there is an end of the matter. It is never heard of more, unless by accidental association with his name. You see no blazonry upon the walls of churches, in Yankee landno, nor inscriptions of gold, to tell you that A, B, or C, is a yearly subscriber, or a merciful patron, to this or that public charity, or institution. But they are self-satisfied-unwilling, or unable to profit by the experience or the teaching, the wisdom or the scholarship, of others. Behold them covering the whole face of the earth, and compassing sea and land, year after year, only that they may return, at last, with their gleanings and their treasures, to the home of their fathers--like the Swiss or the Scotch-there to enjoy themselves, after a life of drudgery or adventure, to help others, and sit down at last under the shadow of their own fig-tree, better and wiser men for all they have done or suffered in the acquisition of wealth. In all this, though they resemble the Scotch, they are unlike the rest of their countrymen, especially of the South and West; and, to say all in a word, are what they pretend to bea peculiar people. THE FUNERAL OF A MOTH. A CHILD'S VISION. BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. A LITTLE child had been amusing itself at the feet of its mother, kicking and rolling about, and playing all sorts of antics, when it espied a moth disengage itself from the fibres of the carpet, and poise its small wing with a short, wavering flight. The child stopped its noisy song, rolled over upon all fours, and commenced a scramble for the poor insect, slapping its clumsy hand upon the carpet in the hope of striking it down. It did so at last- the moth fell upon its side, quivered slightly, and was still. The child would have taken it in his hand, but suddenly there was a sound as of innumerable tiny bells tolling, and very low, sad music. He laid his cheek upon his arm, the bright curls falling all about the carpet, and his little feet stretched out, and crossed one over the other, the disarranged tunic revealing, liberally, his round white limbs, indolently exposed. Thus the child lay, listening to the music, that seemed to say "Alas, for death is amongst us." It could not tell what was meant, but it saw that the beautiful moth stirred not, and it felt something very sad must have happened. At length a large black beetle was seen to move slowly along, and look at the little insect, and then, while the eyes of the child were fixed intently to see what would come of it, the beetle seemed a little small old woman, much wrinkled, and dressed in black. She moved about quite briskly, and the child could scarce forbear a smile to see such an alert, diminutive thing. His mo- They may not wake the dead." Then an immense procession of moths, "Rest thee, rest thee, blighted one, From our pleasant haunts away, The child heard the hum of their voices when he had ceased to distinguish the words. Then he arose, and laying his head upon his mother's lap, wept bitterly, telling her what he had heard and seen, and asking what death meant. She talked long upon the sad but pleasant subject, telling of that land where death is not, till the heart of the little child grew joyous within him, and he called that land his home. Had the child been less young, or less innocent, the visions of the moth's funeral had not been vouchsafed. But he never, from that time, wantonly destroyed the humblest creature made by the wisdom, the goodness, and love of our Heavenly Father. He saw there was room enough in the great world, and in the pleasant sunshine, for him and them; and he remembered that å better land had been promised to man only; therefore he would not abridge the few days of happiness granted the little insect. The child daily grew gentle and loving, for the exercise of kindness, even in one simple in. Parent. stance, had fixed the principle in his young heart, till it expanded so that it embraced all the creatures made by our great and good It was thus that he learned, not only to love worthily the good and loving, but even those in whom the image of God, stamped upon the human soul, had become marred and effaced by sin. He loved, and prayed even for these, and the blessedness of such prayers returned upon his own head. Thus did the child learn a lesson of wisdom, and of goodness,from the Funeral of the Moth. THE METEOR. BY MISS H. F. GOULD. YE, who look with wondering eye, Onward, till I end my race! That is brightening as I go. Down to shadowy earth I tend, From my pure companions driven; And in darkness I must end! THE WIDOW'S LULLABY. BY MISS H. F. GOULD. AH! slumber on, my darling boy, And, shouldst thou at this moment wake, I know what name thou 'dst lisp the first; To hear it called in vain, would make "What ex "What truth of colouring !" quisite finish to that hand, laid over the bosom !" "And those uplifted eyes, are they not eloquent with prayer and love?" "Tis a Titian, I think, by the manner," remarked a fourth person. "A copy only, sir. I know who the painter is," said an old connoisseur, decidedly. "Who is it?" inquired several voices. "He is called Alfred, and is said to be a gipsy," was the reply. 66 What, the same extraordinary youth, with whose praise all London is ringing?" asked an amateur. "Well he deserves the praises that are lavished upon him.” The party just spoken of, consisting of the Earl of Linton and his daughter, Lady Cadwallader and others, now came near this group, and, arrested by their conversation, stopped to survey the picture. It was the Madonna that they had seen on the student's easel, years before in Rome. Lady Laura Linton cast but a simple glance at the painting, when with a cry of joy she threw herself on her father's shoulder, and burst into tears. Lord Linton recognized the picture, and with a quick penetration, divined her emotion, while Lady Eleanor Cadwallader said pointedly, "Was I not right, uncle, when I said that this picture was the cause of cousin Laura's pale cheek and drooping health?" The group about the picture were too much occupied with it to notice this by-scene, or were so well-bred as to affect not to perceive it. "Laura, my dear, we will descend to the carriage," said the Earl tenderly, as she raised her head, and dashed the tears away from her eyes. The maiden, instead of replying, suddenly seized his hand and directed it towards a picture, a little to the right of the Madonna. He started at beholding a vivid representation of the scene in Rome-the portrait of Laura in the chariot was not to be mistaken, so faithfully had the painter done his work; while the likeness of the student at the horse's head was drawn to the life. "He remembers me then," murmured the gentle invalid, as she suffered herself to be led away by the Earl, who made no other comment than a frown at this new discovery. CHAPTER V. Early the ensuing morning, the Earl of Linton drove to the Academy, and demanded of the keeper, the name and address of the painter of the two pieces, which he indicated. "He is called Alfred, the Gipsy, my lord." "He who has made so much noise in the world, for his picture of Cain ?" "The same, your lordship." "I will take his address." In twenty minutes afterwards, the carriage of the nobleman drew up at the entrance of a narrow court, where he alighted, and after descending a few steps, came to a door, which, by a flight of carpeted stairs, communicated with a spacious room on the first floor. In this room, which was plainly hung with green cloth, relumed by a few valuable old pictures and one or two more recent works, stood at his easel a fine-looking young man, with an exceedingly dark complexion, on whose features dwelt a cloud of settled melancholy. It was the young painter of Rome, known as "Alfred, the Gipsy," who, after three years' wandering in Italy, had opened a studio in London, and already, by the unaided efforts of his own genius and industry, placed his name with honourable mention, in the mouths of all men. The picture before him was the Madonna of Titian, not the copy, but the original, of which, before leaving Italy, he had succeeded in getting possession. He was gazing on it with a look between that of a reverential worshipper and an adoring lover. Suddenly he heard a footstep in his room, and looking up, he beheld and recognized the nobleman, so intimately connected with her who at that moment shared his thoughts. The recognition was mutual. In a few courteous words, Lord Linton expressed his regreat at the long interval he had suffered to elapse before the opportunity, which now presented itself had been met with, to thank him for the service he had rendered himself and family in rescuing his child from a dreadful death; and informed him of the numerous inquiries that had been made after him in Rome to no purpose; "and," he added, "having a few days since returned to England, after a long residence in the south of Europe, I accidentally met with a picture in the Royal Academy, which is so closely associated with yourself, that, confident you must be in London, I obtained your address and hastened at once hither that I might finally release myself from the debt of gratitude your gallantry has imposed on me. Permit me, sir, with my expressions of thanks, to offer you at the same time, not as a compensation or reward, but as a further proof of my grateful consideration, the enclosed check for £1000." The young painter bowed, while he said respectfully, "My life is not bought, my lord. I need no reward. I never gaze on this picture that I am not thanked; and each hour of my existence I am blessed with the consciousness that the lovely personification of this prophetic picture of Titian's before me lives and is happy." The old noble walked to the front of the easel to look at the picture, and his face glowed as he beheld the miraculous likeness of his daughter. His aristocratic pride could not endure that one so humble should pos sess, too plainly as fuel to his daring passion, the picture of his high-born child, and this feeling overcoming his gratitude, he resolved to possess the portrait. "Young man, you presume too far on the power your art gives you, and take, methinks, undue advantage of an accidental resemblance, found in this copy from an old painting. It is prostrating your god-like art to the lowest uses. The possession of this picture under the circumstances connected with it, is a moral theft-a sort of forgery that no honourable man will uphold-no honest man be guilty of. You will oblige me by either destroying this picture, or placing it in my keeping. I will become its purchaser at your own price." 66 My lord, it is not to be bought. It is dear to me as life!" he replied with animation. "How, sir! Remember, young painter, it is a portrait of my daughter-of Lady Laura Linton." "Hear me, my lord," said the young man, addressing the offended noble in a voice so respectful in its tone, yet so earnest, that he could not refuse to listen, "hear me, and then judge me! I am but a painter, my lord, it is true;-but in my bosom throbs a heart warm as that which beats in the breast of his majesty. That heart is noble-its feelings noble its hopes, wishes, all that constitute it, I feel, is noble-it is a human heart, my lord! in a word, it is a man's heart, and as a man I love. The object of my passion is your daughter." "How!" "Patiently, my lord! I have but thrice seen her, and have never yet spoken with her —yet I love her, for she is a woman, though an Earl's daughter. But the canons of social order place her as far above me, as the Madonna before me. I have, therefore, chastened my deep love, and wedded it to my faith, and worship a heavenly and earthly divinity both at the same time in this seraphic face. Be not offended, my lord; my thoughts are not less holy, whether I see in it, for the moment, Lady Laura Linton or Mary the Virgin. In fine, my lord, vain love has grown into a religion, and in the likeness of your daughter I behold only a divinity. Ask me not, then, to part with it, my lord. Let me not be denied the happiness of adoring afar off, her I may not love present. Let me be blessed with the ideal presence of her whom birth and fortune have placed for ever beyond my possession. It can give no offence to thee-she will never know of my humble love! Refuse me not this prayer, my lord!" He stood before the Earl, with a look so eloquently pleading-so modest, yet so earnest, that the nobleman, already moved by this singular appeal to his feelings, suddenly grasped him by the hand and was about to speak, when, as if emotion had overcome him, and he feared to trust his voice, he signed towards the picture with a gesture of assent. For a few seconds afterwards he paced in silence, and then turning to the painter, said, "I know not what to make of you, young sir! We have so often and so singularly met -your strange appellation-your genius, courage, ambition, and romantic characterall mark you as no ordinary person. You speak English like a native: yet in your pronunciation of some words, there is something, I know not what, that is foreign-and your complexion, too! Are you English or Italian?" "I am a gipsy, my lord !" "Ah, true! An English Gipsy. counts for your swarthy hue !" This ac "Yet I believe, my lord, that I am an Englishman by birth." "Indeed!" "It is my impression, from the early passages in my memory, that I must have been stolen from my parents!" "You interest me! What do you remember?" "Though almost all of the recollections are of gipsy life, I feel very confident of having once lived in another sphere. But until my fifteenth year, excepting a very hasty period of childhood, I was a gipsy. At this age, a bachelor gentleman in Sussex, taking a fancy to me, as we were encamped near his house, enticed me from the tribe, and put me to school. Three years afterwards he was thrown from his horse and killed; and there being no provision left for me, he having made no will, I was cast upon my fortunes. I sought London, and having had from boyhood a taste for rude sketching, I offered my services to a portrait-painter, who, finding I exhibited some talent, offered to become my master, while his instructions I was to repay by doing the drudge work of the profession. I remained with him nearly two years, when, inspired with a desire to visit the great school of art in Italy, I left England with only a few guineas in my pocket, and on foot travelled from Calais to Rome, where, in the gallery of the Cardinals, you soon afterwards met me." "What recollection have you of a horrid prison to your gipsy associations?" asked the Earl, after a few moments' reflection. "An impression, like the relics of a pleasant dream, dwells upon my earliest memory, (but I cannot say that I may not readily have dreamed it all,) of costly furniture and gorgeous halls, and servants in liveries of gold and blue, among which my infancy seems to have been passed. I certainly remember the face of a lovely and elegant female, bent close to mine; and to this moment, her image is never revived, without bringing with it the impulse to say 'mother.' If, my lord, I were to represent on canvass the ideal of mother'-a pictorial hieroglyphic of the word, I should instinctively paint that face as the symbol." "Do you recollect it, then, so visibly! Transfer it to canvass if you have the skill to do it, and it may lead to the discovery of your birth." "Often have I done it on the bark of the beech-tree, with the walnut juice, with which the gipsies die the skins of those who join them, and with which my face and hands are stained-the rest of my body being fair, a proof that I am not of gipsy blood, my lord!" "Ah! it is a strong, nay, convincing proof! You must paint the picture." "I will do it, my lord, but have little hopes of its being useful to me." A few more unimportant questions were asked by the Earl, who, then rising, expressed the interest his story had awakened, and promising his aid, whenever he should require it, towards ascertaining his parentage, took his leave. Left alone, the young painter paced his room with a fevered step. His thoughts ran into the channel the late conversation had opened for them, and he tasked his memory to its utmost, to bring vividly back to his mind its first impressions. "If I could yet prove my birth-but noI may be only a country gentleman's sonand this would not bring me near her! Oh, untoward fate and fortune, thou hast placed my love so high, that even hope cannot reach her." As he walked, memory went upward to childhood, step by step, and brought before him a scene, which, from a thousand associations, he knew must have been the haunt of his early years. He called to mind an old tower, perched on a wooded hill, with a stone bridge arching a foaming torrent beneath. Beside the bridge was a vine-clad cottage, and, not far below it, a church with a peculiar spire still farther beyond were the roofs of a village; and, towering over all, rose a noble castle, and in the background was a chain of blue hills, rising here and there into a peak. The whole he seemed to view from the bridge. Every object in the scene was painted on the retina of early memory, with the distinctness of present vision. "This, my heart tells me," he said, as he paced the floor, "this is my birth-place! I remember it all! How it all comes back to memory! It was in that cottage I lived. I was a foster child-I had a foster brother, too-I remember it all so vividly! In yonder castle lived my fathers! Oh, memory, blessed memory, I thank thee! I remember it all! I am no outcast!" For a few seconds he gave wing to the feel ings of the moment, and then, as if checked by some startling reflection, he stood still and groaned aloud. "Alas, alas! what avails this light, which, after years of darkness and of ignorance, Heaven has permitted to break in upon me. I know not in what part of England, if in England at all, (yet it is an English scene,) it is situated. An outcast and nameless, I still am. Wretched, wretched!" He threw himself on a chair, and burying his face in his hands, remained for a long time silent and gloomy. All at once he sprung from his seat, placed fresh canvass on the easel-seized his palette and brush, and began to paint with a rapidity and energy that seemed as if he feared that the image he was transferring from his brain would fleet away, ere he could impress it indelibly upon the canvass. Like magic, a lovely landscape grew beneath his skilful touches, and ere twilight was lost in the darkness of night, he had produced on the canvass a picture of the scene that memory had painted on his brain. CHAPTER VI. "Have you seen the mysterious painting?" was the salutation with which acquaintances greeted each other, at a fashionable party, a few evenings after the interview that had taken place between the Earl of Linton, and Alfred, the Gipsy. "How very odd, is'nt it?" said a very dressy lady, fanning herself with a peacock's tail. "Tis said he takes this method to learn his birth-place," remarked a spare gentleman near her, who alternately sipped an ice and wiped with a cambric 'broidered handkerchief, his bald forehead. "And does he really offer five hundred pounds to whomsoever will recognize it and identify it with any natural scene?" asked a brisk little gentleman in black, with a calculating eye and thin lips. "Indeed he does," responded the lady with the fan," and thousands have been to see it already." "Have you been to see it, Lady Grosse?" "No," was the reply, with a toss of the head; "I fear they might think I wanted to get the 5001." "Which would not be very far from the truth," whispered a tall, stately old maid, who wanted fine ancestors, to her next neighbour. (Her father was a grocer!) It was true, all London was astir with the singular announcement that had been made, the morning after he had completed his picture, by the young painter, "that the sum of 5001. sterling should be given to any individual who would identify a landscape-painting, to be seen at his rooms, with any known spot in Great Britain, or elsewhere."" Thousands flocked to his studio, and thronged around the painting, which was placed on the easel in the centre of the room, in a position that exposed it to the best light. Day after day brought multitudes of every degree, from the humblest artisan to the noblest in the land; and day after day passed by, without any recognition of the painting. In vain the artist watched for the appearance of the Linton party-not that he looked to them for a discovery; but that, perchance, he might once more see the object of his hallowed love. But the Earl had left for one of his seats in the north, the day following his visit to the studio, and in the retirement of the country knew not of the means taken by the youth to learn the secret of his birth. But not so his daughter and niece. The gossip of the journals which he scarcely glanced at, in seeking political news, was eagerly perused by them, and they were not long in ignorance of the reward offered, and of its object, Lady Laura had heard his story from her father, and it need not be said that her interest in him was strengthened; nor will it surprise the female reader to learn, that a few days afterwards there appeared an additional offer, from an unknown source, of five hundred pounds, making the whole sum one thousand pounds; nor will it be very difficult, though it perplexed the modest young painter to do so, to discover the fair hand from which it originated--which hand, at the same time, enclosed a bill for the additional sum. But success seemed as far off as before. Finally the patience of the young artist was weakened by disappointment, and he began to prepare his mind, fortifying it with his best philosophy, to submit to his untoward destiny. "I will let it remain on the easel for this day longer, and then, with the setting sun, sets my star of hope for ever." Late in the day on which he came to this resolution, he was alone in his studio, standing before the picture which had excited so much curiosity, listlessly touching it here and there with his pencil, adding to different parts as memory suggested, when the door opened, and a clown, dressed in a coarse frock and trowsers, with a cart whip in his hand, thrust in his curly head. After gazing about a few seconds, as if doubtful of his ground, he advanced his shoulders, and then protruded into the room his whole body. The painter watched his motions with amused curiosity, and waited for him to make known his business. "Be this the place whar the grand pictur be?" "There it is," said the artist, with an impatient gesture, for his patience had often been tried by dull persons of his degree, who, tempted by so large a reward, had in great numbers visited his room, |