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so that the result of those labours, as a modern writer eloquently and enthusiastically remarks, when speaking of the state of art generally, "has never taught us one deep or holy lesson; it has not recorded that which is fleeting, nor penetrated that which is hidden, nor interpreted that which was obscure; it has never made us feel the wonder, nor the power, nor the glory, of the universe; it has not prompted to devotion, nor touched with awe; its power to move and exalt the heart has been fatally abused, and perished in the abusing. That which ought to have been a witness to the omnipotence of God has become an exhibition of the dexterity of man, and that which should have lifted our thoughts to the throne of the Deity has encumbered them with the inventions of his creatures."

It is impossible to separate national art from national tastes and habits; the philosophy of the studio, so to speak, is derived from the pursuits and the predilections of the community. The mythology of the ancient Greeks peopled their groves and temples with the statues and paintings of their deities; the saint-worship of the middle ages called into existence the host of great names which have immortalised the schools of Italy and Spain, and, later still, a few in that of the Low Countries; while Watteau and Greuze found amid the gaieties and frivolities of the time of Louis XIV and his successors fit subjects for their pencils. The argument applies equally to every period and country; few among us but would prefer a group of dogs by Landseer, a "Boy's School" by Webster, or a landscape by Creswick, to any "St. Jerome" or • St. Agnes" that ever was painted. But we are not prepared to argue that such preferences are, in all cases, to be encouraged; apart from the pleasure to be derived from pictures, is the consideration-certainly of no less importance-what mental enjoyment will their possession afford? Like books, unless they teach us something, they are comparatively worthless, and may be classed only among the ornamental furniture of the apartment where they hang. Greuze was born in 1726, at Tournus, in Burgundy, and studied painting first in Lyons, afterwards at the Academy of Arts in Paris, and subsequently in Rome. His pictures are chiefly of what is called the genre kind, that is, they refer to domestic scenes and ordinary incidents of life, and he frequently painted

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* Preface to the second edition of Ruskin's "Modern Painters."

portraits; the only historical work from his hand is "Severus reprimanding his son Caracalla." The titles of some of his most popular pictures will best explain the sort of subject he usually selected : "The Good Father," "The little Girl and the Dog," "Good Education," "The Blind Man cheated," "The Broken Pitcher," "The Village Bride," &c. &c. He had a decided partiality for exciting and pathetic scenes, but generally treated them with a degree of extravagance and affectation that destroyed their natural truth and simplicity. The same remark will apply to his portraits, especially of young females; they are graceful but not refined, and sometimes not chaste in expression of character. Greuze was long an associate of the French Academy; but upon being elected a full member, he was placed in the genre class, which he considered below his deserts, and therefore retired altogether from the institution. He died at an advanced age in 1805.

Within the last few years the pictures of this painter have been much sought after in this country by collectors, but for what reason it is difficult to understand, inasmuch as they have comparatively little merit as works of real art. His figures are generally correct and vigorous in drawing, but, as previously remarked, extravagant in expression; his colouring, except his flesh tints, is cold, feeble, and inharmonious, and his light and shade are unskilfully and ineffectually managed. But he has recently grown into fashion, and consequently large sums are now offered for productions that scarcely exhibit either mind or matter. As an instance of this, the writer was present at a sale of pictures a year or two since, when a small oval painting, representing only the head of a young girl, was knocked down to the present Marquis of Hertford for upwards of eight hundred guineas; a dozen works, better in every respect, might have been purchased out of our annual exhibitions for less than the sum paid for this single piece of prettiness.

The original of the "Innocence" is certainly among the best pictures of its class which Greuze painted; it is more free from affectation, and charms no less by its sweetness of expression than by its purity; it shows, that if the artist had been thrown amid other scenes, or had his mind been directed by more elevated principles, he might have risen to the rank of a great painter; but now, as one of his countrymen writes of him, he is only "unique" in the French school.

CHAP. I.

THE LUCKY PENNY.

BR MRS. S. C. HALL.

"AND what will you do with yours, Willy ?" "I dun know," replied the heavy-looking urchin, while he turned the halfpence over and over in his hand; "two hap'nces; it's not much." Ned piroutted on one broad bare foot, and tossed a summerset on the pavement, close to the pretty basket shop at a corner of Covent Garden Market, while "Willy" pondered over the halfpence. When "Ned" recovered his breath, and had shouldered the door-post for half a minute, he again spoke :

"And that one, just riding away on his fine responsible horse, thought he'd make our fortunes, this frosty new-year's morning, with his three pence betwixt three of us-and his grand condition-that we should meet him on this spot, if living, this day twel'months, and tell him what we did with the pennies! Hurroo as if we could remember. Willy, suppose you and I toss up for them—

head wins?"

I say,

"No, no," replied the prudent Willy, putting the halfpence into his pocket, and attempting to button the garment; an unsuccessful attempt, inasmuch as there was no button: "No; I'll not make up my mind jist yet; I'll may-be let it lie, and show it him this day twal'month. He may give more for taking care of un."

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Easy, easy," persisted Ned, "let tail win, if you don't like head."

"I'll not have it, no way.”

"But where's Richard gone?" inquired the careless boy, after varying his exercise by walking on his hands, and kicking his feet in the air.

"I dun know" replied the other; "it's most like he's gone home: that's where he goes most times: he comes the gentleman over us becase of his edication."

"He has no spirit," said Ned, contemptuously; "he never spends his money like-like me."

"He got the 'lucky penny,' for all that," answered Willy, "for I saw the hole in it myself."

"Look at that now!" exclaimed Ned; "it's ever the way with him; see now, if that don't turn up something before the year's out. While we sleep under bridges, in tatur-baskets, and 'darkies,' he sleeps on a bed; and his mother

stitches o'nights, and days too. He's as high up as a gentleman, and yet he's as keen after a job as a cat after a sparra."

The two boys lounged away, while the third -the only one of the three who had earned his penny, by holding a gentleman's horse for a moment, while the others looked on-had passed rapidly to a small circulating library near Cranbourne Alley, and laying down his penny on the counter, looked in the bookseller's face, and said, "Please, sir, will you lend me the works of Benjamin Franklin-for a penny ?"

The bookseller looked at the boy, and then at the penny, and inquired if he were the lad who had carried the parcels about for Thomas Brand, when he was ill.

The boy said he was.

"And would you like to do so now, on your own account?" was the next question. The pale pinched-up features of the youth crimsoned all over, and his dark deep-set eyes were illumined as if by magic.

"Be your messenger, sir?—indeed I would." "Who could answer for your character ?" "My mother, sir; she knows me best," he replied with great simplicity.

"But who knows her?" said the bookseller, smiling.

"Not many, sir; but the landlady where we live, and some few others."

The bookseller inquired what place of worship they attended.

The lad told him, but added, "My mother has not been there lately."

"Why not ?"

The deep flush returned, but the expression of the face told of pain, not pleasure. "My mother, sir, has not been well-and-the weather is cold---and her clothes are not warm." He eagerly inquired if he was wanted that day. The bookseller told him to be there at half-past seven the next morning, and that, meanwhile, he would inquire into his character.

The boy could hardly speak; unshed tears stood in his eyes, and, after sundry scrapes and bows, he rushed from the shop.

"Holloa, youngster!" called out the bookseller, "you have not told me your mother's name or address." The boy gave both, and again ran off. Again the bookseller shouted, "Hollon!"

"You have forgotten Franklin." The lad bowed and scraped twice as much as ever; and muttering something about "joy" and "mother," placed the book inside his jacket and disappeared.

Richard Dolland's mother was seated in the smallest of all possible rooms, which looked into a court near the "Seven Dials." The window was but little above the flags, for the room had been slipped off the narrow entrance; and, stowed away into a corner, where there was space for a bedstead, a small table, a chair, and a box; there was a little bookshelf; upon it were three or four old books, an ink bottle, and some stumpy pens; and the grate only contained wood ashes.

Mrs. Dolland was plying her needle and thread at the window; but she did not realize that wonderful Daguerreotype of misery which one of our greatest poets drew; for she was not clad in

"Unwomanly rags,"

though the very light coloured cotton-dressthe worn-out and faded blue "comforter" round her throat-the pale and purple hue of her face, proclaimed that poverty had been beside her many a dreary winter's day. The snow was drizzling in little hard bitter knots, not falling in soft gentle flakes, wooing the earth to resignation; and the woman, whose slight, almost girlish, figure, and fair braided hair, gave her an aspect of extreme youth, bent more and more forward to the light, as if she found it difficult to thread her needle; she rubbed her eyes until they became quite red; she rubbed the window-glass with her handkerchief (that was torn); and at last her hands fell into her lap, and large tears coursed each other over her pale cheeks; she pressed her eyes, and tried again; no-she could not pass the fine thread into the fine needle.

Oh, what an expression saddened her face into despair! she threw back her head, as if appealing to the Almighty; she clasped her thin palms together, and then, raising them slowly, pressed them on her eyes.

A light quick bounding step echoed in the little court the mother knew it well; she arose, as if uncertain what to do-she shuddered--she sat down-took up her work; and when Richard, in passing, tapped against the window, she met the flushed excited face of her son with her usual calm, quiet smile.

"Here's a bright new-year's-day, mother!" he exclaimed.

"Where?" she said, looking drearily out at the falling snow, and dusting it off her son's ceat with her hand.

"Everywhere, mother!"-he laid the book on the table-"I earned a penny, and I've got a place there!"

"Got a place!" repeated the woman; and then her face flushed-" with whom? how?"

He detailed the particulars, "And I gave the penny, mother dear," he added, "to read the 'Works of Benjamin Franklin,' which will teach me how to grow rich and good; I'll read the book to you this evening, while you work." The flush on her cheek faded to deadly paleness.

"I don't know what's the matter with my eyes, Richard-they are so weak."

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Looking on the snow, mother; mine grow weak when I look on the snow."

How she caught at the straw!" I never thought of that, Richard; I dare say it is bad. And what did ye with the penny, dear?"

“I told you, mother; I got the reading of the 'Works of Benjamin Franklin' for it, and it's a book that will do me great good; I read two or three pages here and there of it, at the very shop where I am to be employed, when I was there for Thomas Brand, before he died. It was just luck that took me there to look for it-the book, I mean-and then the gentleman offered me the place; I'm sure I have worn, as Ned Brady says, 'the legs off my feet,' tramping after places---and that to offer itself to me-think of that, mother! Poor Tom Brand had four shillings a-week, but he could not make out a bill-I can; Benjamin Franklin (he wrote 'Poor Richard's Almanac,' you know) says, 'there are no gains without pains;' and I'm sure poor father took pains enough to teach me, though I have the gains, and he had the

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The entrance of his future master arrested Richard's eloquence; he made a few inquiries, found his way into a back kitchen to the landlady, and, being satisfied with what he heard, engaged the lad at four shillings a-week; he looked kindly at the gentle mother, and uncomfortably at the grate; then slid a shilling into Mrs. Dolland's hand, " in advance."

"It was not 'luck,' Richard," said she to her son, after the long, gaunt-looking man of books had departed; "it's all come of God's goodness!"

There was a fire that evening in the widow's little room, and a whole candle was lit; and a cup of tea, with the luxuries of milk, sugar, and a little loaf, formed their new-year's fete; and yet two-pence remained out of the bookseller's loan!—

When their frugal meal was finished, Mrs. Dolland worked on mechanically, and Richard

threaded her needle; the boy read aloud to her certain passages which he thought she might like, he wondered she was not more elated at his success; she seemed working unconsciously, and buried in her own thoughts; at last, and not without a feeling of pain, he ceased reading aloud, and forgot all external cares in the deep interest he took in the selfhelping volume that rested on his lap.

Suddenly he looked up, aroused by a sort of half-breathed sigh; his mother's large eyes were fixed upon him,-there was something in the look and the expression he thought he had never seen before.

"Richard," she said, "is there any hope in that book?"

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Hope, mother! why, it is full, full of hope; for a poor lad, it is one great hope from beginning to end. Why, many a copy my father set from Poor Richard's Almanac, though I don't think he knew it. Don't you remember 'Help hands, for I have no lands,' and 'Diligence is the mother of good luck,' and that grand long one I wrote in small-hand-Since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.'

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'Yes, dear, those were pleasant days; I mind them well; when he went, all went.

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'No, mother,” replied the boy; "and I don't know what is the matter to-day, you are not a bit like yourself; you used to say that God was always with us, and that hope was a part of God.—And it is new-year's-day, and has begun so well; I have got a place and a nice one; suppose it had been at a butcher's or greengrocers? we should have been thankful,-but among books, and such like, with odd minutes for reading, and every penny of four shillings a-week; mother, you need not work so hard now."

"I can't, Richard," she said; and then there was a long pause.

When she spoke again her voice seemed stifled. "I have been turning in my own mind what I could do; what do you think of balladsinging and a wee dog to lead me?"

"What is it, mother?" inquired the boy; and he flung himself on his knees beside her. "What sorrow is it?"

She laid her cheek on his head, while she whispered-so terrible did the words seem-"I am growing dark, my child; I shall soon be quite, quite BLIND." He drew back, pushed the hair off her brow, and gazed into her eyes steadily.

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And he kissed her eyes and brow until his lips were moist with her tears.

"If God would but spare me my sight, just to keep on a little longer, and keep me from the parish (though we have good right to its help), and save me from being a burden-a millstone-about your neck, Richard!"

"Now don't, mother; I will not shed a tear this blessed new-year's-day; I won't believe it is as you say; it's just the trouble and the cold you have gone through; and the tenderness you were once used to-though I only remember my father a poor schoolmaster, still he took care of you. You know my four shillings aweek will do a great deal; it's a capital salary," said the boy, exultingly; "four broad white shillings a-week! you can have some nourishment then." He paused a moment and opened his eyes. "I suppose I am not to live in the house; if I was, and you had it ALL—Oh, mother, you wouldn't be so comfortable!

Presently he took down his father's Bible, and read a psalm-it was the first Psalm :

"Blessed is the man that walketh not in the council of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful;

"But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night;

"And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper "

The boy paused.

“There, mother! is there not hope in that?" "There is, indeed-and comfort," answered the widow; "and I am always glad when you read a book containing plenty of hope. The present is often so miserable that it is natural to get away from it, and feel and know there is something different to come; I have often sat with only hope for a comforter when you have been seeking employment; and I have been here without food or fire, or anything-but hope."

"And I used to think you so blythe, mother, when I came into the court, and heard you singing."

"I have often sobbed through a song, Richard, and yet it was comfort, somehow, to sing it. I dare say there is a deal of hope in that new book of yours, but I wish it may be sanctified hope-hope of the right kind. Your poor father used to talk of unsanctified philosophy, but he was too wise, as well as too good for me-you ought to be good and wise, my child --God grant it!"

"To look at it, mother," said the boy, with an earnestness beyond his years; "I was so full of joy at being employed, that I thought my heart would break, and now" his young

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