As these last words were issuing from her mouth, a merry laugh rang through the conservatory. Louise, guided by its ringing echo, hastened in the direction from which it proceeded, but there was no sign of living being. She discovered, however a doorway, which yielded to a push from her hand, and then closed again behind her so exactly, as to appear but a part of the solid wall. Immediately on her emerging from the conservatory, an indescribable feeling of awe crept over her; the spot on which she stood seemed to inspire holy and devotional thoughts; the mellow light that fell upon the dark marble pavement from the coloured windows, was in unison with the sombre air which pervaded the entire edifice. She was standing in the nave of a venerable structure, with an open ceiling of cedar wood, supported on slender pillars of porphyry, whose capitals were decorated with elegant tracery: beyond fell a deep curtain, separating the nave from the inner building. Louise crept silently to it, and on her approach a deep sound of music burst forth. Simple and plain was the melody, but anon its tones rose and swelled upon the ear, riveting the attention by its beautiful simplicity. All was silence for a moment, and then the melody was heard flowing softly forth again, blended with voices rich and powerful.

44
"Mortal foot is lurking nigh,
Mortal voice and mortal eye!
None our fairy home may see,
Save those of spotless purity.
Hearts as pure as virgin snow,
Such alone our haunts may know.
Anger, hence, and bitter strife,
And all the foes of earthly life.
Come, if thou be firm of mind!
Go, if fickle as the wind!
Come, if thou wouldst happy be!
Come, if thou wouldst fain be free!
Here is life, and here is pleasure,
There is peace in this bright home,
Peace, the weary mortal's treasure;
Come, oh, come-"

Louise, urged by some impulse, caught up the melody ere it died away, and sang the last few lines in a spirit of reverential awe. She felt no longer the thoughtless child of the forest, roaming only from thicket to glade in search of new delight, careless of aught beyond the present moment; a new light seemed to be dawning upon her, and the thought that life was not without its duties, that all its concerns were not to be centred on self, occurred to her mind, and she began to wonder how it had happened that she had been so long dead to this important truth. This thought gave birth to a thousand kindred reflections, and her imagination presented before her eyes the inscriptions on the archway of the chamber where she had slept. "Ah," said she "full well I know

Life is but a trial at most,

but then follows

Happy they who use it well,

oh, may I be enabled to know that happiness." Pursuing the train of reflections which sprang from the consideration of the maxim, her feelings became o'ermastered by a sense of her former blindness and ignorance, and she fell on her knees in the spirit of prayer; and, though her lips appeared sealed, and her fervour was not manifested in devotional accents, nevertheless her soul was poured forth in prayer, and she was heard. For a long time she continued upon her knees upon the marble floor, with raised eyes and uplifted hands, and when she arose, with a feeling of calm serenity,

the curtain was suddenly withdrawn from before her, at the same moment a film fell from her eyes, and she was in the presence of those beautiful spirits who had visited her in her dreams.

"Thou hast striven," exclaimed the fairy spirits, "and now shalt thou be a child of spotless purity." They then embraced her, and led her out into a spacious garden, in which stood a circular edifice of shell work, encrusted with moss and curious grasses. Her dream was indeed realised, and Louise recognized the beautiful spot, peopled by the fairies, in their blue silk draperies, fastened by zones of white coral; the gems that glittered upon their brows were of intense brilliancy; the bees were hovering about on their downy wings, and the same birds hopped from spray to spray. They then led her into this circular edifice, singing, and showering roses and sprigs of myrtle along the path, and entered a chamber, on which a throne of crystal was raised upon a dais; on it sat a lady, bright as the morning star, at whose presence all fell with their faces to the ground. The beautiful lady advanced to Louise, and encircling her waist with a coral band, and clasping a diamond on her forehead, greeted her thus:

66

Forget not, my child, what thou hast resolved on this day. The gift of life is no useless boon; we sleep but in the night; the sun rises each succeeding morn to light our path for the day, and however confined and narrow that path may be, we must walk in it, and doubt not we shall find duties to perform ere we reach its utmost limits. They who walk blindly on, forget that life is but a trial, and miss its great object. Thou art young, child, and untainted; and preserve thyself spotless as hitherto, and on thy return to the Schwarzwald, for thou must return for a time, strive for the great reward, and thou shalt visit us again with all now dear to thee."

With these words she returned to her throne, and Louise and her fairy companions left the chamber, and roamed in the gardens. Some gathered the most delicious fruits and presented to her; others plucked the most choice flowers and twined them in her hair. They devised all kinds of sports to amuse her; ran races, and danced in merry groups on the green-sward, exhibiting in their graceful movements the delicate symmetry of their limbs.

When they became fatigued with their games they led her to a clear crystal stream, and invited her to plunge in to cool her glowing limbs. In a moment they were all sporting in the water,-now floating on the glassy surface, now dipping beneath the wave, and then appearing again with their bright locks unbound, streaming over their shoulders, and dripping with spray. After the refreshment of the bath, they led her into a more beautiful apartment than any she had hitherto seen, though its magnificence was somewhat diminished in her eyes, by the appearance of several hideous faces, bearing upon them the stamp of passion, hatred, jealousy, and other feelings that debase mortality. Louise, somewhat terrified by the fiendish glare of their eyes, and their savage mien, inquired of one of the fairies the cause of their dwelling in a spot tenanted by happy spirits.

"See you not," replied the fairy, "they are separated from us by an iron grating; part of their miserable punishment it is, to be spectators of the undying bliss that reigns for ever here; they suffer

During this conversation, the tables throughout the chamber were loaded with delicacies for a feast; and as soon as Louise and her companions were seated, and the sound of mirth and enjoyment arose, the unhappy beings at the grating uttered loud yells of despair, mingled with execrations at their miserable lot. Meanwhile, the time glided pleasantly away, till the tinkling of a little silver bell gave the hour for returning.

The fairies then signified to Louise, that it would be her duty to keep watch during the night at the mouth of the well; and for this purpose they led her by a winding staircase to the summit of a tower, and bade her look up. Above her was an opening, through which a faint ray of light was streaming, sufficient to assure her that it was the mouth of the old well, and that she was in the neighbourhood of the Schwarzwald. The fairy spirits all embraced her most tenderly, kissing her repeatedly. "I will stay with you for ever," cried Louise, passionately; but they kissed her again, and said, "Thou shalt one day be one of us, but not yet;" and then they bade her be of good heart, and left her. As soon as she was alone, her thoughts reverted to her father's hut, and she longed to know what had transpired during her absence. "Doubtless my father is sorrowing," thought she, "bewailing his lost child; my mother, too, is weeping, perhaps; and oh, how sad must be poor little Carl, deprived of his dear Louise!" The desire of seeing them again became gradually stronger, till she burst into tears, and sobbed violently, till sleep came to her relief.

She was roused by the sound of an axe, and on opening her eyes she discovered herself on a mossy bank at the mouth of the well. The poor child rubbed her eyes, to convince herself that it was reality, and then exclaimed, "Ah, it must have been a dream,—but what a beautiful one!" but, on putting her hand to her forehead, the diamond circlet was still there, though she was dressed in her blue woollen frock, and wore her straw hat. She concealed the diamond in her pocket, and bent her steps towards the spot where the click of the axe sounded, and in another moment Louise was folded in her father's arms.

How the tears chased one another down the cheeks of the old woodcutter, as he pressed his child to his heart! "Come," said he, "my darling treasure, let us return together to the hut, and rejoice with your mother and little Carl, and you shall tell us where you have been; and we will tell you how we sought you in the forest, day after day, and could discover nothing but the basket." They drew near the hut, and Gertrude was weeping within. "For a week my child has been torn from me; oh, let me die!"

"Live, live, and happily, too!" shouted the woodcutter, as he entered the hut with Louise in his hand. Gertrude clasped the child to her bosom in a transport of delight, and little Carl kissed her, and then wept, and kissed her again.

The joy at her recovery was not confined to the woodcutter's hearth; the news spread rapidly through the little colony, and all flocked to the

Years passed on in their course, and prosperity had smiled upon the simple woodcutter: he was now become the aufseher of the district. He had marked the wisdom that dictated the opinions of his child; nor were her deeds at variance with them, as she preserved one strict line of duty herself, and invited all others to follow her example. She was the friend and counsellor of all were any unhappy, Louise could restore their peace of mind; were any in doubt or perplexity, Louise was ever ready to aid them; were there any quarrels in the little settlement, Louise was the arbitrator, and always the peace-maker. Loved and respected by all, she continued in one straightforward course, never turning aside to the right or to the left.

The forest leaves were thickly falling, every breeze added numbers to those already crisped and curled on the ground, and the woodcutter felt sensible that he should never see again their green bloom. He was lying upon a couch facing a window that looked upon a forest path: his faithful wife, Gertrude, was supporting his head; his son Carl, now a fine-grown youth, was kneeling by his side, and Louise had just completed the narrative of her visit to the fairy spirits in the happy realms. The old man's eye lighted up with sudden brilliancy. "What see you, father, dear?" cried Louise. His lips quivered, but no sound escaped them. "What see you, father, dear?" repeated the girl; and as she stooped to kiss his pale cheek, she heard him whisper faintly, "I come, beautiful spirits; I come." One struggle,-all was over.

They buried him on the margin of the well; and when spring came round, flowers sprang up upon his grave, arching gracefully over it, and Louise knew that her father was happy. The woodcutters immediately elected Carl into his father's office. "Tread thou," said they, "in his footsteps, and thou canst not err." Louise continued with her brother; and the two, knowing that life was but a trial at most, endeavoured to "use it well," and won undying bliss with their mother, who had gone before them, and the old woodcutter, in the dwelling of the beautiful spirits of the Fairy Well,

Biographical Sketches of Eminent Painters.

JOSEPH VERNET.

IT was at a period when the French school of painting was declining, that Joseph Vernet, an artist distinguished by originality of genius and energy of character, made his appearance. He was born at Avignon, in France, in 1714; and at the age of eighteen he went to Rome, where his works were highly esteemed by the Italians themselves, who seemed to reckon him among the number of their artists.

His choice of the particular style of painting to which he chiefly devoted himself, was decided by the sight of a storm at sea. His sea-pieces gained

him great renown throughout Europe, and his landscapes, chiefly composed of scenes in Italy, were much admired for the excellence of the colouring, and that animation in his figures and groups which may be said to be a distinguishing feature of his works.

Vernet excelled in depicting the motion of water and the velocity of clouds, and if his landscapes do not display a delicacy of touch equal to those of Claude de la Lorraine, he is more animated than that great master in his sea-pieces.

After spending twenty years in Italy, he was summoned to France by Louis XV, to paint views of the ports of that country. Such works fetter the genius of artists, and are not generally interesting in their appearance; but Vernet contrived to produce a striking and picturesque effect in those pictures, at the same time that he represented every object with the utmost exactitude.

He was received into the Academy immediately on his arrival in Paris. Few artists have left a greater number of works. There is scarcely a cabinet in Europe which does not possess some of his pictures. His Italian landscapes are beautiful, and are much prized.

Vernet's personal qualities were of the highest order. Although he was admitted into the presence of royalty, and was courted by the great, he constantly preserved a modest and an unassuming demeanour. If he indulged in luxury, it was not from ostentation, but in order to gratify his feelings of hospitality; and his principal recreation was the society of persons of intelligence.

An interesting anecdote is related of him, connected with our own celebrated landscape painter, Richard Wilson.

It happened that Vernet and Wilson were at Rome at the same time; the former being in the zenith of his fame. One day Vernet visited Wilson's studio, and being struck by the merit of one of his landscapes, he begged to be permitted to give the artist one of his own in exchange for it. Wilson readily agreed to so flattering a proposal, and sent his picture to the distinguished French painter, who generously exhibited it to his visitors, and recommended Wilson to their favour.

Vernet passed through life deservedly respected by all who knew him, even by those who were envious of his talents. He continued to work until within a very short period of his death, without either his body, his mental powers, his genius, or his cheerfulness appearing to be affected or diminished; and he died at Paris, after a short illness, in 1789, at the age of seventy-five, or, as some say, seventy-seven.

Far upward, in the mellow light,
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard,
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers;
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;
But, as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak, of the roe-buck's skin,
Covered the warrior, and within
Its heavy folds the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war, were laid;
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds,
And the broad belt of shells and beads.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came,
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief; they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed,
And swift an arrow cleared its way
To his stern heart!-one piercing neigh
Arose, and o'er the dead man's plain
The rider grasps his steed again.

Miscellaneous.

Longfellow.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

I NEVER yet found pride in a noble nature, nor humiOf all trees, lity in an unworthy mind.

I observe God hath chosen the vine, a low plant, that creeps upon the helpful wall of all beasts, the soft and patient lamb of all fowls, the mild and galless dove. When God appeared to Moses, it was not in the lofty cedar, not the sturdy oak, nor the spreading plane; but in a bush, a humble, slender, abject bush. As if He would by these elections check the conceited arrogance of man. Nothing procureth love, like humility: nothing hate, like pride.--Feltham's Resolves.

N.B. The Second Volume of this Periodical is now ready; Covers for binding, with Table of Contents, may be ordered of any Booksellers.

Long years, she said, had parted her; in joy
And beauty she grew up, ever her sire
Gladdening with smiles, and laying on his heart
Ointment of purest comfort. On a day
Heaven sent a worm into this summer flower.
She told me how they watched her fade away,
As we have watched the clouds of evening fade
After the sun hath set. Slow were her words,
And solemn, as she reached the parting tale.
""Twas thus we sat and saw our only hope
Go down into the grave; for many months
It was a weary, weary life to lead;

She weakened by degrees; and every day
Less light was in her eye, and on her cheek
Less colour; and the faint quick pulse that beat
In the blue veins that laced her marble wrist
Stole without notice on the wary touch.
Sometimes by day she asked if it were fair,
By night if it were starlight; that was all.
Ye should have seen her but a night and day

Before she died. How she sat up and spoke;
How of a sudden light most wonderful
Looked forward from her eyes, and on her cheek
Flushed colour, like a bloom from other lands,
The bloom that shows in flowers beyond the skies.
And then the words came forth most musical,
Low toned and solemn-like the final notes
Of that grand anthem whose last strain is 'Peace.'
She spoke of angels, seen in a half light;
She spoke of friends-long served friends, that died
In early youth, some fair and tall, and some
Most innocent children, that with earnest gaze
Looked ever in upon her all the night,
And faded slow into the light of morn.
And so she passed away: and now her grave
Ten summers and ten winters hath been green;
We dug it in a still and shady place:
There is no headstone; for we deemed it vain
To carve her record in a mouldering slab,
Whose name is written in the Book of Life." 1

CLATTERING Over the bridge across the Neckar, and along the narrow, dusty, stone-paved streets of Heidelberg, we dismounted at the post-house. It was a late hour for dinner, being past two, but nevertheles we found a very good one awaiting us, the most remarkable feature of which was the dignity to which the humble potato had been elevated, in being handed round alone, to be eaten as a sort of entremet before the meat itself made its appearance.

Heidelberg may be said to be built in a gigantic punch-bowl, the sides of which are formed by the mountains around, whilst the river lies, like the last dregs of the punch, at the bottom. The hills rise almost from the water's edge, so that the town has scarcely a level street in it, and the greater number are extremely steep. Up these we wound our way, and then up the still steeper road cut in the rock, which leads from the back of the town to the castle, till we at length stood before the portcullised gateway.

The castle of Heidelberg is one of the most magnificent specimens of medieval architecture in the world; far the finest I have ever seen, and what, in my opinion, is of much more consequence, far the most comfortable. Indeed, I do not know anything more disastrous than to visit a real ruin of some celebrated castle, when fresh from a course of medieval chivalrous novels. After all the magnificent descriptions which you have been gloating over, of vast halls arrayed for the banquet of innumerable knights and ladies, you are shown a place which looks something between a dining parlour and a wine cellar--and then, what places the sturdy retainers resided and revelled in, as described by Scott, and Bulwer, and James; and still more, if we may venture upon such mysteries, where the highborn dames slept, or even changed their shoes and stockings,-I protest has ever been to me a matter of wonderment. In fact, half the places which I have seen exhibited in feudal castles, as baronial halls and state apartments, would excite the scorn of Miss Henrietta Duggles, whose father keeps the green-grocer's shop over the way, and whose mother goes out charing.

Heidelberg, however, is a very different sort of place, and is a splendid specimen of that style of architecture of which there are more instances in England than on

the Continent-the mixture of the palace and the castle. The castles which I have alluded to above belong to a different period of history. As long as men know that they must consent to sleep six in a bed, or to have their throats cut, they will most likely submit to the former alternative; but when society becomes more secure, outraged nature demands a separate bed, and room to stretch one's legs. Yet, as some defence is still necessary, the mansion, while it is extended into a palace, still remains a castle. Such is Heidelberg; immense in size, enclosing within its vast ramparts gardens and pleasure grounds, dwellings of great extent and architectural beauty, but yet so well fortified, as to have been one of the most potent strongholds of former times. It holds, as it were, the mid-situation between the town and the summits of the hills behind, and its limits comprehend the whole shelf of rock on which it stands, almost the entire side towards the town being one continuous escarped precipice of great depth. We wandered with guides-and, whenever we could get quit of them, without guides-over the whole grounds. The buildings are roofless, shattered, and desolate, but beautiful in their ruin. The high walls of red stone, carefully sculptured, and richly adorned,—the secluded courts, the stately terraces, and the massy bulwarks, still remain; and, though the ivy climbs within the halls of the palace, and the gardens are overgrown and desolate, there is more of solemnity than if all yet remained gaudy in regal splendour. But a more cunning hand than mine has limned the picture, and I shall leave to it to trace the outline.

"In front, from the broad terrace of masonry, you can almost throw a stone upon the roofs of the city, so close do they lie beneath. Above this terrace rises the broad front of the chapel of Saint Udalrich. On the left stands the slender octagon tower of the horologe, and on the right a huge round tower, battered and shattered by the mace of war, shores up with its broad shoulders the beautiful palace and garden-terrace of Elizabeth, wife of the Pfalzgraf Frederick. In the rear are older palaces and towers, forming a vast, irregular quadrangle: Rodolph's ancient castle, with its gothic (1) From "The School of the Heart," a Poem. published by Pickering, London.