Part 10

OSWALD.--Why, I asked him that question, but he confessed that he was at so great a loss for models that he was glad to imitate any thing he could get; and that, having no instructer, he knew no better way to pick up a little knowledge of the general principles of the art, than by copying every thing that came in his way, provided it was not absolutely bad. I then reminded him that, as he could make admirable sketches from his own imagination, I thought he need not copy at all; but he disclaimed all pretensions to designing well, and then said that, even if his original attempts were tolerably successful, as outlines, it was only by drawing from prints or pictures that he could acquire a just idea of keeping, or of the distribution of light and shadow. He showed me, however, several original drawings, which my father would say evinced an extraordinary degree of talent, and some admirable copies, though many of them were taken from very coarse prints for want of better.

AMELIA.--How very glad he would be to have this Souvenir to draw from.

OSWALD.--He would, indeed. But that Souvenir cost three dollars, and I do not suppose that he ever had three dollars in his life, poor boy--I mean three dollars at once.

AMELIA.--I will willingly lend it to him.

OSWALD.--He has so little time to draw, that it would be a great while before he could return it; or rather, he would be so uneasy at keeping it long, that I know he would send it back before he had half done with it. And, besides, he would have no satisfaction in drawing from _your book_, as he would be in continual fear of dropping his brush on one of the leaves, or of accidentally injuring it in some way or other. He is very unwilling to borrow any thing that is new or valuable.

AMELIA.--What a pity that a boy of so much genius should find any difficulties in his way.

OSWALD.--There are too many similar instances. Some of the most distinguished artists of the present age have been obliged, in early life, to struggle with indigence, and, indeed, with absolute poverty, much as Edwin Lovel is now doing.

The next morning, Amelia said to her brother as soon as she found him alone, "Oswald, I wish to ask you one question. When we receive a present, does it not become our own?"

OSWALD.--Certainly.

AMELIA.--And we are at liberty to do exactly what we please with it?

OSWALD.--Precisely--only I think we had better not destroy it.

AMELIA.--Of course, not--but we may give it away?

OSWALD.--Why--I do not know--I should not like to give away a present received from a valued friend.

AMELIA.--But if, in giving it away, you make the person on whom you bestow it more happy than you yourself could possibly be made by keeping it?

OSWALD.--If you were sure that that would be the case----

AMELIA.--Oh! I am very sure--I can answer for myself. Therefore, dear brother, I beg your acceptance of my Souvenir.

OSWALD.--Why, Amelia, your kindness surprises me. You know I have already a Christmas gift; the beautiful writing case that my father bought for me yesterday. I cannot take your Souvenir.

AMELIA.--Dear Oswald, for once allow me to make you a present. It is the first time in my life I have had it in my power to offer you any thing of consequence. I shall be so happy, if you accept it--There it is, (_laying the Souvenir on Oswald's knee._)

OSWALD.--But, Amelia, how can you part so soon with your beautiful Souvenir? You were so delighted with it last evening.

AMELIA.--I know every thing in it--I examined all the plates with the greatest attention, and I read it through before I went to bed.

OSWALD.--(_smiling._)--Well, Amelia, though you are so generous as to make me the owner of the Souvenir, you know it will still remain in the house. I will put it carefully away in my little book case, and whenever you wish to look at it, just tell me so, and you shall have it at any time.

AMELIA.--(_looking disappointed._)--But, Oswald, are you going to keep it always?

OSWALD.--Always, as the gift of my loving sister.

AMELIA.--But I do not _insist_ on your keeping it for ever, dear Oswald. You may give it away again--I shall not be the least offended if you give it away, provided you bestow it properly. Indeed, I would rather you should give it away than not--and as soon as possible, too--this very day, if you choose.

OSWALD.--Surely, Amelia, you have a very strange way of making a present; desiring it to be given away again immediately.

AMELIA.--Why, Oswald, you know you do not draw.

OSWALD.--No, indeed, to my great regret.

AMELIA.--And, if you did, my father would always take care that you should be well supplied with models.

OSWALD.--I suppose he would, as he never lets us want for any thing that could add to our improvement.

AMELIA.--Had not the Souvenir better be given to a person that _does draw_ very well,--beautifully, indeed,--but that has no money to buy models?

OSWALD.--In one word--Had not the Souvenir better be given to Edwin Lovel?

AMELIA.--Yes, since it must be told, that is exactly what I mean.

OSWALD.--So I guessed from the beginning. But why did you take such a roundabout way of getting the book put into his possession?

AMELIA.--Why, I do not suppose he would accept it from me, a young girl whom he has never seen; but he would be less scrupulous in taking it as _your_ gift, as you are an acquaintance of his.

OSWALD.--Say, a friend.

AMELIA.--I know you so well, that, after our conversation last night, I was certain, if I gave the book to you, you would present it at once to the poor boy; and I was much disconcerted when you pretended at first that you would keep it always.

OSWALD.--Amelia, the book is yours, and the suggestion is yours, and I will not assume to myself more merit than I deserve. If you are determined on giving the Souvenir to Edwin Lovel, the best way is to seal it up in a sheet of white paper addressed to him, and with a few words written on the inside, requesting his acceptance of the book from an unknown admirer of early genius.

AMELIA.--An excellent plan--I wonder I did not think of it before. I will set about it directly.

OSWALD.--Here is a sheet of Ames's best letter-paper, and here is my new writing-box. Let it be used for the first time in a good cause.

AMELIA.--(_sits down and writes._)--I never wrote any thing with more pleasure.

OSWALD.--Be sure to put "early genius."

AMELIA.--I have.

OSWALD.--Let me see--I never saw any writing of yours look so pretty. Now, I will put up the parcel, and tie it round with red tape, and seal it, for girls seldom do such things well--(_he folds the book in the paper, ties, and seals it._) There, now direct it.

AMELIA.--The next thing is, who shall we get to carry it to Edwin?

OSWALD.--Why not William?

AMELIA.--I do not wish my father to know it, lest he should think I set too little value on his Christmas present; and I will never ask a servant to do any thing for me that is to be kept from the knowledge of my parents.

OSWALD.--That is right. I will take the packet to the Intelligence Office, round the corner, and give one of the black boys that are always loitering there, a trifle to carry it to Mr. Lovel's, and just leave it with whoever opens the door.

AMELIA.--That will do very well. Now, Oswald, make haste, for I hear my father coming.

Oswald easily procured a boy to carry the packet to the house of Mr. Lovel, who lived in one of the upper cross streets. The door was opened by the black girl, who immediately recognised the boy as an old acquaintance, and commenced a conversation with him. "Why, Ben," said she, "What is this you have brought for Master Edwin? I guess it's a book. It looks 'xactly like one. All done up so nice, and sealed. Why, I'm puzzled who sended it." "He did not tell me his name," replied the boy, "but I guess I know who he is, for all that. It's Master Oswald Woodley, Mr. Woodley, the great merchant's eldest son. My aunt is cook there, and I've often been in the kitchen. And he gave me a quarter-dollar for carrying it; and it must be 'livered into Master Edwin's own private, particular hands."

So saying, he departed, and the girl ran up to Edwin's room, holding out the parcel and saying, "Master Edwin, here's a book for you, signed, sealed, and delivered; sent by Master Oswald Woodley, oldest son of Mr. Woodley the great merchant."

Edwin took the book, and, on opening it, was much surprised to find the note written in a female hand, and the name of Amelia Woodley on the presentation plate of the Souvenir, which had been inscribed by her father the preceding evening, and which she had forgotten to erase before she sent it away. For some time, his pleasure in examining the beautiful plates absorbed every other consideration, and it was not till he had gone twice over them, that he thought of the mystery connected with the book. His honourable principles determined him not to accept it, as he saw that there was some secrecy about the whole transaction, and that probably the generous young lady, whose name it bore, had sent it to him without the knowledge of her parents. The beauty of the book was a great temptation, and he would have derived much pleasure from copying some of the fine plates, but still he could not reconcile it to his conscience to keep it, neither would he betray the kind-hearted Amelia to her father. He resolved to seal it up again, and leave it himself at Mr. Woodley's door, addressed to Oswald.

He took his last sheet of paper, and wrote in it as follows:--

"Accident has discovered to me to whom I am indebted for a most beautiful present, but though it has excited my warmest gratitude, I cannot consent to accept it under circumstances of mystery to which the parents of my kind friend may be strangers. I return it with a thousand acknowledgments.

EDWIN LOVEL."

Having looked once more at the engravings, he put up the Souvenir, and set out himself to leave it at Mr. Woodley's house, intending to desire the servant that opened the door to give it to Master Oswald.

Mr. Woodley was sitting at the centre-table looking over some English newspapers, and he found in one of them a high eulogium on a new picture by an American artist, now in London. He read the piece aloud, and when he had concluded, "Amelia," said he, "if I am not mistaken, there is in your Souvenir an engraving from this picture. Let me look at it again." Amelia coloured and knew not what to say, and Oswald also seemed much embarrassed. "My dear," pursued Mr. Woodley, "did you not hear me? If you can get the book conveniently, I should like to look at that plate." Amelia, confused and trembling, tried to speak but could not, and her eyes were immediately filled with tears. "Amelia," said Mr. Woodley, "has any accident happened to the Souvenir?" "No, my dear father," she replied, "but I have given it away." "Is it possible," said Mr. Woodley, "that you were so soon tired of your father's Christmas gift?" "Oh! no, no," replied Amelia, "but there is a poor boy who draws beautifully, and I thought it would make him so happy. Dear Oswald, tell the whole."

Oswald then, as concisely as possible, related all the circumstances: and Mr. Woodley, after gently blaming the children for disposing of the book without consulting their parents, kissed Amelia, and commended her kindness and benevolence in bestowing her Souvenir on poor Edwin Lovel.

Just then a ring was heard at the front door, and William brought in and gave to Oswald the packet, which had been left that moment by Edwin. "Ah!" exclaimed Oswald, on opening the parcel, "this is so like Edwin. He sends back the Souvenir." He then gave Edwin's note to Mr. Woodley, who, after reading it, went to the desk and wrote a billet addressed to Edwin's father, in which he requested him to permit his son to join his family that day at their Christmas dinner. William was immediately despatched to Mr. Lovel's with the note, and in a short time Edwin arrived, looking very happy; and Mr. Woodley shook him heartily by the hand, on being introduced to him by Oswald. Then, taking up the Souvenir, he held it out to Amelia, and desired her to present it a second time to her brother's young friend. "With my sanction," said Mr. Woodley to Edwin, "you will not again refuse my daughter's gift, though you so honourably returned it when you suspected that she offered it unknown to her parents."

Edwin spent the day with the Woodley family, who were all delighted with his modesty and good sense, and Mr. Woodley made him promise to repeat his visit as often as he had leisure. That evening, Amelia's uncle brought her a present of an Album, bound in green morocco and handsomely gilt, and Edwin requested that she would allow him to take it home and draw something in it.

When he returned the Album, it contained copies, in Indian ink, of the most beautiful plates of the Souvenir, executed in Edwin's very best manner. Mr. Woodley presented Edwin with a portfolio, containing a selection of fine prints, and eventually made arrangements with a distinguished artist to take him as a pupil: his taste for drawing being so decided, and his indications of genius so extraordinary, it was thought best to yield to his desire of making painting his profession.

Finding Edwin's father to be a very deserving man, Mr. Woodley assisted him to re-establish himself in business, regretting that he should so long have been condemned to the irksome life of a teacher in a school. He was soon enabled to occupy a better house, and to live once more in the enjoyment of every comfort.

E. L.

MOTHER'S JOY

Why, what a busy maid thou art, With eyes so like a dove! And I am sure thy little heart Is running o'er with love.

No grief hast thou, save now and then Thy bread and butter falls,-- Or careless little bantam hen Escapes from her wooden walls.

Sometimes thy roguish brother comes Along with stealthy tread, And in thy startled ear he drums, Or pulls thy curly head.

And these are all the troubles thou E'er hast, my gentle Mary-- No wonder thou, with happy brow, Art listening to Canary.

And then thou art so very kind To every thing that moves-- Thy little feather'd brood all find How sweetly Mary loves.

James is an active, winning child-- Dearly we love the boy-- But thou, my little maiden mild, Thou art thy Mother's Joy!

THE PERCEVALS.

Sorrow and joy were both in the house of Mr. Perceval; for one lovely baby was laid out in its white shroud, and, in the same hour, another's eyes first opened on the light. There were two persons watching in the chamber of death--the father, who gazed on the smiling lips and smooth fair brow of his first-born son, till with tears he blessed the pitying hand which had stilled the little voice of agony, and obliterated for ever the traces of pain; and the nurse, a young and tender-hearted Irish woman, who had borne the infant sufferer through his brief life of torment, and now with Christian love hung over the placid features, that the sinless spirit beautified in death; till the coffin closed over the transient light, which the departing soul had left, and the empty cradle received a new birth. It was long before Eva could observe, in this unconscious subject of her daily comparison, any charms to equal those that were buried with the earlier object of her care; and she never could avoid contrasting "the tender blue of those loving eyes," shaded by their silken lashes, which seemed opening upon her from the tomb, every time she looked at the full large orbs, that stared out of the meagre long face of his unadmired successor; and she never tired talking of the glossy ringlets, that she used to twist round the comb, with such elaborate care, when she was adorning her little Henry for company; as soon as she saw Alfred's "ugly bare head," without a lace cap. This young gentleman, however, paid no attention to such discourse, so unfavourable to himself, but continued to live on, very well satisfied with his own share of beauty; and it was not before two or three years had passed over his head, and made him vain, that he discovered any pride in his appearance. But then, when his figure rounded into perfect shape, when the lace cap was exchanged for golden ringlets, and the rose and the lily were blended in his lovely face, he would exhibit, with great delight, his red shoes, and worked slip, and coral clasps, which his mother had bought in the pride of her maternal fondness, to correspond with the beauty of her son. Mr. Perceval had a country seat, a short walk from Baltimore, where he resided with his family during the summer months. The guns from Fort M'Henry announced our annual festival--the soldiers were assembling in the city--Alfred heard the drums and the trumpets,--and the little hero must go to town, to see the parade. With many charges to Eva (who was now in the habit of bringing forward the beauties of her two nurslings, not "in opposition but in compare") the reluctant mother consented to expose her son for a short time, in the close air of the city, from a natural wish to gratify his infant taste for "all the pomp and circumstance of war." I would not like to say, how many poor children are dragged over the scorching pavements and burning roads of our town, during the great national feast, without any refreshment themselves, except perhaps a glass of heated beer, or a dusted cake. Alfred Perceval was more fortunate--supported in the arms of his careful, tender nurse, from a window on the shady side of Market street, he saw the long military line extend from the western extremity to the bridge. His head moves to the sound of the music, he springs in Mary's arms, as the horsemen gallop past; his eyes sparkle at the flashing swords; and his brave little heart recoils not at the sound of the guns. When the show was over, Eva brought him home, and made him a cap of blue paper, and put a red feather in it. With this on his head, he strutted about the house, to the music of a cocoanut shell he had for a kettledrum, which his mother preferred to that of a tin canister, which the young musician would have preferred himself. Nothing could exceed the glow of delight which made Alfred so beautiful that day, and the parents exulted in the health of their son. Oh! what a sad reverse, to sink at once the current of this joy,--before midnight their little soldier was raging with fever, and when the restlessness of the disease was over, it settled with a fatal stillness on the brain; and during six weeks he lay insensible to all that was done to save him.

I will not attempt to describe the misery of the parents, for my story is to be a brief one; but it pleased the Power of Mercy to abate their hopeless grief, through the instrumentality of medical skill; and Alfred once more opened his eyes to a new existence, and stared around him as he did before. A cap supplied the place of the beautiful fair curls, that were all cut away, and the child was placed in Eva's arms, as helpless and nearly as unconscious then, as when he first received the precarious gift of life. But Eva carried him to the garden, and the woods, where the leaves, now dyed with all the rich tints of our splendid autumn, presented so many colours to his sight; and while she called his attention to the various objects around him, his slow remembrance returned, and he would smile at all the creatures that he used to love--"the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air." And then she would make him smell the flowers she culled for him, and listen to the music of the birds; till at last every sense was restored to its natural power, and his mind awoke from its long deep sleep, but the weakness of his frame continued, and many months passed away, before he was able to put his feet to the ground; and by that time, a little brother overtook his steps, and they both began to walk together; while each had his nurse, and his eulogist, who praised her own charge,--and no wonder, for Alfred's mind (strengthened, it would seem, after so long a rest) exhibited, from day to day, powers of observation and reflection, much beyond his age. And his happy parents would often call him their "baby philosopher," while they smiled with delight at his sage remarks. And Charles was the prettiest little puppet ever seen; his dancing steps, always keeping time to the music of his own thoughts, which were scarcely ever out of tune; and so fond was he of the exercise of life, that they never laid him down in his bed, for necessary rest, without his having a playful struggle against the advances of sleep; but after kicking his feet against the posts of his crib, as long as he was able, and singing "by, by baby"--after slapping his pillow till he was tired, he was usually found by his mother asleep, when she went to bed, with his pocket handkerchief rolled into a rag baby, and his head lying where his feet ought to be. But before any one else was stirring in the morning, he was awake again, when he would stoop over his low crib, and take his boots in, and while he was trying to put them on, but succeeded neither by the heels nor the toes, he would talk to them about their conduct, or tell himself stories of cats and dogs, with shawls and bonnets; and pigeons, with yellow shoes, walking down Market street. Yet with all this imagination himself, he had so little inclination to profit by the thoughts of others, that his mother could with difficulty teach him the alphabet, before he was sent to his first school; though his brother (who never told a story that I remember, except one that had "seventeen foxes" in it) could read perfectly. With a foreign teacher, however, Charles seemed very suddenly to make great advances; and, at four years of age, he was always head or next to head in his lessons; to the surprise of his attentive parents, who could not themselves perceive so great a progress in learning as this seemed to indicate; but upon investigating the matter thoroughly, they found out, that there was only Charles and another little urchin in the class; which little urchin was to occasion them more distress, than they ever could have anticipated. One Sunday, dressed in his finest clothes, he found Charles at the door of his father's town-house (for it was early in the spring,) and persuaded him to take a walk. Accordingly, the two young travellers set off together, but no sooner had they reached the confines of the town and point, than they quarrelled about their future destination; when Master Jacky left Charles to steer his own course, and ran home as fast as he could. The poor little fellow scorned to cry, but wandered about, more and more bewildered, till he reached one of the wharves, where a Spanish vessel was about to spread its sails to a fair wind, and put to sea. Such a strange prospect, opening at once upon the frightened child, when he thought he was so many steps nearer home, occasioned an instant defeat of all his self-confidence; and he burst out into a loud and continued cry, which arrested the attention of a gentleman, who was just at that moment hurrying to reach the vessel.