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children are apt to play upon one another, was friendly manner. They knew the Swiss botanical quiet when wrong was done to him, and resisted name for all the meadow flowers, and talked of many temptations which Fellenburg and Werli their medicinal and other properties like born placed in his way. It was also a very fine trait apothecaries. The strength of the children; of him, that when he found anything which he their freedom from all restraint; their childish could have appropriated without being discovered, familiarity with Werli, with their benefactor he never brought it to Mr. Fellenburg, in order to Fellenburg; their contentment with their fate in show himself in a favourable light, and to weaken life, which was visible on their blooming cheeks; his attention, but brought it each time to Werli, and among them all, with his open, handsome who he thought was unacquainted with his for- countenance, the little culprit won back to humer history. The child passed a year in this manity-all this moved me inexpressibly. I conmanner with wonderful diligence; and Mr. Fel-versed a long time with the child apart from all lenburg took out, one day, his day-book, in which the little one, as soon as he could write legibly, every evening, unreminded, regularly wrote down all his thoughts. The last was as follows:

the others; he answered me sensibly and deliberately; but when I came to speak of Mr. Fellenburg, and praised his indulgence, kindness, and love, he turned away, in order to prevent my seeing his wet eyes. When Werli called them home, he forced upon me his nosegay, and ɛaid in a low voice: "Good night, sir; you are a pious man, I would like to talk longer with you; but see, the moon is rising over the mountains. Pray to the dear God who created the sun and moon, and you and me, that I always remain good."

When the children were no longer in sight, I fell on the noble Fellenburg's neck, and thanked him in the name of humanity for having preserved the child. May God bless them both!

If the kind reader is convinced, through my tale, that even the most corrupt child, through a mild, careful education, through continual occupation in the open air, through the inculcation of useful knowledge, and principally through good example, can be formed to a noble, upright man, I shall indeed rejoice, and shall take the liberty of calling my sketch a practical one.

"This evening the little Rutli was obliged to carry a letter to the country; he thought he would be obliged to wait for an answer, and then it would be late, and was afraid to return in the dark. As I now possess a good conscience, I have no fear of the dark; and therefore I begged him to let me take the letter for him. Rutli did not let me ask twice. He wished me to accept pay for it, and a quantity of beautiful peas; but I did not take them, for little Rutli is weak, and cannot earn as much by daily labour as I, and is very poor, and has neither father nor mother. I had a very long way to go, but I went quickly and easily, for I saw constantly before me the friendly, grateful face of little Rutli; and I believed this once I had done a good action. When I had passed our boundaries I came to a large fruit garden: the boughs of a splendid apple-tree were hanging over the wall; and on one of the branches was a beautiful apple. I heard once, the wanderer may take with legal authority all that hangs over the wall; I was very thirsty, and the apple hung so low, I could have seized it easily; but I thought, 'When thou returnest thou will'st be more thirsty,' and In Commemoration of the Victory gained by the I did not break it off. I soon accomplished my journey. The sun was sinking behind the mountains when I passed, on my return, the stranger's garden; the apple was still hanging there, and I was much thirstier than before; but I did not break it off, for the evening was too beautiful." There can be no sweeter conscientious confessions; no piety more pure; no greater childish simplicity!

Mr. Fellenburg, deeply moved, laid the daily book in its place, thanked God for the blessing he had bestowed on his, and on his friend Werli's labours, and from that moment placed unlimited confidence in the little one. The child has now passed four years in the institution, and has never once gone astray.

When I was at Hofwyl I saw the child: it was evening; he was returning from the fields with his companions and Werli. The children were singing a merry song, and each carried a large nosegay of the meadow flowers in his hand. The little galley-slave was cheerful, merry, and was walking hand-in-hand with another child over the lovely pastures. The little returning workmen greeted me and Mr. Fellenburg in a

LINES,

UPON HEARING THE TOWER GUNS FIRE

British Troops in India.

I like not the sound of the booming gun,
When it heralds the tidings of battle won;
Who has won but his laurels to wave o'er his tomb!
I like not the sound-to me it appears
The wail of the dying, their anguish and tears.
Many mourn o'er a father—a husbånd—a son,

Each flash seems to tell of the soldier's doom,

the brow

or brother laid low, by a boom of the gun;
And the bright flush of conquest must fade from
When it thinks of the hearts made desolate now.
Thankful we may be that God was the shield
And strength of the brave ones who won us the field;
But sad is the thought that from sin war began,
And it still leads man on to strive against man.
But peace to the warrior, whose sun has gone down
Had gladden'd his heart or been placed on his brow;
On the red battle-field ere victory's crown
May the crown of the blessed be given him now!
And may the Great Father and Giver of all,
Who wills e'en to mark when a sparrow doth fall,
Look down from His throne with his merciful power,
And support the bereaved in their sorrowful hour.
Bloomsbury, Feb, 27th, 1846.
E. A. L.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE GIFTED.

THE FLOWER AND THE BIR D.

BY ELIZABETH YOUATT.

"Oh, 'tis better to be good than great!
And love is more than fame!
But yet, how sweet to leave behind
A memory and a name !''

E. V.

Never were two sisters more unlike, and yet more fondly attached to each other, than Orsala and Francesca Caccia. They were the daughters of William Caccia, better known to fame under his common sobriquet of "Guglielmo," a painter of some eminence, whose genius they inherited. He is chiefly celebrated for his Madonnas, which breathe the true spirit of the Roman and Florentine schools. The sisters, while yet very young, took to fresco painting, a practice hitherto unknown to female hands, in which they greatly excelled; but such was the similarity of their execution, both in this and all other branches of art, that to avoid confusion Orsala was wont to mark her performance with a flower, while the younger distinguished hers by a bird; these symbols passing in time into pet, household names, so that Guglielmo often called them in playful sport, his Flower! and his Bird!

Orsala was beautiful as a flower, and almost as fragile; often drooping over her high tasks, but never discouraged or weary in mind-it was the body only that suffered. She was ambitious and enthusiastic, habitually serious and thoughtful, but not gloomy, and kind and affectionate in her domestic relations.

Francesca, bird-like, sang at her easel, or as she flitted about the house. If not quite so beautiful as her elder sister, she was more lovable, and certainly more gifted. Her genius was like a glad inspiration—a flash of sunshine, that came almost without the seeking, and made bright whatever she attempted; but she was not industrious. And the patient, persevering Orsala, by dint of unremitting toil and study, kept so close upon her track that, as we have said, there was no telling their work apart.

Both had their dreams-what young girl has not? Orsala would be great! Francesca yearned to be loved! The one panted already for the world's plaudits; the other asked no higher meed than her father's approving smile, or the whispered praises of their kinsman-Lorenzo Malanotti.

At the period our story commences, Lorenzo was staying at Moncalvo, on a visit. He had come originally for a few days only; but weeks

passed away, and still he lingered. Kind, merryhearted, and as generous as he was wealthy, he had become a universal favourite, more especially with the sisters; and his time was mostly spent in the pleasant studio of Guglielmo and his gifted daughters. He was evidently struck with the faultless symmetry of Orsala's tall, noble figure, as she bent over her employment; or the radiant beauty of her pale, classical features. Nor was the girl wholly insensible to his silent homage; although she certainly thought a great deal more of what she was about, and the absolute necessity of finishing her allotted portion of the cartoon before the materials of which it was composed should become dry and unfit for use, and so the harmony of colour be destroyed throughout the whole picture-a necessity which Lorenzo, who was no painter, could never be brought to comprehend.

Francesca laughed, and sang, and talked to him just as if he had been her brother; consulting his taste oftentimes, when she knew her own to be the best. A word of praise from him never failed to make her gay and happy all the day afterwards, and she even dreamt about it at night. She thought it only natural that he should admire Orsala the most. Occasionally, however, Francesca, as she marked Lorenzo's earnest and devoted manner towards her sister, would stop singing, and sigh, "and wish that heaven had made her such a lover!" And then a moment afterwards her merry voice was again heard: "Time enough, Francesca!"

Guglielmo was well content that Lorenzo Malanotti should marry one of his daughters, and cared but little which. Perhaps the thoughts and pursuits of the ambitious and enthusiastic Orsala were most in unison with his own. But then, what should he do without his little laughter-loving Francesca-his Bird!

About the time of which we write there was a prize offered by the principal nobility and lovers of art in the neighbouring town of Casale, for an altar-piece for the church of the Dominicans. Guglielmo having already too much employment upon his hands to care about working for mere competition, declined entering the

lists; but his daughters, young as they were, eagerly availed themselves of this glorious opportunity of extending still further the wellestablished fame of the Caccia. Already, in anticipation, did the ambitious and aspiring Orsala bear away the prize from all competitors; while Francesca, less sanguine, and really caring much less about the result, except that her dear father would be so pleased if either of them should chance to win, sat calmly down to the contemplation of her task.

Orsala's very impatience defeated its own object. All day long she remained apart, musing over that picture which was to produce such glorious results, and scarcely closed her eyes at night for thinking of it; until at length she fell ill, and was fit for nothing. Francesca was a kind and judicious nurse; she did not peremptorily forbid Orsala's saying a single word about her picture until she was quite well, for in that case she never would have been; but encouraged her rather to talk on the subject nearest her heart, and then managed to throw in a thousand little hints and suggestions, of which she took no merit to herself; so that by the time Orsala was able to put them into execution, the whole design of the projected work, even to the minutest details, stood out palpably before her and a beautiful conception it was!

times as bad; partly because, as we have said, he was but an indifferent judge in such matters, but principally for the sake of the artist. Francesca, as usual, sided with the latter; protesting that it was the light in which it stood, and persuaded Orsala to wait at least until the morning before she destroyed it. And then, with fond and soothing words, led her gently to her own apartment, where she remained with her until | she was asleep.

That evening, Guglielmo and his young kinsman sat alone in their usual cheerful little saloon, for Francesca had also pleaded a headache, and did not appear again. It was the first time that Lorenzo had ever found the hours hang heavily since his arrival at Moncalvo.

Orsala awoke early on the following morning, much refreshed, but sad and dispirited, and went instantly, with a kind of desperate resolution, to the studio where her father and sister were already at their task.

"Francesca was right, dear child!" said Guglielmo, as he quitted his painting, and came eagerly forward to meet her; "it must have been the light in which it stood. Your design is really beautiful!"

Orsala shook her head sadly as she drew back the curtain; but was immediately struck by the exceeding grace and power of her own per

"Oh, if I have but strength to realize it!"formance. exclaimed the enthusiastic artist.

"Francesca's soothing voice and fond caresses calmed her excited spirit; and from that hour she slowly recovered, but so slowly that it appeared almost impossible for the picture to be completed within the allotted time."

"Yes, it will do," said she. And a proud, exulting smile played over her pale features. "Did I not tell you so?" exclaimed the no less happy Francesca.

"It is all like a dream," said Orsala. Why I do not even remember drawing that exquisite profile."

"For my part," said Lorenzo, who still lingered with them, but had absolutely limited his stay until the first adjudgment of the prize, "I wish the whole affair had never been thought of!ately. It only makes you ill, Orsala."

"What of that?" replied the girl, raising her beautiful eyes dreamily to his. "What are a few weeks, or even years of bodily suffering, in comparison with so great a triumph? Those who fear thorns must not expect to gather roses!" "But there are roses without thorns," said Francesca gently.

"And without laurel!"

“But sweet nevertheless, dear Orsala.” "Yes; only they die so soon! The laurel for me, sister Francesca, although it should only bloom over my grave!"

"I do not think you quite knew what you were doing at the last," replied her sister, affection "But we must not let you sit so long to-day-must we Lorenzo?"

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Her kinsman made no answer; he did not even hear the question, but continued standing before the unfinished sketch, lost in thought. When he spoke again it was to notice how pale Francesca was looking.

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"I have been several times about to make the same observation," said Guglielmo. Come and tell me what ails you, my bird!"

"Nothing, indeed, papa."

"Perhaps you did not rest well last night?" whispered Malonatti, catching her hand, as she attempted to pass him.

Guglielmo gazed proudly upon his child, and "Not very. You must remember my telling his eyes filled with unshed tears. While Fran- you that I had the headache;" and Francesca cesca looked at Lorenzo with a sweet confidence, cast down her eyes, and coloured deeply beas though she would fain make him a sharerneath his earnest gaze. Lorenzo released her in both in her admiration and her fears for this

dear sister.

Although better, Orsala was very far from being competent to the task which she had assigned herself-the working out of her own beautiful ideal! Her hand trembled; her strokes wanted power and decision; the whole sketch was feeble, and she felt it to be so. Guglielmo shook his head; he was afraid it would not do. Lorenzo would have praised it had it been ten

silence, but continued unusually grave and thoughtful during the remainder of the day.

Inspired by the beauty of her own conception, Orsala worked on until she could no longer stand to her easel, and was again carried to bed, and watched and tended by her affectionate sister.

"This will never do," said Guglielmo, when Francesca returned to them at length: "she had best give it up at once."

"No, no, dear father, Orsala has so set her heart upon this prize, the disappointment would kill her. Beside, she will get better again; and there is time yet."

Lorenzo said nothing: he was thinking at that moment, as his eyes rested on her beaming countenance, that, after all, Francesca was quite as beautiful as her sister, only in a different style. And he was not sure whether he did not prefer her simple loveliness of the two.

Orsala continued weak and ailing; so that she could only paint a few hours in each day, and yet the picture grew in beauty, and was rapidly approaching its completion. Francesca worked hard also, but not with her usual success; perhaps because she was far from well. For although she never complained, her large dark eyes grew heavy, and her cheeks pale and worn. No brother could have been kinder than Lorenzo was to her. Poor Francesca thought she could guess why; but was grateful nevertheless. Any now, his affectionate sympathy made her very glad and happy.

a poor chance of gaining the prize this time." "Never mind, if Orsala gets it."

"And yet, with your genius, what might you not have achieved? But I am forgetting how ill you have been, poor child!"

Not so often, or so seriously as Orsala," observed Malanotti. "But then, to be sure, Francesca had no good angels to work for her!" "Nay, Lorenzo, I must not have even you taking part against me!" exclaimed the girl, with an earnest and pleading glance. "I do not care the least in the world about the prize, so long as my dear father is not angry with me." "No, no, my bird! not angry, only a little vexed, for your own sake. You could not both win."

"That was what I thought," said Francesca; and then paused abruptly, while a burning flush spread over neck and brow. But those few words had afforded Guglielmo a faint glimpse of the real truth.

Intent on the contemplation of her chef d'œuvre, Orsala heard nothing of what was passing around her. Her woman's nature struggled vainly against the prevailing selfishinfu-ness of an all-absorbing ambition; and therein lies the danger-the not altogether fabled poison of the laurel when unmingled with, unblest by the sweet home-flower of domestic affection.

The pictures were nearly finished. Orsala worked on with a flushed cheek and glittering eye; the beauty of her own performance sing into her, as it were, a new life.

"Do you believe in spirits?" asked she one day, after a long pause.

In good spirits, most undoubtedly," replied Malanotti, who was leaning idly on the back of Francesca's chair.

"I have often thought," continued the girl, a little wildly," that some such must have helped me to the completion of my task. Many a time have I retired to rest, weary and dispirited with my own work, but in the morning it was ever bright and beautiful!"

For the very reason you have stated," said her father," that you were ill and weary, and so saw the same things through a different medium."

"Well, it might have been thus; but it seemed strange oftentimes. And so you are a believer in spirits, Lorenzo ?"

"I believe," replied Malanotti, earnestly, "that angels walk the earth in human form, and dwell among us, and we know them not."

Francesca glanced towards the pale radiant face, and graceful form of her beautiful sister, and smiled softly; but Lorenzo's eyes were fixed upon her only. While Orsala, taking the compliment as a matter of course, went quietly on with her painting.

The pictures were finished at length. Guglielmo was proud of his eldest daughter; but he pitied the younger. Orsala read her triumph in his first glance. Francesca had forgotten herself. She thought only of her father and sister. And yet she could not help feeling a little sorry when she saw him turn away from her picture without a word, and that even Orsala was silent: but it could not be helped.

"I know what you are thinking of, papa," said Francesca, gently-" that I have been very idle and negligent; is it not so?"

"Why truly, my bird! I fear you stand but

During the interval that necessarily elapsed between the sending in of the pictures and the final adjudgment of the prize, Orsala was restless and impatient, but not desponding; for she could not but be conscious of the rare excellence of her own performance. While Francesca, rapidly recovering her health and spirits, returned to her ordinary tasks with renewed cheerfulness, and once more sang as she worked. Again the sisters laughingly compared their fresco painting, placing each that distinctive symbol without which it was impossible to tell one from the other. Orsala found leisure to wonder at Francesca's first failure, and to pity her for it with many kind and soothing caresses; but this time Guglielmo never said a word, and yet he was far from guessing the whole truth; imagining only that she had purposely taken less pains than usual, in order that she might not rival her sister in the possession of a prize upon which, from the very beginning, she had set her heart. Malanotti was, however, more keen sighted; and poor Francesca often blushed and trembled under his scrutiny, or at the hints he threw out, but trusted nevertheless to his love for Orsala to make him keep her secret.

It was a proud and happy day for Guglielmo and his children when the prizes were at length awarded, and Orsala unanimously declared to be victor over all her competitors. How beautiful she looked! her eyes flashing, her cheeks burning, and her heart throbbing with the anticipation of that future fame, of which the present triumph was but an earnest and a prophecy; while Francesca, equally glad and joyous, and, as Malanotti thought within himself, and that not for the first time, equally beautiful, hung about her sister's neck, and laughed and wept

by turns. She kissed both Orsala and her, the artist should continue to mistake them for father in the wild exuberance of her delight, and seemed very near doing the same by Lorenzo; but fortunately-or rather unfortunately, according to his idea-recollected herself in time; and he was forced to be content with the small white hand, so frankly extended as if to demand his glad sympathy in the general happiness.

her own; and then coming down the following morning, pale for want of sleep, but meek, and cheerful, and uncomplaining; and how often he had longed to pour forth his sympathy and admiration, but forbore lest it should pain her generous nature; thinking within himself, what bliss it would be to call such a treasure his own, There was a festival that night at Montcalvo, and that so good and affectionate a sister must in honour of Orsala's triumph, who moved needs make a dutiful and loving wife. He among her guests like a queen. Francesca had paused at length for a reply; but none came. twined a wreath of laurel-leaves, which she Poor Francesca! she listened to him like one mingled amid the dark tresses of her sister; but bewildered in a pleasant dream. It seemed too she herself wore only one simple white rose. The great a happiness to be real! But Malanotti young, the beautiful, and the gifted were there; was not discouraged by her silence; and drawbut Orsala seemed like a star among them all-ing her gently towards him, she wept upon his so at least thought Guglielmo and his daughter; and the latter wanted Malanotti to say the same, but he would not, and yet she never doubted that it was in his heart, and only laughed and shook her head at his silence.

"You do not believe me?" said Lorenzo. "Why not exactly. But you need not look so grave about it.”

"Francesca," continued he, "has it never occurred to you that some may prefer the rose to the laurel?"

The girl coloured, and thanked him for his compliment; but she still laughed incredulously. "Let us go into the air," said her companion. "It is too warm here."

"With all my heart," replied Francesca, passing her arm carelessly through his. And then pausing on a sudden, she added quickly"But you are ill, Lorenzo!"

"No, it is nothing. I want to talk to you very seriously, Francesca."

"Ah, I know what is coming," thought his companion, as they passed into the quiet moonlight. But after a pause, and observing that he still continued silent, she said, timidly

"Lorenzo, you are not angry with me for what I have done? You will not betray me to my father, or Orsala, who is now so glad and happy!—for her sake, you will not?”

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Say rather, for your own, dearest! That were the more powerful plea."

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Well, then, for my sake, Lorenzo!" replied Francesca, coaxingly. But her playful gaze sank before his; and a burning blush spread over neck and brow. She would have fled from him, but Malanotti held her hands firmly in both of his, while he poured forth into her wondering, and yet joyful heart, the long concealed affection of his own. He confessed to having being struck, just at first, by Orsala's rare beauty; and how soon the impression had passed away, to be succeeded by one, which, in the phrase of all true lovers, death only could efface!" while, like all true women, Francesca believed him with a ready faith. He told her how he had watched her steal from her chamber at dead of night, when the weary Orsala slept at length, and take her place until dawn, carefully erasing the feeble touches of a weak and unsteady hand, and working in bright, warm tints, so exquisitely blended with the original, that it was no wonder

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bosom.

That night was a memorable epoch in the lives of both the sisters; the one, so proudly triumphant; the other, so sweetly happy! Guglielmo willingly gave his consent to the match; and was glad that his Bird, as he called her, had found so peaceful a nest; while the Flower remained to cheer his solitary home.

Orsala afterwards founded the conservatory of Ursulines, at Moncalvo; where, and at Casale, she left several altar-pieces and cabinet pictures, exquisitely finished, after the manner of Paul Brill, and strewn with flowers; while a holy family, executed in the same taste, is still to be seen among the collection at the palace. But of Francesca little more is heard. Both realized their early dreams. The one was worshippedthe other, beloved! Fame speaks most of Orsala; but the memory of Francesca was shrined in the hearts of her husband and children!

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Clinging to first loves as the hiving bees,
And clasping hands his first learnt prayer to say
Upon his mother's knees—
Day after day.
Lingering in oft-trod walks and daisy fields,
Or on the primrose-haunted banks to lay,
Unwearying pleasure yields—

Day after day.
The child shrinks not from grief, but will draw nigh,
Familiarly, to those who weep, and say,
Why do you sadly cry-

Day after day?
So the heart never tires of its own themes,
But letteth memory have her gentle way,
Following life's darkling streams-

Day after day.

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