ness, with joy, and with old remembrances. | Why, I am going as far as the gate of It was the fairest day of his exile, and he was Flanders, to meet my comrade Girodet." smiling at the thought that this day was to "That is another thing; but are you sure be followed by a happy morrow, when a that he will enter by this gate? Has he young woman of a slender and graceful informed you of the exact hour-" form, her face serious and regular, her attire elegant, advanced towards him, and said, reaching out her hand: 46 Permit the grand-niece of Franklin, Madame Hobart, to pay a tribute of admiration to an illustrious exile." The old man bowed, pressed his lips upon the gloved hand of the beautiful American, but he could not find the slightest compliment to address her. A stranger now presented himself, with an air almost of supplication, holding in his hand an open portfolio and a crayon. "M. David," said the young Englishman, with a very guttural accent, “will you have the kindness to draw me a line, a single line upon this paper ?" “A line ?” replied the painter with a smile, scarcely comprehending the wish of this insular amateur in autographs; "why not two?" He took the crayon and traced two parallel lines upon the paper, though not with true geometrical accuracy. The Englishman overwhelmed him with thanks, then turned, and was soon lost in the crowd. A sweet night, passed in golden dreams, succeeded to this happy day, and at early dawn the poor exile, who was usually so gloomy and taciturn, rose, for the first time, cheerful and almost gay, and admonished his housekeeper, who was surprised to find that he had risen before her, to get breakfast ready, and to think in advance of the dinner, which he wished should be worthy of the renowned guests whom he expected. "How! you are going out, sir, and so early?" cried the good woman, on observing that her master had his hat upon his head, and his cane in his hand. "Yes, mother Rebecca," replied M. David, with a smile, advancing to the outer door; "I take the liberty of going out, and of walking alone, like a grown-up boy." "But it is scarcely daylight; all the shops are still closed." "I do not think of making purchases." "But where, I ask, can you be going, then, at this hour?" "Ha, sacrebleu!" replied the impatient painter; "can you not guess, old beldame "Ha, mordieu! what is that to me? If I meet him, I shall embrace him some moments sooner, and if I should walk for an hour along the road, while waiting for him, it will divert me; it will be exercise. Doctor Franchomme has recommended it to me. Go now to your work, and see that the roast beef does not burn." With these words, the former member of the Convention crossed the threshold of his solitary habitation, striking the pavement with his iron-shod cane, as if he had given a proof of his authority, and laughing in his sleeve at the expression depicted in the face of the old domestic, who gazed after him as he departed with an air of stupefaction. The old man walked with a firm step; he inhaled, with full lungs, the fresh morning breeze; he was gay, young, and happy; he was about to behold a friend again. But in his eagerness, he had anticipated the time at which the diligence usually arrived, by nearly two hours; he did not perceive this mistake until he had walked for a considerable while in the large and filthy suburb, which lies adjacent to the gate of Flanders. His pipe, the faithful companion of his studio and of his exile, he had left behind him; in his hurry he had forgotten it. He continued his solitary walk, busied with pleasant thoughts, and diverted from them only by the passing of the workmen repairing to their labors, and of the market women hastening, with all the speed allowed them by their Flemish rotundity, towards the market De l'Horologe. When we are lounging on alone, above all, when we are waiting for some one, we act like children; we resort to every device to kill time, and to appear to be doing something. A flower-pot at a window, a magpie in a cage, a fly in the air, renders us the service of occupying our thoughts for a moment. M. David was so fortunate as to encounter during his prolonged walk an artist at work in the open air, a glazier doubtless, rather than a painter, who, mounted upon a ladder, was flourishing his brush with the confidence and enthusiasm of Le Gros, completing his admirable cupola | left eye, and making a shade of his palette, of Sainte Geneviève. to assure himself of the effect of his painting. He was admiring himself in his work; he was happy, and M. David's exclamation came at a very untimely moment, to trouble his satisfaction. "Parbleu! I suspected, indeed, that you were trying 'to paint a sky," replied the pitiless critic; " but I simply say, that there is too much blue." The painter of The Coronation passed twice before the dauber, casting a furtive glance at his work, admiring the intrepidity with which the worthy man overlaid with pure ultramarine the background of his landscape, to represent the sky. Beneath the sign, which was almost completed, was written in large letters, "The Break of Day;" a precaution as necessary to indicate the intention of the artist, as was the inscription, "Flemish and Dutch beer for sale here," to reveal the occupation of the pro-ing, and for your guidance, that there is too prietor of this chef d'œuvre. "Here is an honest Vandercrout," said the French artist to himself, "who understands about as much of perspective as a cart-horse, and who, I would bet, flatters himself that he has all the talent of Rubens. He daubs his board as if he were greasing a pair of boots, and he is happy." When M. David passed the third time before the ladder, he could control himself no longer; a second layer of ultramarine had just covered the first; it was enough to make one's flesh creep. Continuing his walk, and without looking at the culprit, he muttered, "There is too much blue !" "Have you, by chance, ever seen skies painted without blue, Sir Amateur ?" "I am no amateur. I say only in pass much blue-that is all. Do as you please, and if you think that there is not enough, put on more." "But, blockhead that you are, have I not told you that it is a sky, a clear sky, without clouds, a sky that is to represent the break of day?" "A reason the more, ventrebleu ! a sky of the color of charcoal! Are you crazy, my dear fellow, to use blue? You must have lost your senses." 'By Saint Nicholas, it is too much!" cried the exasperated dauber; "you are an old fool and an ignoramus! you know nothing of painting. I should like to see you paint skies without blue." "I do not say that I am very skillful in painting skies, but if I were to attempt it, I should not use blue." "Indeed! it would be fine then.” "It would at least look like something." That is to say, that my picture looks like nothing." "Ma foi! nearly so; it looks like the window-shutter of a wretched inn, like a sheet of daubed paper, like a dish of spinach what you will." "Ha! what is that?" cried the signpainter. But the man who had ventured to make this criticism was already at a distance. Twice again, Girodet's friend passed and repassed before “The Break of Day;" and twice he could not refrain from uttering the same exclamation-" There is too much blue !" The offended artist turned and shrugged his shoulders in reply, asking himself, doubtless, what business this person had to meddle with his work? since to judge from his garb, he did not seem to be wealthy enough for a purchaser, and he was far from having the air of a skillful connoisseur. As he passed for the fourth time, the un-"I, a pupil of Ruisdael! I, the fourth cousin known lounger repeated his eternal refrain of Gerard Douw! and you pretend to under"There is too much blue." The color stand my art better than I do—an art which mounted to the face of the Brussels Wouver- I have honorably practised in Anvers, Louvain, and Liege? A dish of spinach !" The rage of the insulted painter rose to such a pitch, that he grasped the critic by the arm, and shaking him violently, added: mans. “Do you not see, sir, that I am painting a sky?" he said, with that tone of apparent moderation which a man assumes who is growing angry, and still wishes to conceal his vexation. The artist had just descended from his ladder, and had posted himself on the opposite side of the street, closing his "A dish of spinach! a window-shutter !" cried the Brabant artist, trembling with rage. "Do you know, old dotard, that my reputation has been made long since that I have painted a red horse at Mechlin, a great stag at Namur, and a Charlemagne at Aix la-Chapelle, before which every body stops | who has wished to play me a trick,” he said, in admiration ?" "Massacre / vile glue vender !" cried M. David, pushed to extremity, and tearing the palette from the dauber's hand; "give it to me; you deserve to be painted in the middle of your Break of Day,' with a fool's face, and with ass's ears." And, hurried away by his indignation, he had already ascended the ladder, and was now effacing, with the palm of his hand, the entire chef d'œuvre of his brother artist, who stood motionless and stupefied. "Stop! stop! old fool! old wretch !" cried the unfortunate painter, pale with terror. "A splendid sign! a picture worth thirtyfive francs! I am lost! I am ruined!" And he shook the foot of the ladder, to compel the barbarous Vandal to descend. But the latter, alarmed neither by the cries of his victim, nor by the presence of several neighbors who had assembled at all this noise, continued pitilessly to efface "The Break of Day," mingling together the earth and the sky, the sun and the trees, the houses and the human figures, or at least what was designed to represent buildings and men; then, not less prompt in restoring than in blotting | out, employing only the end of his finger or the handle of a brush, the new out-door artist sketched, in a few moments, a grayish sky, and the outlines of three boon companions, who, glass in hand, were greeting the break of day, and among whom figured a caricature of the sign-painter himself, easily to be recognized by the thick eyebrows and the truffle-shaped nose. The spectators, at first restless and tumultuous, disposed rather to side with the dauber, their compatriot, than with the stranger, stopped short at the foot of the ladder, and were unable to repress a murmur of admiration, when the chaos of colors began to assume shape and order. The proprietor of the inn, attracted from the house by the tumult, advanced to join the group of inquisitive spectators. He was the first to cry "Bravo!" and to exclaim that the new outdoor artist was at least equal to the former one. The fourth cousin of Gerard Douw suddenly felt his fury vanish and give place to admiration. laughing, to some neighbors who stood around him. "He is some Dutch or French sign-painter: but I am frank; I confess he has talent; yes, I acknowledge him to be my master." The painter of The Oath of the Horatii, his momentary excitement having passed, was about to descend the ladder, amid the plaudits of the spectators, when a new-comer appeared among them, mounted upon a handsome English horse, who recognizing, as he thought, M. David, on the singular pedestal upon which he was perched, had made his way through the crowd, at the risk of trampling some honest Fleming under his horse's feet. “This painting is mine!" he cried, in a jargon which excited the merriment of the populace of Brussels. "I take it, I purchase it; I will give a hundred guineas for it; I will cover it with sovereigns if necessary." "How?" said the Brabant painter. "What say you?" asked the Flemish landlord. "I say that I will give you any price you ask for this painting,” replied the stranger, who leaped lightly from his horse, and in whom Talma's friend now recognized the young Englishman, who, on leaving the theatre on the preceding evening, had requested him to draw a line with a crayon in his portfolio. "The picture is not for sale, young man," said the dauber, with a pride truly paternal, as if it were his own work. "No," said the vender of beer, "for it is sold, and even partly paid for in advance. Still there is a way to arrange the matter, and if you wish to bargain for it, sir, it is with me you must deal." "Not at all, not at all!" said the dauber, making his way through the crowd; “it belongs to me; my brother artist has been so good as to give me a slight proof of friendship; the sign is my lawful property, and I am free to sell it to any one I please." "Robber and knave !" cried the master of the inn; "my 'Break of Day' is fastened to my house, and I alone have the right to dispose of it as I see fit." "I will summon you before the Burgomaster, old rogue," said the man who had not painted the picture. "I will sue you for a breach of contract," | to marry her in September, as poor as she replied the man who had half paid him in is." advance. During this while the crowd had increased about the disputants, and had become so compact that the broad suburb was obstructed by it. "Ventrebleu! Sarpebleu !" cried a third speaker in a thundering voice, who had not spoken until now, such was his stupefaction and vexation at the turn which matters had taken; 46 why, it seems to me that I have something to do in the affair; I should think that I ought to be consulted a little." "Right, brother!" said the sign-painter. | "It is ridiculous to dispute thus in the street. Let us enter master Martzen's inn, and arrange things amicably over a can of beer." "A daughter to marry-a Frenchmanan excellent workman!" cried M. David, suddenly interrupting him. "Sacrebleu! that alters matters. I resign my Break of Day' then; it shall be the dowry of the young bride, and I leave it to the liberality of this stranger to fix the price that he will give for the sketch." "Excellent! illustrious master !" said the young Englishman; "this is judging righteously; the wise Solomon could not have decided better. As for me, I consent to the bargain with all my heart. I have offered a hundred guineas for the sketch, just as it is; I will give two hundred if the artist who painted it will consent to sign it, by writing at the bottom of the picture these two words merely-'Pierre David. " M. David allowed himself to be led into the inn, in order to escape the crowd of inquisitive spectators which was constantly increasing. When within the house, the quarrel only grew more violent, the inn-nounced, he was recognized. keeper and the sign-painter still claiming the property in dispute, the Englishman still offering, with a profusion truly Britannic, to pay for it with its weight in gold. The baron of the Empire smiled in acquiescence; but his name had been pro "Ha, sacrebleu! ha, mordieu! and if I will not have it sold ?" cried the true painter of the picture, impatiently, nay, almost angrily. "Oh, my dear sir," said the innkeeper, "you will not deprive a poor man of this chance, a poor innkeeper who finds it truly hard to get through with the year, and make both ends meet. A little money would come very apropos, and enable me to replenish my stock of beer and English ale." "Do not believe him, brother artist!" cried the painter; "he is an old pinch-fist. He pleads poverty, but he has more crowns in his chest than you and I put together. I am the father of a family, and you owe me the preference as a fellow-artist. Besides, we will share the price of the painting; it would be but fair." • "Do not listen to him!" cried master Martzen, quickly; "he is an old thief, a spendthrift; he has not the wherewithal to marry his daughter, because he has guzzled down her dowry in beer and sausages." "He lies in his heretical throat!" replied M. David's brother artist; "my Lubette is betrothed to a young French artisan, a cabinet-maker, an excellent workman, and he is A shout of surprise and joy followed this discovery: this revered and glorious name was repeated, enthusiastically, from mouth to mouth. "What!" cried the dismayed dauber, "David! you are M. David, the celebrated French painter! Oh! my master! my illustrious master! pardon me for having addressed you with my hat upon my head, and for having treated you as an equal. I am nothing but a beggar, a wretch. Tell me that you pardon me!" and the poor man, with tears in his eyes, uncovered his head, and was on the point of falling upon his knees, when M. David reached him his hand with a cordiality truly republican. The inn was filled with a crowd of boon companions and inquisitive idlers; all present rose, by a spontaneous impulse, to the repeated cry of "Long live M. David!" then they thronged around him, disputing for the honor of touching their glasses to his. The worthy old man, softened by this novel and truly popular triumph, could not refuse to partake of a can of Holland beer, and the huzzas and shouts of joy were redoubled. To complete the scene,-a scene so entirely à la Teniers,-the pretty Lubette, the daughter of the out-door artist, entered the inn, attracted thither by the rumor, which had by this time been noised throughout the whole suburb, of a sign which would hasten | suit the feminine palate. The appearance her marriage, and give her a dowry of two hundred louis d'ors. She cast herself, without ceremony, upon the neck of her benefactor, who received her with open arms, remarking that, after what had passed, he certainly had a right to kiss the bride. At the same moment three strangers, dressed like substantial burghers, entered, with anxious haste, the inn of the " Break of Day." It was the polite M. Lesec, followed by Talma and M. Girodet. The latter, who had reached Brussels an hour before, had not found M. David at his house. The tragedian and the collector had also repaired thither, and on learning that their host had not been seen since morning, they had been alarmed at his absence; fearing that some accident might have befallen him, they had hastened forth to seek him, and guided by the general tumult, now entered the inn of the Break of Day." 'Apollo be praised!" said Talma, on perceiving the great painter, with glass in hand, in the midst of a group of beer-drinkers; "no accident has happened to him." "God forgive me!" added the collector, "this dear baron is kissing the girls; he was not so badly inspired when he rose at daybreak this morning." "Bravo! bravo, my old comrade!" cried Girodet, and the author of "Attila" advanced towards him with extended arms. "You also, then, are beginning to change your style and school! Bravo, master! it is not amiss to end as Rembrandt commenced; but, my faith, I did not suspect that you were employing your time in painting Flemish tavern signs." From "Tait's Magazine." THE MORMON PROPHET. Founded on a recent fact. ONE lovely day, at noon, in August, 1850, the inhabitants of the little village of R, in Lincolnshire, were unusually astir. Groups of men and boys in working attire might have been seen collected here and there. Women lingered on the threshold of their dwellings, unwilling, by an attention to their domestic avocations, to lose one iota of that piquant dish, called scandal, which, "in ev'ry age, in ev'ry clime," appears so well to ན of two strange horsemen, approaching this out-of-the-way village, slightly diversified the attention of our rustic dramatis personæ, until now wholly engrossed with a more immediate object of interest. Let us follow the example of the good people of Rand take a glance at their physiognomy and appearance. The elder of these equestrians possessed a visage at once striking and unprepossessing. Intellect marred by low cunning-fanaticism mingled with, if not overpowered by, hypocrisy-lips that vainly endeavored to curb an habitual contemptuous smile-eyes now flashing with scornful pride, now raised to heaven with an air of sanctified humility,-such were the prevailing characteristics of his countenance. His dress, without being remarkable for singularity, was arranged more for effect than in accordance with the prevailing fashion of the day. His companion formed a pleasing contrast to this repelling personage. He was young and handsome; his features more expressive of good-nature than common sense, and he evidently appertained to a class common enough in agricultural districts, wealthy gentleman-farmers. "Dreaming still of the beautiful unbeliever!" exclaimed the elder, in a voice more powerful than melodious; "can unutterable bliss be obtained without sacrifice?" "Sacrifice!" retorted the young man, "sacrifice! Was it nothing, think you, to leave childless an aged mother nothing to relinquish my own true-hearted Marion! Nothing-and for what? to—" "Patience, my son," interrupted the first speaker, this day-the voice of the Most High has proclaimed it to me-this day shall the truth be made manifest; powerful as the whirlwind when it rushes headlong on its course, pure as the drops that glisten in the sun, boundless as the expanse of the starry worlds, eternal as the city of the Lord. Yes, my pupil," he continued in an elevated tone, "this day shall thy future destiny be decided-this day shall prove me a prophet or a deceiver." As he concluded these words, they entered the one long solitary street of R "Hollo!" he cried, as he reined in his horse at the Rose and Crown, which from time immemorial had enjoyed a state of single blessedness as the sole inn of the village. |