping political logic, and literature is not considered respectable, for it is not influential since it brings moderate pecuniary rewards, while the other professions bring large rewards.

It seems to me however that the time

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As I lie under the pines I think how many scenes of passion and romance the the old house yonder, and the localities hereabouts have witnessed. In fact this portion of Virginia is full of traditions.

There is an old tavern on the road not far off, and whenever I pass it I think of crime. The "place seems haunted." The porch which ran around the second floor is falling forward-slowly toppling to the ground. The windows are broken the door stands wide open-everything about the edifice speaks of decay.

I said to myself "that is a place where in old times men met to drink deep, and hazard whole estates on the turn of a card-one day there was probably a dispute, and a murder, for the place whispers 'crime!'"

I was right. There was a murder there the particulars of which I shall however forbear relating for the present. I leave the horrible, stricken building, paralyzed by the judgment of the Almighty, to its remorse and despair-to its cheerless days, and stormy nights.

I think, as I lie beneath the pines here, however, and watch their waving summits clearly cut against the deep-blue sky, that the cheerful old family mansion yonder has lived another life. In Virginia we make weddings, christenings and rejoicings of every description, a neighborhood affair. When Phoebe was married we had an immense mass of wed

ding favors, and a great merrymaking. Bob's was the only sad face-but then he had courted her for seven years. Phoebe's grave is yonder in the pines behind the wall.

VIII.

"I like harvest songs, because I heard them in my infancy and boyhood. I wish I was a boy again." Sully's Note Book.

The sun has set in a mass of the most beautiful purple clouds, and the song of the Harvesters returning home, comes like a murmur across the hills of evening.

In Virginia we think the slaves are happy. They work regularly and eat heartily and sleep soundly.

The Harvesters have been cutting all day, and singing. There is a peculiar song which I am familiar with: the chorus of which is singularly sweet and mournful. It is ringing in my ears now;

at least in my memory. I heard it once when I was thinking of my childhood and my misfortunes-for even Sully has not escaped some-and shall always connect it with the scene then. It came echoing across the fields, and now echoes in my heart.

I must go home. But the harvest song of other years is sounding. The purple light was dying then, as now, over the wide fields and forests, and the evening came and went with music. Sully like Dogberry has "had losses!"

The children come to meet me as I ponder: and Ponto wishes to play. How strange life is. I have thought of many things beneath the pines, a few of which I have jotted down. The warm haze of of the quiet afternoon of June has brought my memories forth, but I am growing tranquil again.

"Good Ponto! poor fellow! You are a happy dog!"

THE PAINTER AND HIS PUPIL.*

A FLEMISH STORY.

My father was a trader and distiller at Schiedam, on the Maas. Without being wealthy, we enjoyed the means of procuring every social comfort. We gave and received visits from a few old friends; we went occasionally to the theatre; and my father had his tulip-garden and summer-house at a little distance from Schiedam, on the banks of the canal, which connects the town with the river.

But my father and mother, whose only child I was, cherished one dream of ambition, in which, fortunately, my own tastes led me to participate: they wanted me to become a painter. "Let me but see a picture by Franz Linden in the gallery at Rotterdam," said my father, "and I shall die happy." So, at fourteen years of age, I was removed from school, and placed in the classes of Messer Kesler, an artist living at Delft. Here I made such progress, that by the time I

had reached my nineteenth birthday, I was transferred to the atelier of Hans van Roos, a descendant of the celebrated family of that name. Van Roos was not more than thirty-eight or forty, and had already acquired a considerable reputation as a painter of portraits and sacred subjects. There was an alter-piece of his in one of our finest churches; his works had occupied the place of honor for the last six years at the annual exhibition; and for portraiture he numbered among his patrons most of the wealthy merchants and burgomasters of the city. Indeed, there could be no question that my master was rapidly acquiring a fortune equal to his popularity.

Still, he was not a cheerful man. It was whispered by the pupils that he had met with a disappointment early in lifethat he had loved, was accepted, and on the eve of marriage, was rejected by the

* From Chamber's Journal.

The

lady for a more wealthy suitor. story, however, was founded merely on conjecture, if not originating in pure fable; for no one in Rotterdam knew the history of his youth. He came from Friesland, in the north of Holland, when a very young man; he had always been the same gloomy, pallid, labor-loving citizen. He was a rigid Calvinist; he was sparing of domestic expenditure, and liberal to the poor; this every one could tell you, and no one knew more.

The number of his pupils was limited to six. He kept us continually at work, and scarcely permitted us to exchange a word with each other during the day. Standing there among us so silently, with the light from above shining down upon his pallid face, and, contrasting with the sombre folds of his long black dressinggown, he looked almost like some stern old picture himself. To tell the truth, we were all afraid of him; not that he was harsh, not that he assumed any overbearing authority; on the contrary, he was stately, silent, and frigidly polite; and that was far more impressive. None of us resided in his house, for he lived in the deepest seclusion. I had a second floor in a neighboring street, and two of my fellow-students occupied rooms in the same house. We used to meet at night in each other's chambers, and make excursions to the exhibitions and theatres: and sometimes, on a summer's evening, we would have a pleasure-boat, and row for a mile or two down the river. We were merry enough then, and not quite so silent I promise you, as in the gloomy studio of Hans van Roos.

In the mean time, I was ambitious and anxious to glean every benefit from my master's instructions. I improved rapidly, and my paintings soon excelled those of the other five. My taste did not incline to sacred subjects, like that of Van Roos, but rather to the familiar rural style of Berghem and Paul Potter. It was my great delight to wander along the rich pasture-lands, to watch the amber sunset, the herds going home to the dairy,

the lazy wind-mills, and the calm clear waters of the canals, scarcely ruffled by the passage of the public treckshuyt.* In depicting scenes of this nature—

"The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail"—

I was singularly fortunate. My master never praised me by word or look; but when my father came up from Schiedam to visit me, he drew him aside and told him, in a voice inaudible to the rest, that "Messer Franz would be a credit to the profession;" which so delighted the good distiller, that he straightway took me out with him for the day, and, after giving me fifteen gold pieces, as a testimony of his satisfaction, took me to dine with his friend the burgomaster, Von Gael. It was an eventful visit for me. On that evening I first learned to love.

Few people, I think, would at that time have denied the personal attractions of Gertrude von Gael; yet I do not know that it was so much her features as her soft voice and gentle womanly grace that so completely fascinated me. Though so young she performed the honors of her father's princely table with self-possession and good-breeding. In the evening, she sang some sweet German songs to her own simple accompaniment. We talked of books and poetry. I found her well read in English, French, and German literature. We spoke of art; and she discovered both judgment and enthusiasm.

As we took our leave at night, the burgomaster shook me warmly by the hand, and told me to come often. I fancied that Gertrude's blue eyes brightened when he said it, and I felt the color rush quickly to my brow as I bowed and thanked him.

"Franz," said my father, when we were once more in the street, "how old are you?"

"Just twenty-two, sir," I replied, rather surprised at the question.

"You will not be dependent on your brush, my boy," continued my father, as he leaned on my arm and looked back at

* Canal boat.

the lofty mansion we had just left. "I have been neither wasteful nor unsuccessful, and it will be my pride to leave you a respectable income at my death." I inclined my head in silence, and wandered what would come next.

"Burgomeister von Gael is one of my oldest friends," said my father.

"I have often heard you speak of him, sir," I replied.

"And he is rich."

"So I should suppose."

"Gertrude will have a fine fortune," said my father as if thinking aloud.

I bowed again, but this time rather nervously.

"Marry her, Franz."

I dropped his arm and started back. "Sir!" I faltered: "I-I-marry the Fräulein von Gael!"

"And pray, sir, why not!" said my father curtly, stopping short in his walk and leaning both hands upon the top of his walking-stick.

I made no reply.

"Why not, sir?" repeated my father very energetically. "What could you wish for better? The young lady is handsome, good-tempered, educated, rich. Now, Franz, if I thought you had been such a fool as to form any other attachment without"

"O, sir, you do me injustice!" I cried. "Indeed, I know no one-have seen no other lady. But-do you think that— that she would have me, sir!"

"Try her, Franz," said my father goodhumoredly, as he resumed my arm. "If I am not very much mistaken, the burgomeister would be as pleased as myself; and as for the fraulein-women are easily won."

We had by this time reached the door of the inn where my father was to sleep for the night. As he left me, his last words were. "Try her, Franz-try her.".

From this time I became a frequent visitor at the house of the Burgomaster von Gael. It was a large old-fashioned mansion, built of red brick, and situated upon the famous lines of houses known as the Boompjes. In front lay the broad shning river, crowded with merchant

vessels, from whose masts fluttered the flags of all the trading nations of the world. Tall trees, thick with foliage, lined the quays, and cast a pleasant shade, through which the sunlight flic ered brightly upon the spacious drawing-rooms of Gertrude's home.

Here, night after night, when the studies of the day were past, I used to sit with her beside the open window, and watch the busy passing crowd beneath, the rippling river, and the rising moon that tipped the masts and city spires with silver. Here, listening to the accents of of a distant ballad-singer, or to the far murmur of voices from the shipping, we read together from the pages of our favorite poets, and counted the first pale stars that trembled into light.

It was a happy time. But there came at last a time still happier, when, one still evening as we sat alone, conversing in unfrequent whispers, and listening to the beating of each other's heart, I told Gertrude that I loved her; and she, in answer, laid her fair head silently upon my shoulder with a sweet confidence, as she were content so to rest forever. Just as my father had predicted, the Burgomaster showed every mark of satisfaction, and readily sanctioned our betrothal, specifying but one condition, and this was that our marriage should not take place till I had attained my twenty-fifth year. It was a long time to wait; but I should by that time, perhaps, have made a name in my profession. I intended soon to send a picture to the annual exhibition— and who could tell what I might not do in three years to show Gertrude how dearly I loved her!

And so our happy youth rolled on, and the quaint old dial in Messer von Gael's tulip-garden told the passages of our golden hours. In the mean time I worked sedulously at my picture; I labored upon it all the winter; and when spring-time came, I sent it in, with no small anxiety as to its probable position upon the walls of the gallery. It was a view in one of the streets of Rotterdam. There were the high old houses, with their gables and carven doorways, and the red sun-set glittering on the bright, winking panes

of the upper windows-the canal, flowing down the centre of the street, crossed by its white drawbridge, with a barge just passing underneath the green trees spreading a long evening shadow across the yellow paving of the roadway, and the spire of the Church of St. Lawrence rising high beyond, against the clear warm sky. When it was quite finished, and about to be sent away, even Hans van Roos nodded a cold encouragement, and said that it deserved a good position. He had himself prepared a painting this year, on a more ambitious scale, and a larger canvas than usual. It was a sacred subject, and represented the Conversion of St. Paul. His pupils admired it warmly, and none more than myself. We all pronounced it to be his master-piece, and the artist was evidently of our opinion.

The day of exhibition came at last. I had scarcely slept the previous night; and the early morning found me, with a number of other students, waiting impatiently before the yet unopened door. When I arrived, it wanted an hour to the time; but half the day seemed to elapse before we heard the heavy bolts give way inside, and then forced our way struggling through the narrow barriers. I had flown up the staircase, and found myself in the first room, amid the bright walls of paintings and gilt frames. I had forgotten to purchase a catalogue at the entrance, and I had not patience to go back for it; so I strode round and round the apartment, looking eagerly for my picture; it was nowhere to be seen, so I passed on to the next; here my search was equally unsuccessful.

"It must be in the third room," I said to myself, "where all the best works are placed! Well, if it be hung ever so high, or in ever so dark a corner, it is at all events, an honor to have one's picture in the third room!"

But, though I spoke so bravely, it was with a sinking heart I ventured in. I could not really hope for a good place among the magnates of the art; while in either of the other rooms, there had been a possibility that my picture might receive a tolerable situation.

The house had formerly been the man

sion of a merchant, of enormous wealth, who had left it, with his valuable collection of paintings, for the purpose of affording encouragement to Flemish art. The third room had been his reception chamber, and the space over the magnificently carved chimney was assigned, as the place of honor, to the best painting. The painter of this picture always received a costly prize, for which he was likewise indebted to the munificence of the founder. To this spot my eyes were naturally turned as I entered the door. Was I dreaming? I stood still-I turned hot and cold by turns-I ran forward. It was no delusion! There was my picture, my own picture, in its little modest frame, installed in the chief place of all the gallery! And there, too, was the official card, stuck in the corner, with the words, "PRIZE PAINTING," printed in shining gold letters in the middle! I ran down the staircase and bought a catalogue, that my eyes might be gladdened by the confirmation of this joy; and there, sure enough, was printed at the commencement: ANNUAL PRIZE PAINTING- View in Rotterdam, No. 120-FRANZ LINDEN." I could have wept for delight. I was never tired of looking at my picture: I walked from one side to the other-I reretreated-I advanced closer to it-I looked at it in every possible light, and forgot all but my happiness.

"A very charming little painting, sir," said a voice at my elbow.

It was an elderly gentleman, with gold spectacles and an umbrella. I colored up, and said falteringly: "Do you think so?"

"I do sir," said the old gentleman, I am an amateur-I am very fond of pictures. I presume that you are, also an admirer of art?"

I bowed.

"Very nice little painting indeed: ve-ry nice," he continued, as he wiped his glasses and adjusted them with the air of a connoisseur. "Water very liquid, colors very pure, sky transparent, perspective admirable. I'll buy it."

"Will you?" I exclaimed, joyfully. O, thank you, sir!"

"O," said the old gentleman, turning suddenly upon me, and smiling kindly

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