smoking caldron swinging over the fire in front, and the coarse tents of old canvass spread upon hoops of hogsheads, with a dirty drablooking woman, probably lying along in one of them, and a smallcovered cart, and quiet, sedate donkeys grazing beside it, filling up the background. Shortly after passing this, the road ascended About the skirt of this diadem wound the road, descending on the other side a little more abruptly. The low soft wall bordered it here. After overtopping the hill, rounding on the way the peculiar cluster of trees that crested it, a most living landscape certainly opened to the view. The hillside itself was verdant with the grass of June, rounded as the bosom of youthful womanhood, and sloping away by imperceptible degrees, into the rich plain, outspread below. At its base, flowed a broad, sluggish stream, approaching almost to the dignity of a river. You could see it winding away for miles through a rich meadow-land, cultured like a garden; enclosing perchance in the embrace of one of its bendings, a wide, green woodin the deep fold of another, a high-gabled, ivy-covered, old-fashioned farm-house, surrounded by tall, sheltering sycamores, or lime-trees, while the corn-fields stretched themselves out around it in wanton dalliance with the sun. This stream just beneath widened into a reservoir, the water from which passed through a sluice, and away round to a little mill, whose corner topped with a populous dovecot, just peeped past the edge of the hill, round which its merry hum, floating to the ear, sang bass to the clear notes of the lark, high chanting overhead, and the richer warblings of the blackbird and thrush from out the diadem of trees behind. To the far left, again, its waters washed the base of a rock, covered with dense wood, from over the topmost foliage of which rose the turrets and pinnacles of a ruined castle. Not far from this was spread a wide and noble park, stretching up from the water to the proud mansion of the high-born owner of all these domains. At a respectful distance to its rear, a modest and most beautiful hamlet showed itself from amid clustering trees, a prolongation of the wood that begirt the ruin, the windows glancing in the sun, and the blue smoke rising in vapoury wreaths from the narrow, quaint chimnies, of every sort of shape, that peeped out here and there among the foliage. From out a separate grove hard by rose, tapering aloft, the slender, reed-like spire of the little village church, one of those sweet, rural, peaceful-looking ones which sweethearts like to have painted in their valentines. Far away in lay the little town of Albanstoke, a dim, hot, hazy vapour appearing in the distance to float over it. Beyond this, again, a circle of low hills bounded the prospect. Imagine this landscape stretched out before you, in all its varied luxuriance of green, golden, brown, and soft ariel blue, and steeped in the glowing sunshine of ardent midsummer. Such was the scene, and such the season, in which one day at high noon I strolled along on my solitary walk. The heat was great-almost overpowering, but not on that account unpleasant; it only made me move the slower. I stood upon the highest part of the road, and gazed around me, feasting on the beauties of that magnificent picture. Close by the roadside stood a single tree-a noble sycamore. Amid its foliage, about half way up, the branches had grown into the semblance of a seat, and here it was my wont to recline, and look abroad from among the boughs. Some half-a-dozen paces from its root, a tiny spring of water, clear as its kindred air, bubbled out from underneath a broad flat stone embedded in the sod. With a long refreshing draught from this I climbed into the tree, and was soon lost in a world of bright imaginings. I might have been there half an hour, when my eye was attracted to an individual slowly wending his way up the road. He would often stop and gaze over the fair prospect below, then turning, would resume his march up the hill side. At last he stopped, right under the tree, and seated himself on the low soft turf wall. There was nothing particular about the man; he seemed just a person of every-day life. He had certainly nothing aristocratic about him, nor, on the contrary, any, the remotest, indication of poverty or low station in society. In short, he appeared to be a highly respectable man of the middle rank, and had that air of quiet dignity and independence so strongly characteristic of his class, and not to be found either above or below it. His features again were neither fine nor coarse-neither interesting nor devoid of expression. It was a face such as you would expect to see at dinner at your friend Thomson's-an every-day countenance ;—the features of an ordinary man of the world. His hat was a superior beaver, somewhat worn; his boots, though dusty, unimpeachable in themselves; his clothes black, made loose and easy; a plain gold chain, with a seal and key, hung from his waist, and he carried a brown silk umbrella, for though the weather was fine, the great white clouds, however beautiful to see, must to a prudent man have looked rather indicative of rain and rheumatism. He sat a while on the wall, looking forth upon the prospect, then put his hand into his waistcoat, drew forth a small silver box, and took one or two pinches, rather quickly. Shortly he lifted his hat, took from it a very rich silk handkerchief, and blew his nose, and this was done not as one at his ease would do it, but with suddenness and impatience, as a man would in the theatre at the sight of a pathetic piece well played. He continued to sit, holding the snuff-box in one hand, and the handkerchief in the other, gazing down upon the landscape, smiling below. After a little, he slowly crossed the low turf fence, came into the field, and sat down under the tree, close below where I was. The foliage shaded him from the sunbeams, as he gazed with a long and absorbed look upon the glorious landscape I have so vainly attempted to describe. For lack of other amusement I watched him. After this fond protracted view, he bent him forward with a deep sigh, which I could plainly hear, and covered his eyes with his handkerchief. What?bless me !-the man is actually-crying! This middle aged, decent, respectable, matter-of-fact man is weeping-really weeping like a weak woman! I was amazed, and observed him intently. After this had continued a little, he began to rock his body from side to side, and sob bitterly. Then he paused, and looked out again at the prospect, frequently wiping his face the while. After he had gazed for some time he gave way to another paroxysm of grief. Dropping the handkerchief, he clasped his hands, wrung them together, and, groaning deeply, looked up to the sky, while I could see the tears actually streaming down his face. His hat fell off, but lay unheeded on the grass, and I remarked his dark hair slightly tinged with grey. His features had no expression in them of remorse or any kindred feeling-nothing but pure and passionate woe. He murmured now an expression, I almost dislike to write in a light paper like this. It was a simple "Oh God!" but in its sound, and the look that accompanied it, was shown forth a heart appealing for relief from overcharging agony of spirit. I was now deeply moved. I could almost have cried myself: had it been a silly, sentimental looking fellow, I would certainly have pelted him in derision, but his wailing seems so sincere, so heartfelt and earnest, that I could not but commiserate with my whole heart. I began to surmise what could have excited in him such vivid emotion. Was it the exceeding beauty of the landscape? I have known people who might have shed a tear, or said they had, at the view of a romantic scene; but they were of quite a different description from him of whose bitter mourning I was now witness. Was it that fair stream? Perhaps he played along its banks in the sunny days of his childhood, and has "wandered many a weary foot" since then! That hamlet so prettily nestling among the wood? It may be he was born there, and spent a joyous youth among the dear friends of that happy season in life, all scattered and gone now-some lost in distant lands, others on the homeless ocean, but most laid in the grave, long, long ago! There possibly he wandered with, and won the heart of that fair being, fairer to him than all nature beside! To that little church, so sweetly rural, he may have led her, blooming in her bridal beauty! Haply in the little churchyard beneath these trees he laid her to sleep, cut from his bosom in her prime and when he looked upward may it not have been with the thoughts and feelings of him who sang to "Mary in Heaven ?" Like Mr. Yorick with his captive, I could not sustain the picture my fancy had drawn. I looked down again. The violence of his passion had subsided. He sat with his cheek upon his palm, and his elbow supported by his knee, gazing fixedly upon the landscape. He remained in this position for several minutes, when a great cloud passing across the sun threw a deep, cold, deadening shade over it: he sighed deeply, and slowly rose and-shook himself. Then, going to the spring, he took a long draught, and unloosing his stock, and opening his shirt collar, bathed his face freely with the clear cold water. Then dressing himself, he put on his hat, took up his umbrella, and went slowly away. When he came to the angle where the road bent round behind the "peculiar diadem" of trees, he turned and took a long lingering look. At that moment the sun shone forth again, and the landscape glowed once more in all its exceeding beauty. An instant, and he resumed his walk, moved round the corner, and was lost to my sight. My curiosity was much excited. I should have much liked to follow him, at a distance, and see where he went, but I felt constrained to stay where I was for another hour. It would have been cruel to have given him cause to suspect that his grief had been profaned by the eye of a spectator. From that hour the tree and the landscape acquired a new interest for me, and my other walks became comparatively little frequented. In a fit of whim I carved on the bark of the sycamore the name of "The tree of sorrow," and on the stone over the fountain, thsee words, "the waters of Marah." Often afterwards have I drank of the water, and sat among the branches, but never more did I see that man, the deep workings of whose bosom had been so strangely displayed before me. TO MY DAUGHTER. ON HER BIRTHDAY. DEAR Fanny! nine long years ago, Whilst low'd the newly wakened herds- I heard those first, delightful words, Along with that uprising dew Tears glisten'd in my eyes; though few, To hail a dawning quite as new To me, as Time: It was not sorrow-not annoy But like a happy maid, though coy, So mayst thou live, dear! many years, Not without smiles, nor yet from tears, When first thy infant littleness I folded in my fond caress The greatest proof of happiness Was this-I wept. H. THE SCULPTOR OF AVIGNON. BY ELIZABETH YOUATT. AUTHOR OF "THE PRICE OF FAME." Only one doom! writ in misfortune's page, MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON. In the gallery of the château of the Duke De Lorme at Languedoc is an exquisite piece of sculpture, simply inscribed with the name of Jean Malanotti, and bearing no date, but which never fails to rivet the wonder and admiration of all who gaze upon it. The figure is that of a man, a Roman we should say by the lofty beauty of the head. There is a grandeur on the broad magnificent brow,-a living scorn upon the finely-moulded lip,—while the attitude appears at once simple and majestic. Cold and pale as it stands, there is yet a strange semblance of reality about the whole figure, and one longs to be able to decipher the scroll held in its nervous grasp, as though it would tell the history of this singular chef-d'œuvre of art. "Jean Malanotti,-I never remember to have heard the name before," said Mademoiselle Aubertin, one of the guests whom the old Duke loved at all times to gather round his hospitable board. 66 No, it is one unknown to fame; this is the only work that survives him." "He is dead then ?" "Yes, the gifted for the most part die young!" replied De Lorme, with mournful earnestness as he turned hastily away. No more was said upon the subject at that time, but in the evening as we gathered around the fire, and grew silent in watching it leap up, and flash fitfully on the tapestried walls of the old hall, the Lady Henriette climbed her grandfather's knee, and asked him in a whisper to tell us the story of Jean Malanotti. "Nay, dearest, it is too sad a tale for you to listen to," said the Duke, kissing her fondly. "But I like melancholy stories," persisted the child; and as we were - all just then of her opinion, our kind host consented to oblige us, although the relation in which he had borne a prominent part, evidently gave him pain to recal. "It is now better than twenty years ago that I had occasion to pass through Avignon on a visit to a friend, and yet every thing comes back to my recollection as vividly as though it were but yesterday. The crimson sunset, the low vine-wreathed cottage, the silvery Rhône sparkling in the distance, and even the balmy breath of the flowers which grew there in such sweetness and profusion. A boy, apparently about eight or nine years old, was sitting before the door moulding figures of a coarse, yellow kind of clay; while his companion, a child of great beauty (the females of Avignon are celebrated for their loveliness), sat with her large dark eyes fixed wonderingly on his proceedings, or received the rude images when finished with a shout of joy. Neither perceived my approach, and I stood watching them for several moments unobserved. July.-VOL. LXV. NO. CCLIX. 2 D |