solicitude, but, as _she_ thought, with very indifferent success; and
one afternoon, more dissatisfied than usual with the result of her
work, she hastily took the ivory from her little easel, and put it
into the drawer of her colour-box, which she consigned to its usual
place in the drawer of her table.
Next morning, what was the surprise of Josephine, to find her picture
standing against the easel on the table, and much farther advanced
than when she had quitted it the preceding evening, and the faults
which had then discouraged her, entirely rectified. She tried to
recollect if she had really put away the picture, and her memory
recalled every circumstance of her shutting it up in the drawer. But
she had no recollection of having previously corrected any of the
errors; indeed, she knew that she had not, and the only way in which
she could attempt to solve the mystery, was to suppose that some one,
with the intention of exciting a laugh at her expense, had come into
her room during the night, taken out the picture, and re-touched it.
She mentioned it to no one; but the next night, to guard against a
recurrence of the same trick, she arranged every thing in the neatest
order, locked up her picture in the secret drawer at the bottom of
her colour-box, and placed it under her bolster.
But her astonishment was redoubled, when awaking at an early hour the
next morning, she put her hand under the bolster to feel for her box
and found it gone! She ran to the table, and saw there the colour-box
lying beside the picture, which, as before, was leaning against the
easel, and evidently much improved. She thought that it now began to
look beautifully, and she could not withdraw her delighted eyes from
contemplating it.
Still she felt persuaded that it was all a trick, for which she
should pay dearly when an explanation took place. She was afraid to
touch it again, lest her own inferior pencil should destroy some of
its beauties; though at the same time she remarked a few trifling
defects, which she had not been conscious of when painting at it the
day before. But rather than run the risk of spoiling the whole, she
preferred leaving these little imperfections as they were. Sometimes
she thought of showing it to her governess and to her master; but the
time of the examination approached, and the temptation of keeping the
secret was very great.
However, she could not resolve to paint at the picture that day
herself. Before she went to bed, she took the precaution of placing a
chair against her door, which had the bolt on the outside only, the
young ladies not being permitted to fasten themselves up in their
rooms.
She lay awake for a long time listening, but heard not the slightest
sound, and after a while she fell into a profound sleep. When she
awoke in the morning, the door was still closed, and the chair
standing just as she had placed it; the picture was again on the
easel; some mysterious hand had again been engaged on it, and all the
faults had disappeared, or been altered into beauties.
Josephine stood motionless with amazement. When her bewildered
thoughts settled themselves into a distinct form, regret was her
predominant feeling. "What shall I do?" said she to herself. "I fear
this mystery if I allow it to go on, will end in something very
vexatious; and yet it may be only from motives of kindness that some
unknown person steals into my room at night, and works at my picture
with a skill far surpassing my own. Since I did not mention it at
first, were I now to relate this strange story, I should lose my
character for veracity, as no one, I am sure, would believe me."
She painted no more at the picture, but put it away as usual. That
night she placed her washing-stand against the door, laying her soap
on the edge, so that if moved, it would fall, and having gone to bed
very sleepy, she soon closed her eyes in her usual deep slumber. In
the morning, the washing-stand was still against the door, the soap
had not fallen, the picture was once more on the easel, and--it was
finished!
At the breakfast-table she stole inquiring glances at the
countenances of her school-mates, but none of them looked
particularly at _her_, and none of them averted their eyes from her
gaze. All seemed to think only of the examination.
When she returned to her room, she drest herself for the occasion,
and wrapping her picture in her pocket-handkerchief, she joined her
companions, who walked in procession to the principal school-room,
according to their rank in the class. All the instructors were
assembled. After being examined in several other branches, the
drawings and miniature paintings were produced. When it came to the
turn of Josephine, she blushed as she presented her beautiful picture.
Every one was astonished; it was so far superior to any thing she
had done before, particularly the finishing. The young ladies from
whom she had sketched the figures, being present, every one was
struck with the fidelity of the likenesses, painted, as they were,
chiefly from memory; and great praise was given, not only to the
grace of the attitudes, but to the easy and natural folds of the
drapery, and the clearness and beauty of the colouring. There was
also the novelty of two figures on the same ivory.
The superiority of this little picture was so manifest, that there
was no hesitation in awarding the first prize, which was a small
silver palette, to Josephine Vericour. But to the surprise of every
one, Josephine showed no indication of joy at this signal triumph.
She looked round on all her companions, seeking to discover the
one who had painted the best part of her picture for her in the
night while she slept. She fixed her eyes steadfastly on Julia, the
youngest daughter of Madame Dorival, who possessed in a high degree
the charming talent of miniature painting.
Josephine, who had heard Julia commending her picture, said to her,
"Miss Julia, you may well admire your own work. I have not merited
the prize, and I will not accept of praises which belong only to you,
to your skill in miniature painting, and to the kindness of your
heart."
Julia protested that this language was unintelligible to her,
and begged Josephine to explain herself. She did so, and the
enigma seemed still more incomprehensible. Julia positively denied
ever having seen the picture before Josephine produced it at the
examination. In vain did Josephine detail all the circumstances of
its mysterious progress. Her statement could not be reconciled to
the rules of possibility, and they began to think that her mind was
affected by intense application to her picture. The prize, however,
was decreed to her, in spite of her reluctance to accept it; and when
the examination was over, the young ladies got together in groups,
and talked with much feeling of the symptoms of mental derangement
which had manifested themselves in the unfortunate Josephine.
For a few weeks after the examination, Josephine allowed her
paint-box to remain with those of her companions in one of the
school-room closets, and painted only under the direction of her
master, and during the time of her regular lessons; but though there
were marks of daily improvement, the miniatures she now attempted
were inferior to the mysterious picture.
Being anxious to try again how she could succeed in the solitude
of her own apartment, she there commenced a miniature of herself,
which, if successful, she intended as a present to her mother. By
the assistance of the large looking-glass that hung over the table,
she sketched the outline of her features with great correctness,
and after she had put in the dead colouring, (as the first tints
are called,) she put away her work for that day, and went to Julia,
whom she told of the new picture that she had just begun, and of her
anxiety to know whether her nocturnal visiter would again assist her
in completing it.
"Dear Miss Julia," said poor Josephine, "let me entreat you to have
compassion and tell me the whole truth. If you have any private
reasons for not wishing it to be generally known, I solemnly promise
to disclose it to no one. Tell me how you always contrived to enter
my chamber in the night without disturbing my sleep, and how you have
been able to paint so well by candlelight?"
"Miss Vericour," said Julia, "you surprise me extremely by seeming
to persist in the strange belief that I am the unknown person who
painted in secret on your picture. This mystery must be solved; and
if you find it so difficult to believe my word, you must assist me in
discovering the truth. Place nothing to-night against your door; do
not even latch it. Put away your painting apparatus as usual, and go
to bed, and to sleep if you can. I have thought of a way of detecting
the intruder, who, I suppose, must of course be one of the young
ladies. When she is discovered, she shall be reprimanded, and made to
give up her part in this strange drama, so that your perplexity will
be at an end."
Josephine acquiesced with joy, and minutely followed the directions
of Julia. All the young ladies went to bed at nine o'clock, but
on this night it was long after ten before Josephine could compose
herself to sleep. When every one in the house had gone to bed and
all was quiet, Julia Dorival placed a taper in a small dark lantern,
and proceeded with it to the passage into which Josephine's chamber
opened. There, seating herself on a chair outside of the door, she
remained patiently watching for more than an hour. No one appeared;
the clock struck twelve, and Julia began to grow tired. She was
almost on the point of giving up the adventure, when her ear was
attracted by a slight noise in Josephine's room.
Julia softly pushed open the door, and by the light of her lantern,
she saw Josephine dress herself in her morning-gown, walk directly to
her table, arrange her painting materials, select her colours, seat
herself before the glass, and begin to paint at her own miniature.
But what was most astonishing, she worked without any light, which
Julia did not at first remark, having her own lantern beside her
in the passage. She entered the chamber as softly as possible, and
placing herself behind Josephine's chair, she looked at her as she
painted, and was astonished at the ease and skill with which she
guided her pencil, asleep and in darkness.
Julia Dorival was twenty years old, and with a large fund of general
information, she was not, of course, ignorant of the extraordinary
phenomenon of somnambulism, and of the most remarkable and best
authenticated anecdotes of sleep-walkers. But among all that she had
heard and read on the subject, she recollected none more surprising
than the case now before her. She knew, also, that persons under
the influence of this singular habit should never be suddenly
awakened, as the shock and surprise have been known to cause in them
convulsions or delirium. She therefore carefully avoided disturbing
Josephine, and gliding quietly out of the room, she looked at her for
some time from the passage, and then gently closing the door, she
left her to herself and retired to her own apartment.
Next morning, Julia excited great surprise in her mother and sister,
by informing them of what she had seen. They agreed to witness
together that night this interesting spectacle, and of course, not to
mention a word on the subject to Josephine, who, when she innocently
inquired of Julia the result of her watching, was answered that she
should know all to-morrow.
They were much affected at the idea that this young girl's earnest
and praise-worthy desire to excel in the art which was to be her
future profession, should have so wrought upon her mind, even in the
hours of repose, as almost to achieve a miracle, and to enable her to
prosecute employment with more ardour, and even with more success, in
darkness and in sleep, than in the light of day, and with all her
faculties awake.
At midnight, the three ladies repaired with their lantern to the
chamber door of Josephine. The sleep-walker was putting on her gown.
They saw her seat herself at the table and begin to paint. They
approached close behind her without the smallest noise, venturing
to bring into the room their lantern; of its dim light, Josephine
was entirely unconscious. They saw her mix her colours with great
judgment, and lay on the touches of her pencil with the utmost
delicacy and precision. Her eyes were open, but she saw not with
them; though she frequently raised her head as if looking in the
glass.
Somnambulists see nothing but the object on which their attention is
decidedly fixed; yet their perceptions of this object are ascertained
to be much clearer and more vivid than when awake. If addressed,
they will generally answer coherently, and as if they understood and
heard; and it is possible to hold a very rational dialogue with a
sleep-walker. But when awake, they have no recollection of any thing
that has passed during the time of somnambulism.
Julia ventured to speak to Josephine in a low voice. "Well," said
she, "my dear Josephine, you know now who it is that paints in the
night at your pictures. You know that it is yourself. Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Does my presence disturb you?"
"No, Miss Julia."
"But to-morrow, Josephine, you will not believe what I shall tell
you."
"Then it will be because I do not remember it."
"Will you write on this piece of paper something that I wish to
dictate to you?"
"Most willingly."
Josephine then took up a lead pencil, and wrote these words as Julia
prompted her:--
"Midnight.--Talking with Miss Julia Dorival, and painting at a
miniature of myself.
JOSEPHINE VERICOUR."
Julia took the paper, and prepared to retire, cautioning the young
artist not to fatigue herself by painting too long.
"Do not fear," replied Josephine, "I always return to bed as soon as
I begin to feel weary."
The three ladies left the room on tip-toe, as they had entered it,
their minds wholly engrossed with admiration at the phenomenon
they had just witnessed. Next morning, Julia had some trouble in
convincing Josephine of the fact, but the certificate in her own
writing was an undeniable evidence. As there is something strange and
awful, and frequently dangerous, in the habit of somnambulism, no one
wishes to possess it; and Josephine was anxious to get rid of it as
soon as possible, even though it enabled her to paint better than
when awake.
She would not trust her painting apparatus in her chamber at night,
and she dismissed all thought of her miniature from her mind as
soon as she went to bed; and was consequently enabled to rest there
till morning as tranquilly as any of her school-mates, all of whom
were much amazed when they heard the singular explanation of the
Mysterious Picture.
This explanation once given, Madame Dorival prohibited its becoming a
subject of conversation. Josephine made vigorous efforts to conquer
her timidity in presence of her master, and in a short time she was
able to paint as well under his inspection as she had done when alone
and asleep in the gloom of midnight.
ELIZA LESLIE.
THE FATHER'S PRIDE.
There's mischief in thine eye, young boy!
Thy lip has a saucy air--
And the winds breathe on thee health and joy,
As they stir thy golden hair.
No sorrow flings its shadow o'er
Thy baby heart and brow!
And never at a palace door
Was prouder imp than thou!
Prythee, don't raise thy little hand,
With such a lordly air!
For pussy laughs at thy command,--
And Carlo doesn't care.
Ah! pretty one! thou'rt very bold,
And pompous in thy stride--
How dost thou know, at four years old,
Thou art a father's pride?
When manhood comes, thou wilt be gay--
But not as now--ah, never!
For now to-morrow seems to-day--
Thyself a boy forever!
Sweet babe! would I again could be
As innocent as thou--
With heaven's pure ray, so calm and free,
Upon my heart and brow!
[Illustration: H.W. Pickersgill pinxt. F. Kearny Sc.
THE FATHER'S PRIDE.]
THE PET LAMB.
A TALE.
BY MRS. HUGHS.
One cold bleak morning, in the latter end of March, before winter
had quite determined to resign his tyrannical sway, though he had
occasionally permitted a few soft breezes to woo the opening buds of
the willow and the horse-chestnut, and scatter a few of the earliest
spring flowers over the fields, Farmer Early happened, on his way to
the place where his labourers were at work, to pass a field in which
he had a number of sheep. Two or three times, as he proceeded along,
by the side of the fence, he thought he heard a very feeble bleat,
and stopped to see if there was any youngling in need of more aid
than was in its mother's power to render. For some time, however,
he looked in vain, but at length the sound became more distinct,
and soon guided him to a corner of the field, where he discovered a
sheep lying stretched out on its side, and a lamb, evidently just
born, lying near it. He hastened immediately to the aid of the little
complainer, and found that the mother was stiff and cold, and that it
was itself nearly dead, for its feeble frame had been exposed to
the cold bleak wind and occasional falls of snow, without having any
tender mother to protect it from the withering blast. He immediately
took it in his arms and returned home, though with but little hope
that any thing that could now be done for it would be of any avail.
[Illustration: W. Collins Del. F. Kearny Sc.
THE PET LAMB.]
"Here, Sally! Sally!" cried he, as he entered the door of his own
house, and immediately his eldest daughter came forward, on hearing
the summons, "I have brought you something to be kind to. Here is a
poor little lamb that has lost its mother, and you must try to supply
the place of one to it: I am afraid it will be impossible to save
it, but you must see what you can do." Sally, whose heart overflowed
with tenderness toward every living thing, took the little trembling
creature in her arms, and summoning her little sisters to partake
of the pleasing task, and indeed to share the fatigue which she was
herself but ill able to bear, she immediately began to prepare a bed
for it by the fire, and to warm some milk for it.
"Do you think it will live, Sally?" said Peggy, as she stood by her
elder sister's side, "do you think you can keep it from dying?"
"I hope so," answered Sally, holding the warm milk to its mouth as
she spoke.
"I won't let it die," said Kitty, with great earnestness. "Will you,
Sally?"
"Not if I can help it."
"And if it lives, won't you let me feed it sometimes?" added Peggy,
"and won't you let it be part mine?"
"Yes, it shall be part yours, and you shall help me to take care of
it."
"And when it can walk, won't you let me take it out and teach it to
run about the green?"
"I rather think it will be more likely to teach you to skip,"
returned her elder sister.
"I can run about already," said Kitty, and as she spoke, she gave
several bounds across the floor to prove the truth of her assertion.
"What will you call it, Sally?" asked Peggy.
"I think we must call it Croppy, for you know how the little lambs
crop the short grass. How glad I shall be if we can rear it. I never
had a pet in my life, and a pet lamb, of all things in the world, is
what I shall like the best."
"You always said I was your little pet," said Kitty, looking up in
her sister's face with an expression of disappointment.
"And so you are," answered Sally, kissing her affectionately; "but
Croppy, if it live, will be a pet to all of us."
"And it will live--I know it will," said Peggy. "Only see how much
better it looks, now that it is warm, and has got some good milk."
The fact was, that little Croppy very soon began to show signs of
the good effects of the kind treatment it had received; and before
the day was over, it could stand, and in a few days more it began to
trot about, and was very soon able to commence the business of giving
the little girls lessons in running. And here we shall leave him for
a while, to give a short account of the family in which he was now an
inmate.
Farmer Early's family consisted of Sally, whom we have just
introduced to our readers, and who was fifteen years old, George, who
was about one, and Tom, who was rather more than two years younger
than she. Besides these, there were two little girls, Peggy, who
was seven, and Kitty, five years old. They were all rather pretty
and very pleasant looking children; but Sally and George were the
most conspicuously interesting, both in appearance and manners.
George was of a more serious and thoughtful cast than boys of his
age generally are. He was active, and always willing to do any thing
in his power to assist his father and those around him; but these
duties fulfilled, his chief delight was in reading, and he would sit
for hours together on the top of a box in the garret, whither he was
in the habit of going for the sake of being out of the noise of the
other children, and would devour with the greatest eagerness the
contents of every book on which he could lay his hands; and a strange
mixture, it must be confessed, it had been his fate to get hold of.
He had read "The Whole Duty of Man;" "Gulliver's Travels;" "Cook's
Voyages;" "Pilgrim's Progress;" two or three odd volumes of some of
the Waverley novels, which he had bought for a few cents a piece at
an auction in the neighbouring town, when sent there on an errand;
but of all the treasures of which he had ever become possessed,
and which seemed likely to have the most powerful influence over
his future character, was the Life of Franklin, which he likewise
purchased for a few cents at an auction. Eagerly, nay, greedily, did
he read this interesting little volume. And when he rose from the
fascinating task, and recollected that he, who had become one of
the most distinguished philosophers either of his own, or any other
country, who had been a negotiator with kings, and had done more,
perhaps, for his country than any other man, with the exception of
Washington alone, had once been a poor, portionless, uneducated
boy; and that all the attainments, all the honours of which he
afterwards became possessed, were entirely the fruits of his industry
and economy, he drew himself up with a noble feeling of pride and
emulation, and said, "I too, perhaps, may some time or other be
a great man; for every body has the power of being industrious,
economical, and good; and I never can be much poorer than Franklin
was when he first entered Philadelphia with only a dollar in his
pocket, and when he went and bought a two-penny loaf and made his
dinner off it."
George had not derived his love of reading from either his father
or mother; for though respectable, they were very ignorant people,
and were much more disposed to regret the disposition of their son
to spend his time, as they conceived, so unprofitably, than to
attempt to supply him with the means of indulging his prevailing
propensity. He was not, however, without one affectionate and
sympathizing friend, who delighted in aiding him in every laudable
undertaking, and joined with interest in all his praise-worthy
pursuits. His sister Sally was, like himself, gentle, affectionate,
and thoughtful. She was not so great a reader as George, for, indeed,
the instruction that she had received had been so very limited, and
she had always been kept so constantly employed in assisting her
mother in the household work, and in taking care of the younger
children, that she had never learned to read with sufficient facility
to make the employment agreeable; but she delighted to listen to
George's accounts of the books he had read, and was always ready to
add her mite to the small stock of money which he was able to save
for the purchase of more. Fondly, too, would she encourage all his
ardent aspirings after knowledge and virtue, and all his sanguine
anticipations of future eminence; for to her he could breathe out
his thoughts almost before they were formed in his mind, conscious
as he did so, that they would meet no repulsive check, no chilling
reception, to nip the embryo blossom, and prevent its ripening into
fruit. There was yet another circumstance which served to unite this
affectionate brother and sister in still closer bonds. Sally had all
her life been exceedingly delicate, and as she advanced in age, that
delicacy evidently rather increased than diminished; and there was
no one of the whole family that showed so much consideration, and
so tender a sympathy for her weakness, as her brother George; and
the grateful girl never seemed to think she could make a sufficient
return for such kindness.