"so you are the artist, are you? Happy to make your acquaintance, Messer Linden. You are a very young man to paint such a picture as that. I congratulate you, sir: and-I'll buy it."

So we exchanged cards, shook hands, and became the best friends in the world. I was burning with impatience to see Gertrude, and tell her all my good fortune; but my new patron took my arm, and said that he must make the tour of the rooms in my company; and I was even forced to comply.

We stopped before a large painting, that occupied the next best situation to mine

it was my master's work, the Conversion of St. Paul. While we were admiring it, and I was telling him of my studies in the atelier of the painter, a man started from before us, and glided away, but not before I had recognized the pale countenance of Van Roos. There was something in the expression of his face that shocked me-something that stopped my breath, and made me shudder. What was it? I scarcely knew; but the glare of his dark eyes, and the quivering passion of his lip, haunted me for the rest of the day, and came back again in my dreams. I said nothing of it to Gertrude that afternoon, but it had sobered my rapturous exultation most effectually. I positively dreaded, the next day, to return to the studio; but, to my surprise, my master received me as he had never received me before. He advanced, and extended his hand to me.

"Welcome, Franz Linden," he said, "I am proud to call you my pupil."

The hand was cold-the voice was harsh the smile was passionless. My friends crowded around and congratulated me; and, in the warm tones of their young, cheerful voices, and the close pressure of their friendly hands, I forgot all that had pained me in the conduct of Van Roos.

Not long after this event, Gertrude's father desired to have her portrait painted-to console him of her absence, he said, when I should be so wicked as to take her away from him. I recommended my old master, whose tutelage I recently left; and Van Roos was summoned

to fulfil a task that I would gladly have performed; but portraiture was not my line. I could paint a sleek spotted milch cow, or a drove of sheep, far better than the fair skin and golden curls of my darling Gertrude.

She could not endure the artist from the first. In vain I reasoned with her and strove to persuade her-all was of no use; and she used to say, at the end of every such conversation, that she wished the portrait were finished, and that she could no more help disliking him than-than she could help loving me. So our arguments always ended with a kiss.

One

But this portrait took a long time. Van Roos was in general a rapid painter; yet Gertrude's likeness progressed at a very slow pace, and, like Penelope's web, seemed never to be completed. morning I happened to be in the room-a rare event at that time, for I was hard at work upon my new landscape; and I was struck by the change that had come over my late master. He seemed to be no longer the same man. There was a light in his eye, and a vibration in his voice, that I had never observed before; and when he rose to take leave, there was a studied courtesy in his bow and manner that took me quite by surprise.

Still, I never suspected the truth, and the portrait was as far as ever from being finished.

It all came out at last; and one morning Hans van Roos made a formal offer of his hand and heart; of course he was immediately refused.

"But as kindly as was possible, dear Franz," she said, when she told me in the evening; "because he is your friend, and because he seemed to feel it so deeply. And-you don't know how dreadfully white he turned, and how he tried to restrain his tears. I pitied him, Franz; and, indeed I was very sorry." And the gentle creature could scarcely keep from weeping herself as she told me.

I did not see Van Roos for some months after this disclosure; at last I met him accidentally one morning in front of the stadt-house, and, to my surprise, for the second time in his life, he held out his hand.

"A good day to you Messer Linden," said he. "I hear that you are on the high road to fame and fortune."

"I have been very prosperous Messer van Roos," I replied, taking the proffered hand-"more prosperous, perhaps, than my merits deserve. I never forget that I owe my present proficiency to the hours spent in your atelier."

A peculiar expression flitted over his face.

"If I thought that," said he hastily, "I-I should esteem myself particularly happy."

There was so odd a difference in the way in which he uttered the beginning and end of this sentence-so much hurry and passion in the first half, such deliberate politeness in the last, that I started and looked him full in the face: he was as smiling and impenetrable as a marble

statue.

"I too have been fortunate," he said, after a moment's pause. "Have you seen the new church lately built near the east end of the Haring-vliet?"

I replied that I had observed it in passing, but had not been inside.

"I have been entrusted," he said, "with the superintendence of the interior decorations. My 'Conversion of St. Paul' is purchased for the altar-piece, and I am now engaged in painting a series of frescoes upon the ceiling. Will you come in one day and give me your opinion upon them!"

I professed myself much flattered and appointed to visit him in the church on the following morning. He was waiting for me at the door when I arrived, with the heavy keys in his hand. We passed in, and he turned the key in the lock.

"I always secure myself against intruders," he said, smiling. “People will come into the church if I leave the doors unfastened; and I do not choose to carry on my art, like a sign-painter, in the presence of every blockhead who chooses to stand and stare at me."

It was surprising in what a disagreeable manner this man showed his teeth when he smiled.

The church was decidedly a handsome

building, built in that Italian style which imitates the antique, and prefers grace and magnificence to the dignified sanctity of the Gothic order. A row of elegant Corinthian columns supported the roof at each side of the nave; gilding and decorative cornices were lavished in every direction; the gorgeous altar-piece already occupied its appointed station; and a little to the left of the railed space where the communion-table was to be placed, a scaffolding was erected, that seemed, from where I stood, almost to come in contact with the roof, and above which I observed the yet unfinished sketch of a masterly fresco. Three or four more, already completed, were stationed at regular intervals, and some others were merely outlined in charcoal upon their intended site.

"Will you not come up with me?” asked the painter when I had expressed my admiration sufficiently; "or are you afraid of turning giddy?"

I felt somewhat disinclined to impose this trial on my nerves, but still more disinclined to confess it; so I followed him up from flight to flight of the frail structure without once daring to look down.

At last we reached the summit. As I had supposed, there was not even room enough for the artist to assume a sitting posture, and he had to paint while lying on his back. I had no fancy to extend myself on this lofty couch; so I only lifted my head above the level of his flooring, looked at the fresco, and descended immediately to the flight below, where I waited till he rejoined me.

"How dangerous it must be," said I shuddering, "to let yourself down from that abominable perch!"

"I used to think so at first," he replied; "but I am now quite accustomed to it. Fancy," said he, approaching close to the edge of the scaffolding-"fancy falling from this into the church below!"

"Horrible!" cried I.

"I wonder how high it is from the level of the pavement," continued Van Roos musingly; "ninety feet, I dare sayperhaps a hundred."

I drew back, giddy at the thought.

"No man could survive such a fall," said the painter, still looking over. "Any

skull would be dashed to atoms on the marble down there."

"Pray, come away," said I hastily; "my head swims at the very idea."

"Does it!" said he, turning suddenly upon me with the voice and eye of a fiend-"does it? Fool!" he cried as he seized me round the body in his iron clasp "fool, to trust yourself here with me-whom you have wronged, whose life you have blasted!-me whom you have crossed in fame and in love! Down, wretch, down! I've vowed to have your blood, and my time has come!"

It sickens me even now to recall that desperate struggle. At the first word he uttered, I had sprung back and seized a beam above my head: he strove to tear me from it-he foamed at the mouth, the the veins rose like knots upon his forehead; and still, though I felt my wrists strained and my fingers cruelly lacerated, still I held on with the terrible energy of one who struggles for dear life. It lasted a long time at least it seemed long to me-and the scaffolding rocked beneath our feet. At length I saw his strength failing; suddenly I loosed my hold, and threw my whole weight upon him. He staggered-he shrieked-he fell!

I dropped upon my face in mute horror-an age of silence seemed to elapse, and the cold dews stood upon my brow. Presently I heard a dull sound far below. I crawled to the brink of the scaffolding, and looked over-a shapeless mass was lying on the marble pavement, and all around was red with blood.

I think an hour must have elapsed before I could summon courage to descend. When at length I reached the level ground, I turned my face from what was so near my feet, and tottered to the door. With trembling hands and misty eyes, I unlocked it, and rushed into the street; once outside, I fell to the ground. I remember no more, for I had fainted.

It was many months before I recovered from the brain fever brought on by that terrible day; indeed, I think I never should have lived through it, but for the tender cares of my betrothed, who watched me day and night, till the physicians pronounced me out of danger. My ravings, they told me, had been fearful; and had any doubts existed in the minds of men as to which of us two had been the guilty one, those ravings were alone sufficient to establish my innocence. A man in a delirious fever is pretty sure to speak the truth. By the time I was able to leave my chamber, Gertrude also had grown pale and spiritless, and all unlike her former self. Rotterdam was insupportable to me; and I found myself a hero of romance, a lion, a thing to be stared after wherever I went, which only served to shatter my nerves more than ever. In short, change of air and scene was recommended for us both; so we thought we could not do better than to marry, and take our wedding tour for the sake of our health. And I assure you, reader, it did us both a great deal of good.

We hear that our friend and correspondent, W. Gilmore Simms, Esq. of South Carolina designs performing a tour of the North next winter in obedience to numerous calls that have been made upon him to lecture in Northern cities. Mr. Simms, with a versatility of talent that few authors possess, turns readily from the editorial chair or the novelist's writing table to the desk of the lecturer where his fine voice and agreeable manner exert a charm not less powerful than that of his style in composition. We cannot doubt that his success as a lecturer will be equal to his popularity as an author, as we feel assured there are very many persons at the North that will be inspired by a curiosity to hear one, who has contributed so much to their gratification by the pen. Societies and Lyceums desiring to se

cure Mr. Simms' services should make application by letter to his publisher, J. S. Redfield of New York.

The Criterion, referring to the question of authorship of the Burial of Sir John Moore, adduces the French poem, from which the lyric is supposed to have been taken by Wolfe, as embodied in a letter to Bentley's Miscellany. This letter states that the poem was published in an appendix to the writings of a French officer, who was in the East Indian wars, and suggests as probable that Wolfe obtained the poem from his relative Wolfe Tone on his return from France. The evidence is vague and unsatisfactory and we are therefore not convinced, but the French poem is surely very beautiful, and we subjoin it for the satisfaction of our readers:

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

RACHEL AND THE NEW WORLD. A Trip to the United States and Cuba. Translated from the French of Leon Beauvallet. New York: Dix, Edwards & Co., 321 Broadway. 1856. [From J. W. Randolph, 121 Main Street.

A contemporary has said of this volume that it owes everything to the English translator-which has inspired us with a great curiosity to see the original, for if it be more ridiculous in the French than in our own language, it must be a wonderful performance truly. Monsieur Leon Beauvallet seems to us from this record to be altogether as flippant, as conceited, as ignorant, as frivolous, as ill-bred a coxcomb as ever came out of Paris, and this is saying a great deal. His sketches, so far as we can discover, are wholly unredeemed by sense, sprightliness or sentiment. If he has vivacity, so has Chimpanzee in the Jardin des Plantes, and we are disposed to think the latter the more intellectual animal of the two. Impudence he certainly displays beyond anything we have ever seen in that linemais voila tout!

THE YOUTH OF THE OLD DOMINION. By SAMUEL HOPKINS. Boston: J. P. Jewett & Co. 1856. [From G. M. West, under Exchange Hotel.

In this handsome volume we are presented with a half historical, half fictitious picture of some of the early scenes

of our Virginia history. Mr. Hopkins has selected the life of Captain Smith, Bacon's Rebellion, Frontier Conflicts, etc., as his subjects, and seems to have accomplished his work with great care and fidelity. The historical references are full and minute.

The design here attempted, has frequently been applied to other annals-by Scott, Dumas, and many others. A certain advantage is derived from this dramatic presentation of real events-but the plan has also some drawbacks. Hopkins has produced a work, however, which we have read with pleasure. We commend it to the reader curious upon the subject of our Virginia history.

Mr.

We have received from Mr. Morris the Poems of Herrick in two volumes, and of Shakspeare in one, being the latest issues of Little & Brown's beautiful uniform edition of the British Poets. The text of these volumes is extremely clear and accurate, and the is of the best qualpaper ity. Mr. Morris is prepared to supply the whole series in exquisite calf and morocco bindings at a very moderate price, and there could not be a more tasteful and valuable addition to a private library.

Many book notices designed for the present number are unavoidably laid over till our next.