able to discover him, Van Ostade determined on remaining where he was till evening, in the hope of being able to effect some plan for his escape. For nearly four hours he endeavoured to keep himself warm by pacing backwards and forwards on the little terrace before mentioned; soon after it became dark he heard slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase, and presently saw Mr. Francis Hals approach, holding a lantern in one hand and a covered basket in the other; he placed them on the ground and opened the door.

"How, sluggard! are you asleep?" said he, on entering.

"No, master," answered the child, in a feeble voice, and, although awakened so suddenly, the little prisoner made but one leap from his bed to his easel, before which Francis Hals held up his lantern.

"Is the picture finished?" "Yes, master."

"And have you sketched another ?”

"I was very cold, master, and very hungry." "There is some bread in this basket, and a porringer of soup, which my wife was so kind as to send you; take and eat it. This picture is indeed much worse than the last," added he, looking at it by the light of the lantern; "it is execrable! you are not worth the bread you eat!"

"I will try to do better, master; do not be angry," said the trembling prisoner, timidly.

"If I allow you to begin another, I forewarn you that if it is not better done than this, 1 will dismiss you. Well, glutton, are you going to devour everything? You had better keep some of your bread for to-morrow; you have enough to spare."

He then took the picture off the easel, and leaving the garret, he fastened the door with the two padlocks, and after carefully examining if they were well secured, he descended the stairs, taking with him the picture and the lantern.

As soon as the steps of the cruel miser were out of hearing, Van Ostade hastened to the skylight of the garret, which he reached from the terrace, and forcing it open, he leaped into the room.

"Do not be frightened, my poor little fellow," said he, "I am come to deliver you." "To deliver me!" said the child, quite astonished; "from what ?"

"Follow me."

"Follow you; where?"

During this dialogue Van Ostade had more closely examined the child; his voice, the words of the cruel miser, all that had passed

since he entered the house, suddenly rushed to his mind, and he exclaimed

"It is Adrian, poor Adrian Brauwer!" "Alas! yes, it is I!"

"Do you not remember your old friend, Van Ostade?"

"Van Ostade! Ah yes, I recollect," said Adrian, in a feeble voice.

Van Ostade, perceiving that he was quite benumbed with the cold, pressed him to his bosom to warn him; "Come, my poor boy," said he, "follow me; let us hasten out of this house."

"Out of this house," said he; "and then who will teach me to be a painter? I want to become a great painter."

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You are one, you are one!—I, Van Ostade, tell you so." Then, without giving him time for further objections, he wrapped his cloak about him, and lifting him as if he had been an infant, he made his way out as he had entered, and descending the staircase, soon reached the street in safety.

The first person they met was Adrian's mother, who sat weeping and sobbing on the same stone on which Van Ostade had left her; she knew her son the moment he appeared, notwithstanding the change which time and suffering had occasioned. A mother's heart could not be deceived.

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My son!" " My mother!" were the only words they could utter; but the tears that were shed were no longer those of sorrow, but of the joy and happiness of meeting. Van Ostade enjoyed the touching scene, nor did he leave his friend without furnishing him with the means of providing for his first wants. Adrian purchased some colours, brushes, and a palette; and with these, happy as a king, he thought no more of the past, but joyfully accompanied his mother to Oudenard. He set to work with such diligence, that he soon finished a picture which far surpassed any former one; but the troubles of the poor boy were not yet over, the dealer to whom he . offered his work for sale was an old Jew, who, seeing an inexperienced youth, depreciated the picture so much that Adrian exclaimed, "Ah, Mr. Hals was right, and Van Ostade is deceived in me!" He sold the picture for the price offered, and went home weeping to his mother.

"Wife," said Henry Van Soomeren, landlord of the Golden Lion,' in Amsterdam, one summer morning, in 1625, to a pretty little fat woman, who was plucking a pair of ducks in the kitchen," where have you sent Adrian Brauwer?"

"Where have I sent him! Do I ever meddle with your Adrian Brauwer?” replied Madame Van Soomeren, angrily; "what is your favourite good for, that I should give him any orders? He is most likely up stairs in the corner of some garret, daubing over that fine copper-plate you gave him last month, and which you had better have sold and turned into pence."

"If he is up stairs daubing, as you call it, wife, I would not have him disturbed; that boy draws splendidly-I know he does."

"A tavern boy! and to be handling paintbrushes, instead of sweeping and making the beds! it is ridiculous, I have no name for it," said his wife, shrugging her shoulders.

"A tavern boy! and what was our own son, I ask you, Marianne? He was only a tavern boy, and yet he is now a great painter; he paints history, landscapes, flowers, everything."

"But he was our own son, and this is only a starved apprentice."

"I hope that while he is with us he will not be starved, Marianne; and I hope he will make enough to keep his mother from starving also; for he sends her every farthing he makes, and that shows a good disposition, I think."

"That will keep me from turning him out of doors," said his wife, a little softened by what her husband had just told her; "but still, I say it is ridiculous to see a tavern boy do nothing in a tavern, not even pluck ducks, and spend his time from morning till night in daubing; your Adrian Brauwer is a lazy fellow."

At that moment a fresh rosy-looking lad entered the kitchen, with a large picture in his hand. "See master," said he, "I have finished my picture; look at it-look at it, mistress!"

"And soon both master and mistress stood in ecstacy before the picture, which represented a quarrel that had taken place between the country people and the soldiers.

"How well he has done it!" exclaimed both husband and wife at once.

"How exactly like that is to Joseph our neighbour! and look at big Matthew the fruiterer, and the soldiers, wife!"

"And how well he has done our house," said she, "with the tables and benches, the jugs and the glasses, the big clock, and even the cat, that looks frightened at the fray! nothing is left out. It was all the very image of what you have daubed there, my boy."

"It must be hung up in the parlour," said the innkeeper, as he passed on to the public

room, followed by his wife and Adrian. “I would like all Amsterdam to see and admire it."

"What shall I do now, mistress?" said the tavern boy to Madame Van Soomeren, when he had seen his picture hung up in the parlour.

"Rest yourself, and come and drink a cup with me," replied her husband.

"Oh no, I thank you, master; yon are both too good to me. But I did not come here to follow my own fancy, and paint from morning till night; besides, you pay and feed me; and truly I would defy any one to recognise in the stout, fat boy of the Golden Lion' the miserable little pupil of Monsieur Francis Hals at Haerlem."

In talking of pictures to the innkeeper, of household affairs to his wife, and expressing his gratitude to both, time passed on, the day advanced, and by degrees the room was filled with customers and travellers.

Among the latter was a stranger of distinction, who, observing that every one was looking at a picture, drew near it also.

"How came this picture here, my friend?" said he to the innkeeper.

"Because I put it there, sir," he replied.

"What truth, what colouring, what freshness!" exclaimed the traveller, with enthusiasm. "It is a Francis Hals you have there, my friend-a Francis Hals, and such a one as he has not produced for some time; this picture may justly be called the masterpiece of that great painter."

Adrian, who was just entering the room with a jug of beer, stood still in silent astonishment at the words uttered by the stranger.

"If this picture is yours, my friend," continued he, "it must have cost you a considerable sum."

"No, not a great deal," said the innkeeper, laughing in his sleeve.

"Would you consent to dispose of it?"

"That's as it may be," answered the innkeeper, throwing a knowing glance at his boy, between whose hands the jug of beer was trembling.

The stranger reflected for a moment, and then said, "I will give five hundred ducats for it."

"I must consult the owner, sir," replied the innkeeper, advancing towards his boy.

"Is Francis Hals here?" inquired the stranger.

"It was not Francis Hals who drew that picture," replied the innkeeper.

"Then it was Adrian Brauwer," returned the stranger.

The sound of his own name seemed to recall the senses of the tavern boy.

"Who told you my name, sir?" cried Adrian.

"Your name!" said the stranger, looking with astonishment at the cotton cap and white apron of the tavern boy; "you may perhaps have the same name; but I speak of a wellknown pupil of Francis Hals, to whom even some of his best works are attributed."

"Alas, sir!" said Adrian, with much emotion, "I am Adrian Brauwer, the pupil of Francis Hals, and that picture is mine."

The fortune of Adrian Brauwer may be dated from that moment; for it was then he was, for the first time, made conscious of his talents, and of the fraud practised on him by his master; but, astonished at the prices which were given for his pictures, he generally spent the money he received for them in foolish prodigality.

Original in everything: whenever he was not paid the price he had fixed on for a picture, he thought it must be badly done, and throwing it into the fire, he would commence another with more care. His sallies were lively, sometimes keen, and he was possessed of a vein of low humour. Working almost all day, he took but little pains with his toilet, and this negligence grieved his family.

"If you were to dress yourself better," his mother would say to him, "you would be invited out much oftener, but you are so dirty!" Provoked one day by this reproach, Brauwer ordered a velvet suit, and the first time he put

it on, he was invited to a wedding; he accepted the invitation; and at dinner, having chosen to be helped from a dish with an abundance of rich sauce, he upset the contents of his plate over his dress, saying, as he did so, "It is but fair that you should partake of the good things, as it is you that were invited."

After remaining for some time at Amsterdam, he determined on exhibiting his talents at Antwerp. As it was in time of war, he was taken for a spy on entering that city, and was imprisoned in the citadel.

Being examined before the Duke of Aremburg, he told him his profession; and the Duke, in order to try him, desired Rubens to send drawing materials to a prisoner in his custody. These were accordingly given to Brauwer, who painted with so much spirit and truth a group of soldiers at play before the window, that the Duke was all astonishment. When the piece was shown to Rubens, he exclaimed "This is Brauwer's!" and offered six hundred florins for it: but the Duke of Aremburg refused to part with it. Rubens procured Brauwer his liberty, clothed him, and took him to his own house; and that celebrated painter continued ever afterwards to be his friend.

The Napoleon Museum contains three paintings by Adrian Brauwer, one of which is the celebrated one of the "Game of Cards."

Brauwer died in his thirty-second year, and Rubens, who was deeply grieved at his death, had his body honourably interred in the church of the Carmelites at Antwerp.

THE DEATH OF ADAM.

ADAM was nine hundred and thirty years old when he felt within himself that the hour which the word of the Judge had told him would come when he said, "Thou must die!" -was drawing near.

"Let all my sons appear before me," said he to the weeping Eve, "that I may see them once more, and bless them."

They all came on hearing their father's command, and stood before him: they numbered many hundreds, and they prayed for their father's life.

"Which of you," said Adam," will go to the holy mountain? Perhaps he may find that there is mercy for me, and may bring the fruit from the tree of life."

With eagerness did they all profess themselves willing to go. Adam then chose Seth, the most pious, and sent him as his deputed messenger.

Seth departed with ashes on his head, and tarried not till he arrived before the gate of Paradise. "Have mercy upon my father, O most merciful One!"-thus did he pray-" and send him fruit from the tree of life."

Immediately a shining cherubim stood before Seth; but, instead of fruit from the tree of life, he placed in his hand a small branch bearing leaves.

"I bring thee no fruit from the tree of life, my father; the angel gave me this branch for thy consolation."

The dying man took the branch from his son; he breathed the air of paradise, and his soul rejoiced.

"My children," said he, "eternal life dwelleth not now upon earth for us, but you will follow me. From these leaves I breathe the breath of a new life in another world." He closed his eyes-his spirit had fled. Adam was buried by his children, and they mourned for him thirty days. Seth alone did not mourn; he planted the little branch at the head of his father's grave, and called it the branch of new life, of resurrection from the sleep of death.

This little branch became a tall tree, and many of the children of Adam received comfort from the hope it gave them of another life.

Long afterwards, it was a wide-spreading tree in the garden of David, until his foolish son began to doubt in the truth of immortal life; then the tree withered, but its seed had taken root in other lands; and when on the wood of this tree the Restorer of eternal life gave up his holy life, the whole world was filled with the breath breathed from the fountain of life and immortality.

NOAH'S DOVE.

EIGHT days had the father of the new world waited for the return of the raven, and at the end of that time he again assembled all the winged creatures around him, that he might choose a messenger from amongst them. The dove flew timidly to Noah and rested on his

arm,

praying that she might be sent. "Daughter of truth," said Noah, "thou wouldst indeed be a messenger whom I might trust; but how couldst thou perform the journey? How couldst thou fulfil the errand? What wilt thou do when thy wing is weary, and when the storm seizes thee, and whirls thee into the flaming waves of death? Thy foot also shuns the mud, and thy lips abhor unclean food."

"Is there not One," answered the dove, "who gives to the weary strength, and to the feeble power? Let me go; I will surely be to thee a bringer of good tidings."

She flew away; she went hither and thither, but nowhere could she find a place whereon to rest; when suddenly she saw before her the mountain of paradise, encircled with a green summit. The waters of the flood of sin

had had no power over that mountain, and it was not forbidden to the dove to fly there and rest. Joyfully she hasted on, nor tarried till her lowly spirit found repose at its foot. A beautiful olive-tree flourished there; she broke off a leaf, and, greatly refreshed, she returned and laid the leaf on the breast of the sleeping Noah.

He awoke, and knew immediately that he breathed the air of paradise. Then was his heart strengthened, and he knew that the dove had been permitted by his Preserver to bring him the leaf of peace, as a token of mercy and good-will.

From that day the dove has ever been the messenger of love and peace. "Like silver shines her wing," says the song, and a ray rests upon her from the glory of paradise.

THE ROYAL PSALMIST.

THE royal psalmist had just sung one of his most beautiful hymns in honour of his Deliverer, and the holy air still floated around him, that day by day, with the rising sun, trembled through his harp-strings, and awoke their melody, when Satan stood before him, and filled the heart of the king with pride at the power of his song. "Hast thou," said he, "O most mighty God, amongst all thy mighty creatures, one who can praise thee as I can?"

At that moment a grasshopper flew in at the open window before which David was standing, and alighting upon the hem of his garment, began its clear morning song. Immediately a crowd of grasshoppers assembled around this one, and joined their voices to his. Before long a nightingale also flew in through the window, and was quickly followed by many more, all striving against each other for the sweetest notes in praise of their Creator.

The ear of the king was opened, and he understood the song of the birds, of the grasshoppers, of all living creatures, the murmur of the brooks, the rustling of the hedges, the shining of the morning stars, the rapture of the uprising sun.

Lost in wonder at the universal and eversounding chorus that, unheard by man, proclaims aloud the praises of the Creator, the king remained silent, and felt that his song was below even that of the grasshopper, that still made its low chirp upon the hem of his garment. With a lowly and a humble heart he now swept the strings of his harp, and sang-" Praise the Lord, all ye his creatures ! praise the Lord, O my soul, and let all that is within me praise his holy name!"

SEVEN years have fled, and witnessed important changes. Firstly, with regard to William, no longer a merely speculative student, but a missionary labourer, acting under a solemn consciousness of a great work to be done, and done at once, which left no room for desultory habits or nervous misgivings.

His time, talents, affections, were unreservedly and cheerfully given to the one great care of carrying his people to heaven. At every fresh success, he said within himself, "There's another gained!" and proceeded with increased alacrity to the next. Strange to say, he had no enemies; he himself alone entertained a strong opinion of his own unworthiness; but as he looked on himself as an implement in the hand of another, he was content to be used as long as he was privileged to be useful.

There was a corresponding change among his people; not merely an outward one, though there was that too; but in many, a change of purpose; in many, a spiritual growth. The outward manifestations of these were cleanliness, kindliness, sobriety, industry, and a homely courtesy. There were still incorrigible offenders and slothful listeners, but the prevailing feeling was against them.

Then, for Mrs. Clarinda-such was now her affectionate title from one end of the parish to the other-just as, in Italy, the surname is dropped among intimates, and even inferiors speak of superiors as il signor Giorgio, la signora Elisa, &c.; while among cach other they are il rosso, il tondo, &c.

Mrs. Clarinda, then, was in exceeding good looks; and yet she had not grown younger;— still, she was a beautiful creature, not in the early May-time, but the June or July of existence; her eye as clear, her brow as smooth, her skin as soft, her smile as sweet as ever. Dear was that smile in every cottage; dreaded that penetrating eye that seemed to read the heart; loved that white hand that smoothed many a pillow, and administered many a cordial and healing draught! For Mrs. Clarinda considered that to her fell the cure of bodies, as decidedly as to her brother the cure of souls.

One day she was returning from her morning rounds, with a light straw basket, now

* Continued from p. 350, vol. v.

emptied of its contents, on her arm, when a village lass who was under her and Patty's training (they had a succession of them whom they fitted for service, and for good wives and mothers of families) told her that a gentleman with a little boy had come to see master, and was then in the parlour.

A slight colouring of pleasure rose on Mrs. Clarinda's cheek; she instantly guessed who the visitor was, and, dropping her basket, she briskly opened the parlour door, and, as she had surmised, saw Mr. Burrell.

He instantly threw down the books he was dipping into, and cordially greeted her.

"William will be in directly," said she gladly; "this is your little boy, I am sure!"

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My son and heir," said Burrell, smiling, as he drew forward a little fellow about seven years old, with evident pleasure and pride. "Go and shake hands with Mrs. Clarinda, Harry."

Harry immediately obeyed; and they looked each other full in the face, with an evident inclination to be better acquainted. He was brown as a nut, with large, lustrous, stag-like eyes, such as only children have; hazel eyes, well open, truthful, ardent, and believing. There was much character in his ruddy, chubby face, that was like and yet unlike Burrell's. Clarinda supposed it might be a mixed likeness of father and mother.

"So, you are Harry!" said she, " and you are come to England at last. Are you going to school?"

"Yes, that is why we have brought him home," said Burrell. "His mother could not bear to be far apart from him. So we are in town now, and are going to take up our quarters at Westlake, as soon as the old place can be made ready for us. Meantime, master Harry is to be handed over to Dr. Curtis, at Brighton. Are you not, Harry?"

Here William came in, with a very harassed look, which brightened directly he saw his old friend. As soon as he had shaken hands with him, however, he exchanged looks with Clarinda.

"Gone?" said she, softly.

"All over!" he quietly replied; and the harassed look again appeared.

"Who's that?" said Burrell.

"Your old acquaintance, Winterflood," said William. "Don't you remember saying to