relief. "I am now thirteen," said the young Murillo, "and life in painting escutcheons, or in daubing bad pictures you cannot suppose, mother, that I will spend my for a venture to America. No; I feel, mother, that I was born to be a painter; I know it by the glow at my heart, and the kindling of my brow, at the sight of a fine painting. Yes, were it only by the quicker flow of the blood through the veins when the names of Raphael, of Correggio, of Rubens, of Van Dyck, and still more, that of our countryman, Velasquez, are pronounced before me, I feel that I was born to be a painter. I pray you, father, do not oppose my vocation." "But where are the means? we are so poor." it from him, and, without another word, was gone. | her; Esteban, who had risen, stood opposite to Frank seemed irresolute whether to follow him or re- them. main with his sister, who had staggered against a tree, and was holding by it as if for support. But she turned and fled from him as though she feared him, rushed to her own room, and, having locked the door, fell involuntarily upon her knees, though she had not calmness for prayer, buried her face in her hands, and seemed to court the tears which would not come to her And here we leave her. Shall we pity her? We may fairly do so. We pity the child who, ten times warned, plays on the shore without once looking to the rising waters till they have ingulfed him and shut out all hope of escape. The sin which causes misery should at the same time deepen pity, because it cuts away all support from the miserable, except that which is to be gradually and painfully attained by repentance. Little can pride avail when the soul is left desolate; and self-satisfaction (unlike self-approval) is feebler still. These may mould the outward demeanour into coldness and calmness, but they do but enhance and embitter the struggle within, by adding to it elements of pure evil, which retard and hinder the process of restoration, in itself painful enough. Edith was stunned. Even now she could scarcely believe that she had indeed seen him, and that such words had passed between them. Again and again she told herself that she was wronged-again and again the might of a shadowy and unacknowledged truth put her to silence. But the result was in either case the same. The one prop was broken, the one light quenched-the beauty, the hope, the life of life was gone. Nothing was left but darkness, without a guide; and a heavy burthen, with no strength to bear it. At last she wept, and the tears were of utter misery, without softness, without comfort-a bodily revulsion, leaving the heart still parched and burning, as by a destructive fire. It was thus that Philip Everard and Edith Kinnaird parted for the second time. BARTHELEMI ESTEBAN MURILLO; "FATHER, you are much better now, and will soon be able to resume your work," said the little Murillo. "You see that it is not very difficult to please the merchant Ozorio, and the pictures for America are easily done. You will be quite able to take my place after my departure." "After your departure!" exclaimed Theresina, entering with a breakfast tray, which she almost let "Are you going away?" added she, with a cry of agony. fall. My dear mother," said Barthélemi, as he ran to her, and, taking from her the tray, laid it on a table, then, clasping her hands in his, and pressing them to his lips," My dear mamma, do not oppose it; you see my father says not a word." "But I cannot bear you to leave me. Where do you want to go?" said the poor mother, bursting into tears. "But they found masters who were glad to admit them into their schools." "The greatest master in the art of painting is Nature, father. Our countryman, Velasquez, is a proof of it.” "I must say, like little Meneses, that the name of Velasquez is never out of your mouth," said his mother. "And I will answer you as I do him, mother; that he is of Seville, and Seville is proud of him, and I will have it yet one day proud of me. knew what honours were paid him, ten years ago, at Oh! if you Madrid, in 1625. He drew the portrait of the Canon Tonesca so admirably, that the king employed him to take his likeness. He represented the prince covered with armour, and mounted on a magnificent horse. The king having, on a holiday, had the picture exhibited before the church of San Filippo, it excited such enthusiasm, that the people bore it in triumph to the palace. Velasquez is a friend of Rubens, and is now in Italy with him. That is the reason I want to go there." But how? where are the means?" again demanded Esteban. "The means may be slow, but they are sure," said Barthélemi. "I intend buying canvass, cutting it into small squares, and painting on each of these squares saints, which I can copy from the pictures in the churches, or flowers, which I can sketch in the fields or gardens. I have already some by me, but not enough; and I must work for Ozorio two months at the very least to complete the sum." "Your plan is not amiss; but I think you are too young, my dear Barthélemi, to go alone into Italy. I know you are pious, and your mother and I have endeavoured to instil moral principles, which I trust have taken deep root in your heart. I will allow you to go, but not just yet." "But as soon as I have the entire sum,-may I not go then, father?" "Well, be it so," said his father. Satisfied with this assent to his plan, which Esteban "Since you must know, listen to me, my dear had only given because he fully relied on his having mother," said the child, so seriously, with such a it in his power to prevent the completion of the sum decided tone, and such a beaming glance, that The- until the moment he himself judged it advisable to resina looked at him more than once, as if to assure let his son leave them, Barthélemi sat down to his herself that he was indeed her son, the little Barthé-breakfast, gaily talking of his plans; and, the repast lemi Esteban Murillo, whom, not long since, she cradled on her knees. He appeared to the poor mother to have grown a whole head in a second. She sat down, and Barthélemi seated himself beside (1) Continued from p. 8. over, he took up his picture, and, looking at it with a pensive air, he exclaimed, "It would be a pity to sell this even for ten ducats!" Then, rolling it up, he put it under his arm, and took the road to the cloister of San Francisco. CHAPTER V. Barthélemi no sooner reached the cloister, than he singled out the picture of St. John, planted himself before it, and began to paint. Meneses having asked permission to absent himself, left him alone; and so entire was the young artist's absorption in his work, that he did not perceive for some moments that a stranger had entered the cloister, and was gazing upon him with silent attention. He was roused by the exclamation, "It is not bad at all, my boy,-not bad at all. Who is your master?" He turned, and beheld a gentleman, richly attired, and of tall, commanding figure. "Alas! Senor, I have no master," replied Barthélemi. "That is a pity," replied the unknown. "Still, if you had but an opportunity of drinking in inspiration from some of the great masters, you might pass for a master yourself." "There is one who would indeed inspire me, Senor," replied the boy; "but, unfortunately, I know nothing of him but his fame.' Velasquez." The stranger smiled with an undefined expression. "There are far greater than he, my child,-Van Dyck, Rubens, Raphael, Le Poussin, and MichelAngelo." "I am but a child, it is true, Senor," replied Barthélemi, stealing a glance at the stranger; "but I feel full sure Velasquez might take his place among those painters you have named. Methinks, Senor, you cannot be an artist. Pray say, am I mistaken?" Meneses returned at this moment; Barthélemi whispered to him, "Go and ask the servants who are standing there in the porch the name of their master." The question of the young Murillo had somewhat embarrassed the stranger, for Meneses had returned from accomplishing his errand before he had replied to it. "His name is Senor Jacques Rodriquez de Sylva," said Meneses, in a whisper to his companion, who replied, with a glance at the stranger," I knew I was right." This little incident had not escaped the notice of the stranger, who had seen, heard, and understood all. "And how right?" inquired he of Barthélemi. "Ah! the Senor has overheard all," said young Murillo. "All," replied Don Rodriguez. Well, then, I repeat that I am not at all surprised at your being a great lord," said Barthélemi. "And, in my turn, I also repeat, Why?" "Because, in despising Velasquez, have spoken you more like a great lord than an artist," said the young painter. "Is it then impossible to be at the same time an artist and a great lord, my child?" "It may be, but it rarely happens, Senor; so rarely that we do not meet with one twice in the same century, and as we have already one instance of it in Rubens-" "You do not think I am likely to be another," said Don Rodriguez, finishing his sentence for him, "and you may be right, but I am not angry, my young master. Still to prove to you that a great lord may at least know how to appreciate the talents of an artist, I perceive so many beauties in your picture that I will buy it from you. But, first, is it for sale?" "Yes, Senor." ducats." "That would be a falsehood; fie, Meneses !" said Barthélemi. "You said, my young master," said the stranger, attentively watching the two children, "that you yesterday refused-eh-how much did you say?" "Six ducats, Senor," replied Barthélemi, unhesitatingly. "Well, I will give you twenty; am I to consider the picture as mine?" "But it is not worth that!" said Barthélemi, blushing up to his eyes at once with pleasure and modesty. "I know that," said Don Rodriguez. "Then, Senor, you are making game of me." "I am not paying the artist as he is now," said Don Rodriguez, "but as he will be: you cannot study here, there is no school; with my twenty ducats you can set out to Madrid." "Oh, if I had enough to go into Italy!" cried young Murillo, in such a tone of sadness that the stranger appeared moved at it. "You can go to the Gallo-Spanish school. I will give you a line to him who is at the head of it." Young Murillo started up, and eagerly asked, "Is it for Velasquez?" The stranger smiled. "For Velasquez." "And I shall see him-I shall see him!" "As you see me now.' "Oh! then, Senor, you may rest satisfied that you have rendered Barthélemi happy," said Meneses. Velasquez is his hero, his model. And if that were all, there would be no harm done, but he imitates him in everything. Velasquez has a peasant who laughs and cries whenever his master likes, but as I cannot laugh or cry when Murillo pleases, many is the woeful hour I pass." The young Murillo had remained silent as if bewildered by the prospect thus suddenly opened to him. He was to go to Madrid!-he was to see Velasquez!— It all seemed like a dream. Don Rodriguez now took his hand and said, "This evening at the Hotel de Castillo, in the Piazza de-la-Plata, at seven o'clock." He had spoken and disappeared before Murillo had recovered from his trance of wonder and joy. CHAPTER VI. As Barthélemi returned home grave and serious in the thoughts of the future now lying before him, and followed by Meneses, who was carrying part of the working apparatus of the young painter, Donna Theresina came out to meet him into the middle of the street. "Good news!" said she, "you had hardly gone out this morning when Senor Ozorio arrived, bringing me the ten ducats which you yesterday demanded for your picture; you must take it to him after dinner." "At what hour was Ozorio here?" inquired Barthélemi. "At ten o'clock. I have locked up your ten ducats with the rest of your little store.' "How unfortunate!" said Barthélemi, "I have just been promised twenty for it." bars, is significant of the medieval ages, and serves as a fit portal to the ancient edifice. It was at this palace that Edward VI. was informed of the death of the king his father, and it was thence that he was conducted to the throne by the Earl of Hertford and Sir Thomas Brown. The walk from the town to Forty Hill and Clay Hill is through a long straggling street, as ugly and uninteresting as may be. A fall of water passing through the park of Forty Hall, gives occasion for a bridge which is designated Maiden's Bridge, a name in the highest degree suggestive of some romantic legend; but if any such existed, all trace of it seems now lost. It is, however, a pretty spot, and the lanes from this road to the various parts of Cheshunt and Theobalds are very beautiful. As in one of them the boundaries of the parish and county are situate, it is necessary here to terminate this sketch, otherwise we shall be trenching on ground which may serve as subject-matter for some future excursion. Poetry. [In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is SONNETS ON IRELAND. BY CHARLES INGHAM BLACK, S.T.C.D., C.C. SUGGESTED BY MR. PETRIE'S WORK ON THE ROUND TOWERS. In the town, two houses, now occupied as inns, bear traces of an antique origin; their fronts are of the round gable-headed style of architecture, and by night look picturesque enough. One of them is said to have been the residence of Elizabeth's prime favourite, the unfortunate Earl of Essex. The church deserves a visit for the sake of one or two of its monuments, the interior, though handsome, presenting no very marked features of interest. It contains, however, an organ adorned with very superior carving, as delicately executed as some of the old Flemish work. In the vestry is the monument of Sir Nicholas Raynton and his lady. It consists of a canopy surmounted by heraldic insignia, and supported by two printed in Italics at the end.] columns of black marble. Underneath an inscription is the figure of a man in armour, with ruff and coif and the robe of a Lord Mayor. Again below this is the figure of a lady in the dress of a Lady Mayoress, and at the base are several kneeling effigies. This memorial is exactly two centuries old, is richly coloured, and presents a fine specimen of its peculiar period. Opposite to it is an altar tomb of very elegant design, and certainly the oldest in the church. It was erected to the memory of the Lady Joyce Tiptoft, mother of the clever Earl of Worcester; she died in 1446, but it is believed that the arch over the the effigy is of a later date. This arch has on its upper surface a border of oak-leaves, and is further adorned with shields and coats-of-arms. The marble slab on the tomb itself is inlaid with brass: the lady is represented of the size of life, in the costume of the period, having a handsome head-dress, mantle, kirtle, and cordon, all enriched with jewels. Above the head is a triple canopy, and pillars with shields appended to the columns reach to the base of the figure, whilst round the outer sides there is an inscription interrupted at different words by quaint devices of birds, beasts, and strange-looking nondescripts. The inscription, as well as it can be made out, runs thus: "D'na Iocosa quondam filia et una hered' Caroli D'ni Powes ac etiain filia et una hered' Honorabillisime D'ne Marchie, et uxor famossissimo militi Johanni Typtoft que obit xx13 die Septe'br', A. D'ni, MCCCCXLVJ cujus anime, et omniis' fidelin' defunctor, I'. h'. s'. pro sua sacratissima passione, misereat." This is a famous brass, and is well known to all archæologists. Gough and Weever, and more recently Boutell, speak in the highest terms of this effigy. It is a great pity that it should be allowed to be disfigured by a window placed in the arch so as to cut it in half and thereby detract from its effect. The walls of the aisles abound with tablets, and plates, of no particular interest, however, with the exception of a Latin inscription to the memory of the celebrated Abernethy, who lies beneath. Very near the church and standing in the grave-yard, is an old house of which a good sketch might be taken. This is the Free Grammar school: it is built of red brick, and its upper windows are, like the inns before named, gable-headed. The vile taste of some utilitarian renovator has destroyed much of the antique air of this building, by taking out the lattice windows from its first story, and substituting plain sashes in their stead. Thine was the promise of perpetual youth; But these have passed-and now no voice of praise Yet still the shades of thy majestic story Capped with Time's mists-grey, sorrowful, and solemn, ▲ SONG. Down where the low-voiced brook Over its edges, Where in the thickets nigh Turtles are wooing, Of their soft cooing; Cool murmurs keeping; Hours without number, CONTENTS. When Wild War's Deadly A New Poet Memoranda of Natural Phe- The Maiden Aunt, No. IV. 19 21 23 Page Barthélemi Esteban Murillo; POETRY: Sonnets of Ireland............ 32 24 PRINTED by RICHARD CLAY, of Nos. 7 and 8, Bread Street Hill, in the PRICE THREE HALF-PENCE. |