Chapter L: M. C (2)

He did not find himself well situated in this school. The teachers were accustomed to employ the poorer boys as servants, and he was kept so constantly at work, that what little he learned was mostly accomplished by stealth. But he met with one piece of great good fortune. Schiller, who afterward became world-renowned as a writer, was at this school. The two boys recognized kindred genius in each other, and formed a friendship which lasted through life. When he was fifteen years old, his remarkable talent for drawing caused him to be removed to the School of Art in Stuttgard, where he received instruction from Grubel, the sculptor. The next year, he obtained the highest prize for a statue of Milo, modelled in clay. The Duke, who had forgotten the bright, ragged boy that formerly attracted his attention, was astonished to hear he had carried off the highest honors of the School of Art. He employed him to carve cornices and ornaments for two new palaces he was building. Ten years were thus spent, during which he acquired a great deal of mere mechanical skill and dexterity. But he longed to improve himself by the sight of noble models; and at last he obtained leave to travel. The allowance granted him by his ducal patron was only one hundred and twenty dollars a year. With this he set off for Paris, where he studied in the galleries of the Louvre, often going the whole day without food, and in a dress too shabby to be considered respectable. Those who saw him thus perseveringly employed, passed by without recognizing the divine soul that dwelt within the forlorn exterior. He afterward went to Rome, where for some months, he wandered about among monuments and ruins, friendless and homesick. But luckily his illustrious countrymen, Herder and Goethe were there. He was introduced to them, and their conversation imbued him with higher ideas of Art than he had ever before received. The celebrated Italian sculptor, Canova, also became acquainted with him, and often visited him in his studio. There was but a year’s difference in their ages, and their friendship became intimate. He remained five years in Rome, and distinguished himself by the production of several fine statues. He then returned to his native country, where he married. At fifty years of age he was considered the greatest sculptor in Germany. The Grand Duke ennobled him, as the phrase is; though it seems absurd enough that wearing a ribbon in his button-hole, and being allowed to put _von_ before the name his genius had rendered illustrious, could add any nobility to a man like Dannecker.

His two most celebrated works are Ariadne riding on a panther, and his statue of Christ. The circumstances under which the latter was produced are very peculiar. Dannecker was a devout Lutheran, and he often meditated upon a statue of the Mediator between God and man as the highest problem of Art. He sought to embody it, but felt that something was wanting. A child, who was accustomed to run about his studio, came in while he was at his work. “Who do you think that is?” said the artist, pointing to his model. The child looked, and replied: “I don’t know; I guess it is some great king.” Ah, thought Dannecker, I have made the expression of power to predominate over love. The search after a perfect ideal of the Divine and human combined took complete possession of his mind. Filled with such thoughts, he fell asleep and dreamed of a face and form transcending anything he had conceived. He hastened to model it in clay, while the vision was still fresh in his mind. When it was shown to the child, he at once exclaimed, “That is the Redeemer. Mother reads to me about him, where he says, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’” This confirmed Dannecker in the belief that he had been directly inspired from above. Others regarded it as a dream produced by the intense activity of his thoughts concentrated upon one subject; but he always viewed it as an immediate revelation. He was fifty-eight years old when this sublime vision was presented to him in his sleep, and for eight years he devoted to it all the energies of mind and heart. He studied the Scriptures intently, and prayed for Divine assistance. His enthusiasm was a compound of Religion and Art. Under this combined influence, he said he felt as if he were pursued by some irresistible power, which visited him in his sleep, and often compelled him to rise in the night and embody the ideas which had been presented to him. When he was sixty-six years old, the glorious statue was completed. It is clothed in a simple robe reaching to the feet. The hair is parted on the forehead, and falls in ringlets over the shoulders. The head is purely moral and intellectual in its outline. One hand is pressed upon the bosom, the other extended, and the lips are partially unclosed, as if in the act of speaking. The expression is said to be a remarkable combination of majesty and tenderness, exciting involuntary reverence in all who look upon it.

Mrs. Jameson visited Dannecker in 1830. The statue was still standing in his studio. She says: “He told me that the figure had visited him in a dream three several times, and that he firmly believed he had been predestined to the work, and divinely inspired. I shall not easily forget the countenance of the good and gifted old man, as he leaned on the pedestal, with his cap in his hand, and his long gray hair waving round his face, looking up at his work with a mixture of reverence and exultation.”

This remarkable statue was purchased by the Emperor Alexander, and is now in Russia. A year after its completion, he made a colossal statue of the Evangelist John, for the royal chapel at Rothenberg. He had for many years been Professor of the Fine Arts at the Academy in Stuttgard, and the instructions he was obliged to give there, combined with the labors of his studio, kept him very constantly occupied. Mrs. Jameson again visited him in 1833, when he was seventy five years old. She says: “A change had come over him. His trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet or guide the chisel. His fine benevolent countenance wore a childish smile, and was only now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory or thought. Yet he seemed perfectly happy. He walked backward and forward from his statue of Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an unwearied self-complacency, in which there was something mournful, yet delightful. While I was looking at the magnificent head of Schiller, he took my hand, and trembling with emotion, said, ‘We were friends from boyhood. I worked upon it with love and grief; and one can do no more.’ I took leave of Dannecker with emotion. I shall never see him again. But he is one of those who cannot die. Canova, after he was a melancholy invalid, visited his studio, and was so much struck by his childlike simplicity, his pure, unworldly nature, his genuine goodness, and lively, happy temperament, that he gave him the surname of _Il Beato_, The Blessed. And surely if that epithet can with propriety be bestowed upon any mortal, it is on him whose long life has been one of labor and of love; who has left behind him lasting memorials of his genius; who has never profaned to any unworthy purpose the talents which God has given him, but, in the midst of all the beautiful and exciting influences of Poetry and Art, has kept, from youth to age, a soul serene, a conscience and a life pure in the sight of God and man.”

Longfellow, in his prose-poem called “Hyperion,” thus introduces the renowned German artist, on a calm Sabbath forenoon:--“Flemming stole out into the deserted street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor Dannecker. He found him in his parlor, sitting alone, with his psalm-book and the reminiscences of his long life. As Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa and tottered toward him; a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed in a loose white jacket, with a face like Franklin’s, his white hair flowing over his shoulders, and a pale blue eye.

“‘So you are from America,’ said he. ‘I have never been in America. I shall never go there. I am now too old. I have been in Paris and in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now seventy-eight years old.’

“He took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit by his side on the sofa. And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, on touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, and listened to life’s curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till morning.

“‘You see,’ he continued, ‘my hands are cold. They were warmer once. I am now an old man.’

“‘Yet these are the hands that sculptured the beautiful Ariadne and the Panther,’ replied Flemming. ‘The soul never grows old.’

“‘Nor does Nature,’ said the old man, pleased with this allusion to his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window. ‘This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing is also unimpaired. For all which I thank God.’

“Directing Flemming’s attention to a fine engraving which hung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued: ‘That is an engraving of Canova’s Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for hours together. It is beautiful. He made the statue for his native town, where they had no church, until he built them one. He placed the statue in it. He sent me this engraving as a present. Ah, he was a dear, good man! The name of his native town I have forgotten. My memory fails me. I cannot remember names.’

“Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain long; but he took his leave with regret. There was something impressive in the scene he had witnessed;--this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the open window, in the bright summer morning; the labor of life accomplished; the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet; thinking it was angel’s music when he heard the church bells ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, he thought within himself whether he likewise might not accomplish something which should live after him;--might not bring something permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he could no longer go to church, but must sit at home, and read the Bible in large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after mid-summer, when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest; and after the harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.”

Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last drawing, done when he
was extremely old, represented
an angel guiding an aged man from the grave,
and pointing to him the opening heaven.
It was a beautiful occupation to
console the last days of
this truly Christian
artist’s
life.

When a good man dies,--one that hath lived innocently,--then
the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the
conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God,
and owns so much integrity that it can hope for pardon and
obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the
soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty
and then into glory.

JEREMY TAYLOR.

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

That way look, my infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall!
Withered leaves--one, two, and three--
From the lofty Elder-tree!
--See the kitten! how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow!
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty kitten, from thy freaks,
Spreads, with such a living grace,
O’er my little Laura’s face!
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine;
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I wall have my careless season,
Spite of melancholy reason;
Will walk through life in such a way,
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
--Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten’s busy joy,
Or an infant’s laughing eye,
Sharing in the ecstasy.
I would fare like that, or this;
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake;
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life’s falling leaf.

* * * * *

His sixty summers--what are they in truth?
By Providence peculiarly blest,
With him the strong hilarity of youth
Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest.
His sun has veered a point toward the west,
But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet,--
That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,
Where truth and manly tenderness are met
With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set.

HENRY TAYLOR.

DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM.

Dr. Doddridge was on terms of very intimate friendship with Dr. Samuel Clarke, and in religious conversation they spent many happy hours together. Among other matters, a very favorite topic was the intermediate state of the soul, and the probability that at the instant of dissolution it was not introduced into the presence of all the heavenly hosts, and the splendors around the throne of God. One evening, after a conversation of this nature, Dr. Doddridge retired to rest with his mind full of the subject discussed, and, in the ‘visions of the night,’ his ideas were shaped into the following beautiful form. He dreamed that he was at the house of a friend, when he was suddenly taken dangerously ill. By degrees he seemed to grow worse, and at last to expire. In an instant he was sensible that he exchanged the prison-house and sufferings of mortality for a state of liberty and happiness. Embodied in a splendid aerial form, he seemed to float in a region of pure light. Beneath him lay the earth; but not a glittering city or village, the forest or the sea, was visible. There was naught to be seen below save the melancholy group of friends, weeping around his lifeless remains.

Himself thrilled with delight, he was surprised at their tears, and attempted to inform them of his change; but, by some mysterious power, utterance was denied; and, as he anxiously leaned over the mourning circle, gazing fondly upon them, and struggling to speak, he rose silently upon the air; their forms became more and more distant, and gradually melted away from his sight. Reposing upon golden clouds, he found himself swiftly mounting the skies, with a venerable figure at his side guiding his mysterious movement, in whose countenance he remarked the lineaments of youth and age were blended together with an intimate harmony and majestic sweetness. They travelled through a vast region of empty space, until at length the battlements of a glorious edifice shone in the distance; and as its form rose brilliant and distinct among the far-off shadows that flitted across their path, the guide informed him, that the palace he beheld was for the present to be his mansion of rest. Gazing upon its splendor, he replied, that while on earth he had heard that eye had not seen, nor had the ear heard, nor could it enter into the heart of man to conceive, the things which God had prepared for those who love him but, notwithstanding the building to which they were then rapidly approaching was superior to anything he had ever before seen, yet its grandeur did not exceed the conceptions he had formed.

They were already at the door, and the guide, without reply, introduced him into a spacious apartment, at the extremity of which stood a table covered with a snow-white cloth, a golden cup, and a cluster of grapes, and there he said he must remain, for he would receive in a short time a visit from the Lord of the mansion, and that, during the interval before his arrival, the apartment would furnish him with sufficient entertainment and instruction. The guide vanished, and he was left alone. He began to examine the decorations of the room, and observed that the walls were adorned with a number of pictures. Upon nearer inspection, he found, to his astonishment, that they formed a complete biography of his own life. Here he saw, upon the canvas, that angels, though unseen, had ever been his familiar attendants; that, sent by God, they had sometimes preserved him from immediate peril. He beheld himself first as an infant just expiring, when his life was prolonged by an angel gently breathing into his nostrils. Most of the occurrences here delineated were perfectly familiar to his recollection, and unfolded many things which he had never before understood, and which had perplexed him with many doubts and much uneasiness. Among others, he was particularly struck with a picture in which he was represented as falling from his horse, when death would have been inevitable, had not an angel received him in his arms, and broken the force of his descent. These merciful interpositions of God filled him with joy and gratitude; and his heart overflowed with love as he surveyed in them all an exhibition of goodness and mercy far beyond all that he had imagined.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a rap at the door. The Lord of the mansion had arrived. The door opened and he entered. So powerful and so overwhelming, and withal of such singular beauty, was his appearance, that he sank down at his feet, completely overcome by his majestic presence. His Lord gently raised him from the ground, and taking his hands led him forward to the table. He pressed with his fingers the juice of the grapes into the cup, and after having drank himself, presented it to him, saying, “This is the new wine in my Father’s kingdom.” No sooner had he partaken, than all uneasy sensations vanished. Perfect love had cast out fear, and he conversed with his Saviour as an intimate friend. Like the silver rippling of the summer sea, he heard fall from his lips the grateful approbation: “Thy labors are over; thy work is approved; rich and glorious is thy reward.” Thrilled with an unspeakable bliss, that glided into the very depth of his soul, he suddenly saw glories upon glories bursting upon his view. The Doctor awoke. Tears of rapture from this joyful interview were rolling down his cheeks. Long did the lively impressions of this charming dream remain upon his mind, and never could he speak of it without emotions of joy and tenderness.

Death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections.
The flower expands; the colorless film that enveloped it falls
off and perishes. We may well believe this; and, believing
it, let us cease to be disquieted for their absence, who have
but retired into another chamber. We are like those who have
overslept the hour: when we rejoin our friends, there is only
the more joyance and congratulation. Would we break a precious
vase because it is as capable of containing the bitter as the
sweet? No: the very things which touch us the most sensibly
are those which we should be the most reluctant to forget. The
noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it
retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE OLD PSALM-TUNE.

BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

You asked, dear friend, the other day,
Why still my charméd ear
Rejoiceth in uncultured tone
That old psalm-tune to hear.

I’ve heard full oft, in foreign lands,
The grand orchestral strain,
Where music’s ancient masters live,
Revealed on earth again:

Where breathing, solemn instruments,
In swaying clouds of sound,
Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul,
Like silver wings around;--

I’ve heard in old St. Peter’s dome,
When clouds of incense rise,
Most ravishing the choral swell
Mount upward to the skies.

And well I feel the magic power,
When skilled and cultured art
Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves
Around the captured heart.

But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,
That old psalm-tune hath still
A pulse of power beyond them all
My inmost soul to thrill.

Those tones, that halting sound to you,
Are not the tones I hear;
But voices of the loved and lost
Then meet my longing ear.

I hear my angel mother’s voice,--
Those were the words she sung;
I hear my brother’s ringing tones,
As once on earth they rung;

And friends that walk in white above
Come round me like a cloud,
And far above those earthly notes
Their singing sounds aloud.

There may be discord, as you say;
Those voices poorly ring;
But there’s no discord in the strain
Those upper spirits sing.

For they who sing are of the blest,
The calm and glorified,
Whose hours are one eternal rest
On heaven’s sweet floating tide.

Their life is music and accord;
Their souls and hearts keep time
In one sweet concert with the Lord,--
One concert vast, sublime.

And through the hymns they sang on earth
Sometimes a sweetness falls,
On those they loved and left below,
And softly homeward calls.

Bells from our own dear fatherland,
Borne trembling o’er the sea--
The narrow sea that they have crossed,
The shores where we shall be.

O sing, sing on! beloved souls;
Sing cares and griefs to rest;
Sing, till entranced we arise
To join you ’mid the blest.

* * * * *

O, thus forever sing to me!
O, thus forever!
The green bright grass of childhood bring to me
Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above!
O, sing them back as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,--
The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,
Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
Through and through the old time!

J. R. LOWELL

THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.

[It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were
written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being
then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of
leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty,
especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic
manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with
Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint
devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple.
Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks
generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and
therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing
material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early
in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio,
an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin
fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by
chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring
the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of
Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from
under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David.
Such parchments are called _Palimpsests_; from two Greek words,
which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very
exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered
into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s
lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a
cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by
this new process. This explanation is necessary to help some
readers to a right understanding of the following story, which
is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled,
“Stories by an Archæologist.”]

My dear friend, Dubois d’Erville, whose talents might have rendered him remarkable in any walk of literature, allowed the whole of his faculties to be absorbed in days, nights, years of research, upon one special point of literary interest. At school, he had become imbued with a love for classic authors, which, with regard to his favorite Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly for accounts of discoveries of lost works in _palimpsest_ manuscripts. Finally, he relinquished all other objects of pursuit, and spent many years traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient manuscripts. After a long time, when he was forgotten by family, friends, and acquaintances, he returned to Paris. Little was known of his wanderings; but there was a rumor that he formed a romantic marriage, and that his devoted wife had travelled with him among the monasteries of Asia Minor, encountering many hardships and dangers. No one but himself knew where she died.

When he returned to Paris, he brought with him an only child, a girl of nineteen. She had memorable beauty, and great intelligence; but these were less noticed than her simple manners, and tender devotion to her father, whom she almost adored. He took a suite of apartments in the third story of a house, which, before the Revolution, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and surrounded by extensive gardens. It was in the old and solitary Rue Cassette. The gardens had been let out to cow-keepers; but within the enclosure of the house remained some noble trees and flowering shrubs. These apartments had been selected by his daughter Marcelline, on account of the graceful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant shade in summer, when birds chirped gayly among the green foliage. Even in winter, a robin would sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his pretty patroness never failed to place on the window-sill.

Beyond Marcelline’s chamber was a little sitting-room, and then came a rather large apartment, where Dubois pursued his studies, surrounded with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-eaten manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor was thus littered in all directions, except in a small semicircle near one of the windows, where an open space was preserved for a few chairs and a table.

They had but one servant, an old woman, who had been cook in Dubois’s family in the days of his boyhood, and whom he accidentally met when he returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a pleasant link between the present and the past. Often, when she passed through his study, he would remind her of some prank he had played in early days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant would smile too; though there was always a tinge of melancholy in her recollections of his boyish roguery. Often, when she left the room, she would shake her head, and mutter to herself, “Ah, young Monsieur Armand was so good, so kind, so gentle! Only to think that he should leave all his family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows where! Ah! it is very mysterious. And the bright, curly hair, that I used to pat with such fondness, to think that I should never see him again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks about his temples!” She tried to gain from Marcelline some particulars about her mother; but the young girl had only a vague recollection of a form that used to press her to her heart, during journeys through strange countries, and who had long disappeared. She remembered something of a time when her father’s tall, upright figure suddenly bent under the weight of some great sorrow, from which it never rose erect again. Then, when she grew older, they lived for years in Italian cities, where there were great libraries; whence they came to Paris.

Nothing could be more delightful than the affectionate congeniality between father and daughter. Their favorite pursuits, though different, had a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet existence very pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for painting; and her father’s mania for old manuscripts furnished her with many opportunities for examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts were frequently enriched. When new manuscripts arrived, which they did almost daily, her first impulse was to examine whether they contained any illuminations worthy of note; and if so, to copy them with the utmost care and accuracy. She had thus formed a very beautiful collection, in which she felt an interest almost as enthusiastic as that of her father in his long pursuit of a treasure, which, like the horizon, seemed always in sight, but was never reached.

In the midst of the charming, harmonious routine of this little household, slight contentions would sometimes arise; but they were sure to end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which contained exquisite illuminations; but Dubois, thinking it might be a _palimpsest_, regarded the ornaments as so many abominations, concealing some treasure of classic literature. So the mediæval romance, with its matchless miniatures, and intricate borderings, glowing with gilding, purple, and crimson, would soon disappear beneath the sponge, soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after The Lost Books of Livy. These occasions were sad trials for Marcelline. She would beg for a week’s delay, just to copy the most beautiful of the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could perceive traces of erasure under the gorgeous ornaments, he was as impatient as a miner who fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold. When Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his hand, so eager to commence the work of obliteration, she would turn away with a painful sense of what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her father had enlisted all the energies of his life; but the ruthless destruction of all those quaint and delicately beautiful works of art caused her a pang she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a tear would glisten in her eye; and the moment her father perceived it, his resolution melted. He would place the manuscript in her hand, and say, “There, there, my child! a whole week if you want it; and then bring it to me, if you have quite done with it.” Then she would reply, “No, no, dear father. Your object is too important to be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl.” He would press it upon her, and she would refuse it; and as the combat of love went on, the old man’s eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would give way, and take the proffered manuscript; and Dubois, with all the attentive politeness of a young lover, would arrange her desk, and her pieces of new vellum, and place the volume in a good light. Not till he had seen her fairly at work at her charming task, could he tear himself away; and then not without pressing her hand, and nodding to her, as though they were going to part for some long period. She would nod too; and then they both nodded together, smiling at their own affectionate folly, with tears glistening in their eyes. Then Dubois would go to his study, and among his heaps of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled or folded, he would soon be immersed in the intricacies of his old pursuit.

After a while, the even current of their happy life became varied by the visits of a third person. When old Madeleine came to live with them, Dubois often questioned her concerning the relatives and friends he had known in his boyhood. Her answer was, invariably, “Dead.” It seemed as if all the old he inquired for were dead, and all the young either dead or scattered. During one of these conversations, he said, “What has become of Uncle Debaye, who used to prophesy that I should be a member of the Academy, and one of the illustrious men of France? Ah, he was a pleasant specimen of the old bachelor and the _bon vivant_! Where is he?” “He is dead, too,” replied Madeleine; “but he did not remain an old bachelor and a _bon vivant_. He married, some two and twenty years ago, and gave up his old luxurious habits for the sake of supporting his pretty young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to supply her with little luxuries. She is dead, too. But they had a very pretty child, little Hyppolite, who is a young man now.” “Then it seems that I have one relative remaining,” said Dubois; “but I suppose he has gone off to America, or Australia, or somewhere.” “No, Monsieur,” rejoined Madeleine, “he is in Paris. He got a situation out by the Barrière du Trone, where he has two thousand francs a year, and apartments in the factory to live in besides. I often meet him on a Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and many a forty sous has he given me.”

Dubois was pleased to find that he had one relative left, and Madeleine was commissioned to tell him that his father’s brother-in-law, his uncle by marriage, had returned to Paris, and would be glad to see him. The young man came soon after, and father and daughter were both pleased with their new-found kinsman. He was not very intellectual or learned; but he was lively, good-natured, and good-looking. He brought the living, moving world of the present into those secluded apartments, so entirely consecrated to the works and thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy conversation, without a single phrase smacking of libraries, or art-galleries, or any kind of learning, seemed a bright sparkling stream of young careless life. His uncle listened willingly to his gossiping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation of the comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with good-natured laughter. Hyppolite became a very welcome visitor; and, after a while, if he did not appear on the days when he was regularly expected, a shadow of disappointment was cast over the little household in the Rue Cassette.

Thus things went on for some time. Marcelline daily added to her collection of exquisite fac-similes, and her father labored diligently in the cause to which he had devoted his life. He did not obtain the result he so ardently desired; but his perseverance was not without reward. On two occasions he discovered works of great importance, in a literary point of view, covered over with a mass of old law transactions; and the sums he obtained for them enabled him greatly to increase his stock of manuscripts. He soon became so well known to all who dealt in such articles, that every new importation was offered to him, before it was shown elsewhere.

Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleasure from the visits of Hyppolite. She began to suspect that the trivial chat uttered in that fresh young voice, with occasional peals of ringing laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than the noble words of her father, always teeming with knowledge and interest of various kinds. She shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of it. As for Hyppolite, his walk of two or three miles, to visit his new-found relatives, became his greatest pleasure. He found innumerable opportunities of making the Rue Cassette the shortest cut to one or other of the distant quarters of Paris, where the business of his employers carried him, though in fact it was often miles out of his way. To gratify Marcelline’s peculiar taste, he frequently brought her ornaments cut from the pages of old illuminated manuscripts. When asked where he obtained them, he would merely laugh, and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois began to remonstrate against the barbarism of mutilating manuscripts in that way; but Hyppolite would point to the piles of manuscripts from which he had washed both ornaments and writing, and would put on such a comic look, and laugh so merrily, that his uncle could not help laughing, too.

One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to the busy part of Paris, and Marcelline sat at the window, busily employed in copying a noble group of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript of the twelfth century, which stood on the desk before her. The window was open, and the air gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with their antique writing and their curious enrichments. The massive silver clasps of the great folio hung back and glistened in the evening light. As the young artist looked up at her model, she felt tempted to make a drawing of the whole superb volume, instead of the especial group of letters she was copying. The foliage of the lime-trees moved gently in the warm evening breeze, and a linnet, hidden in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Marcelline felt very happy. The balmy hour, the congenial employment, and the bright halo of her twenty young years, threw around her an atmosphere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts of more homely things mingled with her poetic mood. She thought of the choice little supper Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she tried to conjecture when he would arrive.

The current of her ideas was interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the landing, and Madeleine announced the arrival of Monsieur Hyppolite. An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart with one great bound. For a moment the illuminated volume, the sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet, and the little supper for her father, were all forgotten. By a strong effort she recovered herself, however, and received Hyppolite as usual; perhaps a little more coolly, for she was inwardly shocked to find that his presence had power, even for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures and affections she had always deemed so sacred. He brought two beautifully illuminated letters, that had evidently formed part of a very fine Italian manuscript. Being in an unusual style of art, they attracted her attention, and diverted her thoughts from the channel they had taken. She reseated herself at her work; and while he watched her skilful pencil tracing the intricate interlacings of various and many-colored lines and branches, he sought to entertain her with his usual light chat. But Marcelline did not respond so gayly as she was accustomed to do, and he grew unwontedly silent; so silent, that the song of the linnet was heard again, and no other sound disturbed the stillness. At last, Hyppolite, with a great effort, and as if something choked his usual clear utterance, said, “Marcelline, you must have long perceived that I--” she rose hastily, exclaiming, “O don’t say that word! _Don’t_ say it! To break the holy spell of filial affection which has always bound my heart, would be sacrilege.” But Hyppolite knelt at her feet, and poured forth the fervid language that comes to all when the heart is kindled by a first love. Marcelline turned away her head and wept. The bitter tears, not without sweetness, relieved the deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat, and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that he must never speak to her of love while her dear father lived; that she could never allow any earthly affection to come between her and him. The young man, in the midst of his disappointment, could not but wish that his uncle might live long; for he truly loved his genial nature, and regarded his great learning with almost superstitious veneration. He held out his hand, saying, “My cousin, it is the hand of friendship.” She pressed it kindly, and gently admonished him that his visits must be less frequent. After a brief struggle he resigned himself to her guidance, and recovered his equanimity, if not his usual gayety. All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois returned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and partake of the choice little supper.

The household continued to go on in the old quiet way, varied occasionally by visits from antiquarians and learned men. On such occasions, it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful flow of language which they always excited. Marcelline was often appealed to in these discussions; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties of illumination enabled her to judge the age of a manuscript, by delicate peculiarities in its ornaments, more readily than learned men could do by the character of the writing or the nature of the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes present by special invitation, would sit apart, drinking in every delicate epithet and daintly selected word uttered by his cousin, as though they were heaven-distilled drops of nectar.

One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter’s apartment, eagerly exclaiming, “Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! I have found it! My name will go down to posterity joined with that of Livy! At last I have found The Lost Books!” Joyfully, he drew his daughter into his study, and there, spread upon the floor, were several sheets of vellum still wet from the action of his sponge. The more recent writing had been removed, and traces of a nearly erased manuscript, apparently of the tenth century, was gradually becoming more distinct under the influence of a preparation he had applied. The old man drew himself up as he pointed to it, and looking proudly at his daughter, said, “The labor of my life has been well expended. It will be _my_ great privilege to be the first among moderns to read the whole of the noble history of Livy; for I believe the _whole_ is there.” He insisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to hear the glad tidings. The good-natured youth hastened to the Rue Cassette, and congratulated his uncle upon his great discovery. He did not, indeed, understand the importance of the recovered annals, for he thought we had a tolerably complete history of Rome without these famous Lost Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked with “a white stone” in the annals of the quiet little family. In honor of the occasion, a bottle of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux, was placed on the generally frugal little dinner-table, and the sun traced upon it bright lights and shadows through the branches of the lime-trees, as if to aid in the celebration.

Day by day, more pages of the _palimpsest_ were prepared, and the ancient text developed itself so well, that the exulting Dubois resolved to invite his most learned friends to a grand evening reunion, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed circular was accordingly prepared, and sent round in due form. It brought together a select party of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois was all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of which he had extraordinary command, he related the successive details of his discovery. He deemed himself the most fortunate of men. His heart was running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were charmed with the copious flood of eloquence that he poured forth without stint, full of the deepest erudition, yet warmed and embellished by a pervading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and innocent exultation over the triumphant result of his life-long labors. The sheets of the recovered manuscript were placed in a good light, and eagerly examined through many pairs of glittering spectacles and powerful microscopes. It obviously related to that portion of Roman history lost from the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed whether it were written by that great historian. Peculiarities of orthography and style were adduced to prove that the writer must have been a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every objection into an additional proof that they had before them the identical Lost Books of Livy.

The animated discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Madeleine, who said that two men were at the door, with old manuscripts to sell. Dubois could never resist the temptation to examine musty vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The manuscripts did not prove to be of any value; and Madeleine was very glad to close the door upon the intruders, for she did not like their looks. A similar impression seemed to have been made on the company; for several of them remarked that it was hazardous to introduce men of that stamp into a room filled with books clasped with silver, and with many other ancient articles of curious workmanship, some of them in the precious metals. But Dubois laughed at the idea that anybody would think of robbing a poor book-antiquarian of his musty treasures, though some of them were clasped with silver.

The dimensions of the table were enlarged by piles of huge folios, and Madeleine spread it with choice viands, in the discussion of which the style and orthography of Livy were for a while forgotten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny anecdotes, and descriptions of practical jokes, began to entertain the guests more than their own conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with her silvery treble; then Dubois; then all of them. No one, listening to this hilarious chorus, would have supposed the company consisted of the most profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls of the Institute or the Academy.

Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreaming of new discoveries among the as yet unrestored leaves of his precious _palimpsest_. He was wakened very early in the morning by a loud knock at his door, and heard the voice of old Madeleine crying out, “Monsieur Dubois! Monsieur Dubois! Get up! Pray get up immediately!” He hurried on his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine in the middle of his study, her eyes streaming with tears. The room where he had heaped up so many treasures, where he had spent so many hours of calm happiness, where he had the last evening enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile of folios, the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the velvet covers and silver clasps, his precious _palimpsest_, and even the bundles of musty vellum, had all disappeared. The window was open, and the little curtain torn; plainly indicating how the robbers had obtained entrance into his sanctuary. The linnet was singing a morning song in the lime-trees, and the early sun checkered the empty floor with bright light and quivering shadows of the foliage. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the brilliant rays were rejoicing over a scene of gladness, instead of such utter desolation and wretchedness.

No words can describe the pangs which wrung the heart of poor Dubois, thus suddenly and strangely deprived of the treasure which he had spent all the energies of his life in discovering. For a moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those of a tiger deprived of her young. Then he clasped his trembling hands, and fell heavily, nearly fainting, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound of his fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long before she and old Madeleine could rouse him from his lethargy. At last, his stupefied senses were awakened and concentrated by his daughter’s repeated assurances that the lost treasure would be recovered if an immediate pursuit were instituted. “It is not likely,” said she, “that we shall recover the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in their valuable bindings; or the carved ivories; or those codices written in gold upon grounds of purple; but the sheets of that old _palimpsest_, with its half-obliterated characters, and the old volume containing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be recovered.”

A flood of passionate tears came to her father’s relief. His usual calmness was restored; and after drinking a cup of coffee, urged upon him by the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give information to the police, and to make all possible efforts to recover his treasures.

Some fragments of parchment were found under the lime-trees, but no further traces were discovered, till late in the forenoon it was ascertained that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, another clew was obtained from a waste-paper dealer, who described a quantity of parchment brought to him that morning, which he had not, however, purchased. From the description, it appeared that the precious _palimpsest_ was among these bundles. Dubois’s hopes were kindled by this information. He was recommended to go to the establishments of various dealers in such articles in remote quarters of the city, and, accompanied by the police, he made diligent search. Only one more remained, and that was close to the Barrière du Trone.

Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was surprised to see his nephew mounted aloft at a desk in the inner warehouse; for he had never inquired concerning the nature of the factory in which he was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived his uncle, he hurried forward to welcome him, and told him he had intended to call at the Rue Cassette that day, for he had just obtained possession of two illuminated letters that he wished to present to Mademoiselle Marcelline. He took two slips of vellum from his desk; “See,” said he, “these are very much in the style of that old Roman History you were exhibiting to the company last night.”

“Very much in the style!” exclaimed Dubois, his eyes glistening with delight. “They are identical! Where did you get them?”

“Our foreman sent them down to me,” rejoined Hyppolite. “We purchase enormous quantities of old parchment, and frequently a few painted letters are found in the mass. Our manager, in compliance with my request, cuts them out and reserves them for me.”

“Then the vellum from which they were cut is here?”

“Yes, it is, uncle; but why are you so agitated?”

Dubois briefly related the circumstances of the robbery; and wiping the cold perspiration from his brow, he added: “But all is safe now! I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once more the musty _palimpsest_ which contains that priceless treasure,--The Lost Books of Livy!”

The flush faded from Hyppolite’s ruddy cheek. “There is not a moment to be lost!” exclaimed he. “Follow me, dear uncle.”

Away he ran across court-yards, through long warehouses filled with merchandise, and up flights of stairs, two steps at a bound. Dubois, highly excited, followed with the activity of youth. They reached a small room adjoining an enormous mass of lofty chimneys, from which heavy columns of smoke rolled away before the wind.

“Where is the lot of old vellum that came this morning?” gasped Hyppolite, all out of breath.

A man who was busy checking off accounts, asked, “Do you mean the lot from which you cut those two letters?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Hyppolite. “Where is it? Where is it? It is very important!”

“Let me see,” said the man. “It was lot number fourteen, purchased at eight o’clock this morning. We happened to be very short of vellum, and I gave out that new lot directly.” He opened a creaking door, and called out, “Pierre! Pierre! what was the number of the lot you put in last?”

“Number fourteen,” replied a deep voice within; and the door closed again, with dinning rattle of rope and weight.

“It is too late,” said the foreman, turning to Hyppolite. “It went in at eleven o’clock.”

“Went _in_? Went in _where_?” exclaimed Dubois, turning first to Hyppolite, and then to the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety.

“Into the boiler,” replied Hyppolite, taking his uncle’s hand. “This is a gelatine manufactory. We boil down tons of old parchment every year.”

* * * * *