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dola, and, creeping close against the wall, followed him. The stranger seemed, by his gazing at the dirty walls and low shops-chiefly old clothes, rag shops, and warehouses devoted to small trades -very much surprised, but, for fear of losing the track of the other, followed closely.

Suddenly Zustana disappeared. The other moved rapidly forward in time to observe that he had entered a dark alley, and was ascending with heavy step a gloomy and winding staircase. The stranger followed cautiously, stepping in time with Paolo, and feeling his way with his hands. Zustana only halted when he reached the summit of the house. He then placed a key in a door -a blaze of light was seen, and he disappeared, locking the door behind him. The man stood irresolute, but only for a moment. The house was built round a square court, like a well: there was a terraced roof. Gliding noiselessly along, the stranger was in the open air; moving along like a midnight-thief he gained a position whence the windows of the rooms entered by Zustana were distinctly visible.

A groan, a sigh from the stranger, who sank behind a kind of pillar, revealed the Countess. The groan, the sigh, was occasioned by the astounding discovery she now made.

The room into which she was looking, was brilliantly lighted up, and beautifully furnished, while beyond-for Clorinda could see as plainly as if she had been in it—was a small bedroom, and near the bed sat an old woman, who was preparing to bring in a child to Zustana. Just withdrawing herself from the embrace of Zustana was a beautiful young girl, simply and elegantly dressed the original of the Pysche which she had so much admired. Now she understood all; that look, which she had thought the consciousness of his own beautiful creation, was for the beloved original.

The child, a beautiful boy nearly a year old, was brought to Zustana to kiss. Now, all his savageness was gone; now, he stood no longer the artist, the creator, the genius of art; but the man. He smiled, he patted the babe upon the cheek, he let it clutch his fingers with its little hands, he laughed outright a rich, happy, merry, ordinary laugh; and then, turning to the enraptured mother, embraced her once more, and drew her to a table near the opened window.

"What progress to-day?" asked the painter gayly.

"See," replied the young mother, handing him a copy-book, and speaking in the somewhat harsh dialect of a Sicilian peasant girl. "I think, at last, I can write a page pretty well."

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Excellent," continued the painter smiling. "My Eleanora is a perfect little fairy. A prettier handwriting you will not see. I need give no more lessons."

ing up a book she began to read, with much of the imperfection of a young school-girl, but so eagerly, so prettily, with such an evident desire to please, that, as she concluded her lesson, the artist clasped her warmly to his bosom, and cried with love in his eyes and in his tone, "My wife, how I adore you!"

One summer morning a young man, with a knapsack on his back, a pair of pistols in his belt, a staff to assist him in climbing the hills and mountains, and in crossing the torrents, was standing on the brow of a hill overlooking a small but delicious plain. It was half meadow, half pasture land; here, trees; there, a winding stream, little hillocks, green and grassy plots; beyond, a lofty mountain, on which hung a sombre-tinted pine forest; the whole illumined by the joyous sun of Sicily, which flooded all nature, and spread as it were a violet and metallic vail over her. After gazing nearly half an hour at the delicious landscape, the young man moved slowly down a winding path that led to the river side. Suddenly he heard the tinkling of sheepbells, the barking of dogs, and looked around to discover whence the sound came. In a small corner of pasture-land, at no great distance from the stream, he saw the flock, and seated beneath the shadow of a huge tree, a young girl.

He advanced at once toward her, not being sure of his way.

She was a young girl of sixteen, the same delicate and exquisite creation which had so struck Clorinda on the canvas, and in the garret of Venice. The eye of the artist was delighted, the heart of the man was filled with emotion. He spoke to her: she answered timidly but sweetly. He forgot his intended question; he alluded to the beautiful country, to the delight of dwelling in such a land, to the pleasures of her calm and placid existence; he asked if he could obtain a room in that neighborhood in which to reside while he took a series of sketches. The girl listened with attention and interest for nearly half an hour, during which time he was using his pencil. She then replied that her father would gladly offer him a shelter in their small house, if he could be satisfied with very humble lodging and very humble fare. The young man accepted with many thanks, and then showed her his sketch-book.

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You are pleased," said the artist, smiling. "Oh! it's beautiful; how can you do that with a pencil? Come quick, and show it to father!"

The young man followed her, as she slowly drove her sheep along, and soon found himself within sight of a small house with a garden, "But the reading," said the young girl, speak-which she announced as her father's. She had ing like a timid scholar; "I shall never please you there."

the drawing in her hand, looking at it with delight. Unable to restrain her feelings, she ran forward, and, entering the house, disappeared. Zustana-of course it was he laughed as he "I will try," said Eleanora earnestly, and tak-picked up the crook of the impetuous young

"You always please me," exclaimed Zustana; "but you must get rid of your accent."

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He devoted to her

shepherdess, and, aided by the faithful dog, began | faithful and attached nurse.
driving home the patient animals. In ten min-
utes Eleanora reappeared, accompanied by her
father, her brother and sister: regular Sicilian
peasants, without one atom of resemblance to
this extraordinary pearl concealed from human
eye in the beautiful valley of Arnola. They were
all, however, struck by the portrait, and received
the artist with rude hospitality.

every moment not directed to his art, and at once
began her education systematically. He found
an apt and earnest scholar, and at the time of
which I speak, Eleanora was possessed of all the
mental advantages to be derived from constant
intercourse with a man of genius.

He took up his residence with them; he sought to please, and he succeeded. After a very few days he became the constant companion of Eleanora. They went out together, he to paint, she to look after her sheep-both to talk. Paolo found her totally uneducated, ignorant of every thing, unable to read or write, and narrow-minded, as all such natures must be. But, there was a foundation of sweetness, and a quickness of intellect, which demonstrated that circumstances alone had made her what she was, and Paolo loved her.

He had been a fortnight at Arnola, and he had made up his mind. One beautiful morning, soon after they had taken up their usual position, he spoke.

"Eleanora, I love you, with a love that is of my life. I adore, I worship you; you are the artist's ideal of loveliness; your soul only wants culture to be as lovely as your body. Will you be my wife? Will you make my home your home, my country your country, my life your life! I am an artist; I battle for my bread, but I am already gaining riches. Speak! Will you be mine?"

"I will," replied the young girl, who had no conception of hiding her feelings of pride and joy. "But you do not know me. I am jealous and suspicious, I am proud and sensitive. You are beautiful, you are lovely; others will dispute you with me. I would slay the Pope if he sought you; I would kill the Emperor if he offered you a gift. You are a simple peasant girl; those around me might smile at your want of town knowledge; might jeer at you for not having the accomplishments and vices of the town ladies: I should challenge the first who smiled or jeered. You must then, if you can be mine, and will make me happy, live apart from men, for me alone; you must know of no existence but mine; you must abandon all society, all converse with your fellow-creatures. I must be your world, your life, your whole being."

“I will be what pleases you best," said the young girl gently.

"The picture does not alarm you?" "Will you always love me?" she asked timidly. "While I live, my art, my idol, my goddess! Eleanora, while I breathe."

"Do with me as you will," replied the young girl.

A month later they were married, her parents being proud indeed of the elevated position to which their daughter attained. They went in the autumn to Rome, where Paolo had prepared for his mysterious existence by means of his

But Paolo Zustana, out of his home, was a changed and unhappy man; he lived in constant dread of his treasure being discovered; he saw, with secret impatience, the many defects which still existed in his beloved idol; he felt the restraint of confining her always within a suite of rooms; he longed to give her air and space; but he dreaded her being seen by powerful and unscrupulous men; he dreaded ridicule for her peasant origin and imperfect education. Hence the defects in his character.

It was on the afternoon of the next day, and Zustana, who had been giving some finishing touches to the Psyche, was absorbed in its contemplation He held the brush in his hand, and stood back a little way, examining it with attention.

"It is beautiful! The Countess Clorinda was right," he exclaimed.

Not nearly so beautiful as the original," replied that lady in a low tone.

"Great Heaven!" cried Paolo, turning round pale and fiercely, to start back in silent amazement.

There was Eleanora, blushing, trembling, timid, hanging a little back, and yet leaning on the arm of the Countess, who smiled a sweet sad smile of triumph.

"Be not angry, Signor Zustana," she said; "it is all my fault. You excited my curiosity relative to the original of this picture. You said it existed. I immediately connected your mysterious absences with something which might explain all. Last night I followed you home, I saw this beautiful creature, I understood the motives of her seclusion. This day I went to see her early; I forced my way in. Half by threats, half by coaxing, I extracted the truth from her. Signor Paolo, your conduct is selfish; to save yourself from imaginary evils you condemn this angel to a prison life; you deprive her of air and liberty-the very life of a Sicilian girl; you prevent her from enjoying the manifold blessings which God intended for all; you deprive us of the satisfaction of admiring a face so divine, and a mind so exquisite. But then, you will say, she is beautiful enough to excite love; she is simple enough to excite a smile. Signor Paolo, she is good enough to scorn the first word of lawless passion; she is educated enough to learn every thing that becomes a lady, and befits the wife of a man of genius, if you will but let her mix with the world. You are yourself miserable; your life is a torment. I, the friend, the confidante, the sister of this innocent, good girl, declare to you that you must change your mode of existence."

"Countess, you have conquered,” cried Zus

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tana, who guessed the truth, and who intuitively | many times. Wherever I drew up my carriage felt that her generous heart would find, in devo-to sell my pencils in a quiet way some charlatan tion to Eleanora, means of withdrawing her at- came, and drew all my customers from me. I tention from her unfortunate passion. Do with found that my trade was tapering away to a point her as you please. When the Countess Clorinda, as fine as the finest point of my finest pencil; only child of my generous patron, calls my wife and, as you may imagine, I was not very pleased. her sister, my wife is hers for life." But suddenly I thought that if the public taste encourages charlatans, and if I am to secure the patronage of that public, I too must become a charlatan. And here I am-a charlatan from the tips of my hair to the heel of my boot, selling excellent pencils for forty centimes each, as you

The result was natural. Paolo Zustana ceased to be suspicious and restless. Eleanora was universally admired; and when, ten years later, the artist, after finishing the paintings for the gallery of the Palace Bembo, took up his residence permanently in Venice, his wife had become an ac-shall presently see." complished and unaffected lady, capable of holding her position in the elevated circles to which the genius of her husband, and the friendship of Clorinda, established her right to belong. Clorinda remained true to her friendship all her life; delighted and happy at being the ensurer of permanent happiness two loving hearts, which, under the system of suspicion, fear, and seclusion adopted by one of them, must ultimately have been utterly wretched.

No one can be happy and useful in this world, who is not of it. If it were not our duty to be of it, we may be very sure we should not be in it.

BEHIND THE LOUVRE.

This second speech concluded in the most serious manner, the gentleman produces from the carriage-seat a splendid coat embroidered with gold: this he puts on with the utmost gravity— then turns to the crowd to watch its effect upon them. Then he takes his hat off, picks up a huge brass helmet from the bottom of the carriage, and tries it on. Again he looks gravely at the crowd, suddenly removes the helmet, and places, singly, three plumes representing the national tricolor, watching the effect upon the spectators, as he adds each feather. Having surveyed the general effect of the helmet thus decorated, he again puts it on; and, turning now full upon the crowd, folds his arms and

looks steadfastly before him. After a pause, he rings his little bell, and the plumed organist behind him plays a soft and soothing air. To this tune he again speaks :

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are good, as I shall presently show you. Look here-I have a portfolio !"

The gentleman then lifts a large portfolio or book-opens it, and exhibits to the crowd three or four rough caricatures. He presently pretends to perceive doubts floating about as to the capability of his pencils to produce such splendid pictures. Suddenly he snatches up one of them,

"PEOPLE may wish to know why I pull up here, and begin to play the fool. I am a pencil manufacturer; nothing more. I know that my pencils are good: look here! (Exhibits a medal.) This medal was given to me, as the Well, here I am: as you see, a charlatan. I manufacturer of these superlative pencils, by the have done this to please you: you mustn't blame promoters of the Great Exhibition in London." me. As I told you, I am the well-known manuWith this preliminary address, very fashion-facturer of pencils. They are cheap and they able-looking gentleman, who has drawn up his carriage at the roadside behind the Louvre in Paris, opens an address to a number of persons who begin to gather about him. His equipage is handsome; and people wonder what he means by this curious proceeding. Presently they perceive that in the buggy there is an organ, and that the individual perched behind the gentleman fulfills the double functions of footman and organ-brandishes it in the air-turns over the leaves of grinder. They perceive also that the servant wears a magnificent livery, part of it consisting of a huge brass helmet, from the summit of which immense tricolor feathers flutter conspicuously in the breeze. The gentleman suddenly rings a bell; and forthwith the footman in the buggy grinds a lively air. The crowd rapidly increases. The gentleman is very grave: he looks quietly at the people about him, and then addresses them a second time, having rung the little bell again to stop his footman's organ: "Now I dare say you wonder what I am going to do. Well, I will begin with the story which led me to this charlatan life-for I am a charlatan-there's no denying it. I was, as you all know, an ordinary pencil merchant; and, although I sold my pencils in the street from my carriage-seat, I was dressed like any of you. Well, one day, when I was selling my pencils at a rapid rate, a low fellow set up his puppet-show close by me—and all my customers rushed away from me. This occurred to me

the book-finds a blank page-then places himself in an attitude to indicate intense thought. He frowns; he throws up his eyes; he taps the pencil impatiently against his chin; he traces imaginary lines in the air; he stands for some seconds with upturned face, rapt-waiting, in fact, to be inspired. Suddenly he is struck by an irresistible and overpowering thought, and begins to draw the rough outlines of a sketch. He proceeds with his work in the most earnest manner. No spectator can detect a smile upon that serious face. Now he holds the book far away from him, to catch the general effect, marks little errors here and there; then sets vigorously to work again. At last the great conception is upon the paper. He turns it most seriously, and with the air of a man doing a very great favor, to the crowd. The picture produces a burst of laughter. The pencil manufacturer does not laugh, but continues solemnly, to the sounds of his organ in the buggy, to exhibit his production.

formance is that the pencils sold really are good, and that they actually did obtain honorable mention from the English Exhibition Committee in eighteen hundred and fifty-one.

The crowd having decided to purchase or to

Presently, however, he closes the book with the appearance of a man who is satiated with the applauses of the world. A moment afterward he opens it a second time; puts the point of the pencil to his tongue, and looks eagerly at the people. He is selecting some individual, sufficient-reject the merchandise of this extraordinary penly eccentric and sufficiently prominent to be rec-cil ognized by the general assembly when sketched. He has caught sight of one at last. He looks at him intensely, to the irrepressible amusement of the spectators, who all follow his eyes with theirs. The individual selected generally smiles, and bears his public position very calmly.

"For Mercy's sake, do not stir!" the artist fervently ejaculates, as he sets vigorously to work. This proceeding, in the open street, conducted with the utmost gravity, and with the most finished acting, is irresistibly ludicrous. As the portrait advances toward completion, the organ plays a triumphant melody. In five minutes a rough and bold sketch has been produced, resembling only in the faintest manner the original, yet sufficiently like him to be recognized, and to create amusement. As the artist holds up the portrait, to be seen by the crowd, he again rings his little bell to silence his musical attendant in the buggy.

manufacturer, are soon drawn away to the occupant of another elegant carriage. Truly, this little licensed space at the back of the Louvre presents odd pictures to strangers.

This is a serious business. The crowd are listening to a lecture on teeth, and on the virtue of certain drugs for the teeth, the composition of which the lecturer alone knows the secret of-a secret that has been rigidly handed down in his family from the time of the ancient Gauls. He is a well-known dentist in Paris, and is in partnership with his father. The senior dentist remains at home to perform operations of dental surgery which are the result of the remarkable advertising system pursued by the young man in the carriage. The business, I am led to believe, is a most flourishing one in the cité; and, when the father was young, he himself was his father's advertiser.

The scientific gentleman now haranguing the crowd is certainly the worthy representative of his parent. It is reported indeed that the man is a skillful dentist. At the present moment he offers to prove his dexterity upon any individual present who may be troubled by a refractory tooth. He looks about eagerly for a patient. Presently a boy is thrust forward to be operated upon. The poor little fellow is rapidly hoisted into the vehicle. To suffer the extraction of a tooth in an elegant drawing-room, or in the pri

And now he dwells emphatically upon the virtues of his pencils. He declares that they are at once black and hard. He pretends, once more, to detect an air of incredulity in the crowd. He is indignant. He seizes a block of oak-informs his imaginary detractors that it is the hardest known wood-and, with a hammer, drives the point of one of his pencils through it. The wood is split, the pencil is not injured: and he tells his imaginary detractors that even if they are not invacy of a fashionable dentist's apartment, is not the habit of using pencils for art, they are at liberty to split wood with them for winter firing. All they have to do is to buy them. This is of course a very popular point in the performances. The next is the display, to the melancholy grind of the organ in the buggy, of a huge box full of silver money.

a pleasant operation, even for a man with the strongest nerve; but to have a singularly happy illustration of the ills to which teeth are subject, drawn from your head, and exhibited to a crowd of curious strangers, is an ordeal from which all people, save philosophers and small French boys, would shrink with horror. The little victim, however, does not seem to be ashamed of his public position. He seats himself in the presence of the crowd, and allows the operator to fasten a towel about his neck, without displaying the least nervousness. The business-like manner of the operator is very amusing. He looks upon the boy only as a model. When the patient is fully prepared, he displays him to the crowd with much the same expression as that adopted by all parental exhibitors of wonderful little children. The pre-operation is then performed, and the boy's head is rapidly buried in a convenient basin. This accomplished, the dentist, with an air of triumph, begins to sell his tooth-powders, and other toilet necessaries, and to refer the crowd to his father's establishment.

This box is opened and exhibited to the crowd as the astonishing result of these wonderful pencils. And then the charlatan goes through all that pantomime which usually describes a man utterly tired of all the enjoyments wealth can give him. He seizes a handful of the money, and then lazily drops it into the box. He throws himself back and pushes the box from him, to indicate that he is tired of riches. At last he jumps up, and, seizing a five-franc piece, raises his arm to throw it among the spectators: but he is vented, apparently, by a sudden impulse.

"Once," he explains, "I threw a five-franc piece in the midst of my customers, when it unfortunately struck a man in the eye. That accident gave me a lesson which I should do wrong to forget to-day."

We pass the conjuror as an old and wellSo he closes the box, throws it to the bottom known friend, to enjoy the performances of the of the carriage, and calls upon the crowd to be- sergeant of the old guard. This sergeant is recome purchasers of pencils, which will never presented by an old, care-worn looking poodle— break, and which are patronized by the most dis-a poodle that appears to be utterly tired of the tinguished artists. The droll thing about this per-world-to have exhausted all the enjoyments of

which his spectators owe to themselves not to forget the little ceremony of throwing a few centimes into the arena, is a matter which gives zest to the performance. He never appeals directly to the people-he seldom recognizes them in any way; he talks at them in an incidental way, to the old sergeant.

Another public exhibitor claims popular attention behind the Louvre. He is said to share a goodly proportion of Parisian patronage, and to be rewarded with an indefinite number of centimes. His performance is at once rapid and astonishing.

two ordinary poodles' lives, and to take good and evil fortune now with equal calmness. This canine representation of the old guard is dressed— so far as his poodle's proportions can be adapted to those of the human form-in the regimentals of the old Imperial soldiers, and his long gray mustaches and shaggy beard give to his head an appearance not altogether dissimilar to his assumed character. He stands upon his hind legs; he carries his musket with military precision; his nfost conspicuous fault, which he seems to have abandoned as quite insurmountable, is his tail. True it is a very little tail, but there it is, and he can not help it. His master, or superior officer, All he does is to break a huge stone-to crumis an old man, with silver hair, enjoying the ad-ble it up into small pieces. He begins by declarvantages of a singularly even pair of silver mus-ing to the crowd that this process may be pertaches. The master and the subaltern appear to formed by a blow of the hand. He lets the crowd have a family likeness. The master is dressed examine the stone he is about to crush with a in a blue blouse and wide trowsers, and wears a blow of his mighty arm; all are satisfied that it low, half-military cap. In his hand he carries a is a solid mass. He places it upon another stone, little drum and a whip. and, with one blow with his naked hand, shatters

rapid and astonishing; and sagacious men have endeavored to account for it by explaining that the underneath stone is so arranged that the whole force of the blow falls upon one point, and so acts like a sharp instrument—a pickax, for instance. This may be the right or it may be a wrong interpretation of the performance; but that it is a legitimate thing-that there is no cheat about it—I am well assured.

The poor old guard as he walks round the cir-it to atoms. This performance is, of course, both cle formed by the people, to the time of the drum, looks wistfully at his officer, and sadly at his officer's whip. To describe the military movements through which the old guard passes would be as tedious to the reader as they are certainly tedious to the poodle; but the officer is really impressive. He is a serious old man, with a military severity in his look. He talks to the poodle in a voice of thunder, and comments on the slightest laxity of discipline with tremendous earnestness. He re- I might linger here to watch other performminds the old sergeant (who absolutely looks con- ances of this class; but my attention is drawn to scious of his disgrace) that he is an unworthy re- a gentleman dressed quietly and well, who has presentative of the Emperor's noble veterans. He just taken his hat off, and is bowing to us from tells him that he has twice been fined for drunk- the high curb-stone. His expression is serious, enness, and that he spends every sous he gets in even sad. He has an intellectual face, a high Cognac. The sergeant looks very much ashamed. forehead, a thoughtful look. People flock about And then the anger of his officer rises to a terrific him very fast; evidently he has something to say. pitch. The end of the matter is, that the sergeant He has a bundle of papers under one arm. He goes through all the forms of a military trial, and remains, while a crowd gathers, looking sadly is condemned to be shot. The severe old gentle- round, and still holding his hat respectfully in man then solemnly beats his drum, and with a his hand. Presently he murmurs a few words; mournful look, places the condemned soldier in and, by degrees, bursts into an oratorical display, the position he is to occupy while his sentence is at once dramatic and effective. He is a poet. carried out. The poodle, with a hang-dog look, He felt the soul of poetry within him when he then suffers his master to fire a percussion cap at was an obscure boy in his native village. He him, and falls dead. But the business does not longed to be known-to catch the applauses of end here. The old man proceeds with the utmost the world. At last he resolved to travel to Paris; gravity to bury the sergeant with military honors. Paris, where generous sentiments were always Aided by a little boy, he carries the defunct slow-welcomed; Paris, the natural home of the poet. ly round the circle, and then sings a dirge over his grave.

After the funeral, the dog wakes to a lively air, and performs a country dance with his serious old master. The animal is a character, but his master is a study. His age, his dignified manner, the imperturbable seriousness with which he goes through the military forms, the well-acted pathos with which he pronounces the old sergeant's sentence, the severity with which he rebukes any levity in the people, and the insensibility to ridicule with which he dances the country dance, are perfect in themselves. And, as he talks to the dog, his ingenuity in carrying round his discourse to money matters, and to the duty

Full of youthful hope, he presented himself to a
publisher, offering his poems. The reply he ob-
tained was, that he was unknown. He went to
a second publisher, to a third, to a fourth; all
were polite to him, but all rejected his works.
He was in despair. Was he, with the soul of
poesy burning within him, to starve in Paris, the
cradle of poesy? He was tempted often in that
dark time to sully the purity of his muse.
he said, no; he might be poor, but he would be
without stain. At last he was compelled to write
songs for obscure cafés chantants; but he should
be unworthy to address that assembly could he
not assure them that all these songs breathed a
high moral purpose. Well, one of these songs

But

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