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Bailleul could only restrain herself by a strong effort. Her breathing was suspended, her eyes sparkled with fury, she leaned against the tree which favoured her curiosity.

"You are in the garden, then," replied Adolphine, destroying the beautiful flower in her hand. "Instead of tearing you in pieces, the traitor Turk allows you to pass. What next?"

"I advance softly—like a sylph, like a shadow. In a moment I am before your window, and your room is on the ground floor."

"What next?" repeated Madame Chaudieu with increased irony.

"What next!" he said in a soft voice, and slightly bending, as though, on the slightest smile of encouragement, he would fall on his knee. "Listen! Don't interrupt me, but say afterwards if I am too presumptuous. Remember, we are in Spain. There senoras often elude the vigilance of the duenna, and, night come, when all sleeps but love, in the shadow of some low-barred window, they refuse not to allow themselves to be seen by their slaves. Would you be more cruel ?"

"My window is low, truly, but it is not barred," replied Adolphine maliciously. "Has it not shutters?"

"They are not as secure as bars."

"What have you to fear?"

"What have I to fear from a burglar! That is a charming question! Come, give me that key!"

"Never! and, although you would treat me as a burglar, the happiness of seeing you might cause me to make use of it. A window and shutters are not so difficult to open from the outside as you suppose."

"Better and better! I see you are determined, at any rate, to destroy my night's rest. I am certain to dream of nothing but burglary and assassination. At the slightest noise, I shall imagine a band of brigands are rushing into the house."

"What if you heard that noise at midnight?"

"And what if others besides me heard it?" said Adolphine in a serious tone, with a stern glance at Laboissière, and rising suddenly from her scat. "But this is a waste of words. You are mad!"

With all his effrontery, Laboissière felt it would be best to make no reply. He well knew that women dislike to have matters which they consider serious regarded as a mere pleasantry.

"Let us return to the house," said Adolphine; "I am tired of playing senor and senora; we are not in Spain. Your cab was seen to drive up to the house, and our absence may have been remarked."

"By whom? I saw your husband perched on a ladder, painting his trellis ; and that is an occupation too absorbing for him even to dream of anything else. As for your father, isn't it the time when your aunt hands him over the newspaper ?”

"It is my aunt I fear."

"Bah!" replied Laboissière with a contemptuous laugh. "I wager that at this moment she is putting on her rouge. She couldn't dine without it!”

On hearing herself spoken of so disrespectfully, Mademoiselle Bailleul's emotion became most violent. She trembled like a wounded tigress in her leafy hiding-place. She made a movement, as though she were about to rush

upon the man who was turning her into ridicule, and from whom she had received other wrongs beside this impertinence. Passion urged her forward, but reflection held her back,

"I will be revenged," she muttered between her teeth. "But the time has not come !"

Whilst Madame Chaudieu and Laboissière were slowly walking towards the house, Mademoiselle Bailleul, with her brain bewildered, rushed, almost without knowing it, along the narrow side-path which led to the house. As she reached the door she perceived her brother.

"What brings you here? Did I not beg of you to remain up-stairs?"

"Heavens! my dear sister, what has happened?" exclaimed the worthy man in the greatest alarm; "your face is crimson!"

“Do you not perceive it is my rouge ?" replied his sister with a forced laugh. "Your rouge?"

"Yes, I wear rouge! A wig, also, no doubt. And, perhaps, artificial teeth," she continued, gnashing her teeth as though she would pulverize them.

M. Bailleul believed his sister was attacked with a violent fever. Strongly impressed with this idea, he looked around him uneasily, as if in quest of some assistance. At this moment Adolphine and Laboissière came unexpectedly in sight. They were slowly approaching, when they first perceived the strange motions of the old man, who was making signals to them like a shipwrecked seaman on a raft. As she perceived them, Mademoiselle Bailleul mastered, with a mighty effort, her emotion. She attributed her flushed face to a severe headache, from which she had suffered all the last night. The barking of Turk had robbed her of her sleep; it was all owing to that wicked Turk. She said all this in a natural tone, and even carried her heroism so far as to smile when she spoke to the man who had mortally insulted her!

"Poor soul!" said her brother, in the simplicity of his heart; "how loss of sleep will upset us."

As for Laboissière, he played his part with a perfect ease, and conducted himself like a man determined to make himself agreeable to all the world. To M. Bailleul, who had funded property, he spoke of the Exchange, and the price of shares. He narrated the plot of the last new piece to Mademoiselle Bailleul, who usually affected that taste for literary conversation which, in a lady, denotes superior attainments. Finally, in his anxiety to constitute himself a general favourite, he inquired after the master of the house, of whom nobody thought. "Where is the King of the Castle?" asked he suddenly. "I have a letter for him."

"A letter !" said Adolphine. "From whom?"

"I do not know. Seeing it in your porter's hand as I drove past the lodge, I took charge of it."

"Your husband is in the kitchen-garden," said Mademoiselle Bailleul to her niece. "For the last two days, he has thought about nothing else than painting his trellis. Shall we go in search of him ?"

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THIS celebrated authoress, whose sudden and recent death we have all to deplore, was of Irish extraction, being the eldest daughter of Mr. Murphy, painter in ordinary to the Princess Charlotte, an artist well known during the earlier years of the present century. His eldest daughter, Anna, was very naturally taught by him the principles of his own art, but she had instincts for all-a taste for music, a feeling for poetry (some short pieces of hers are still preserved), and a delicate appreciation of the drama. As a young woman, she occupied the post of governess in two or three families of distinction, and to the last used to speak occasionally of the young girls who had been her pupils, particularly of one who had died early.

At thirty years of age, however, she had entered on her literary career, by the publication of notes on foreign travel, under the title of the "Diary of an Ennuyée." It appeared anonymously, and had only a partial success, never reaching a second edition. About the same time she married Mr. Robert Jameson, late Vice-Chancellor of Canada, a man of some talent and artistic taste; but the

marriage was notoriously an unhappy one, and a separation eventually took place. Mrs. Jameson only survived her husband six years.

The " Diary of an Ennuyée" was followed by "Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad,” which consisted, in a measure, of a reprint of the "Diary of an Ennuyée," and of reprints of some smaller pieces. Three years later her "Loves of the Poets" appeared; after that, "Female Biography," "Romance of Biography," "Beauties of the Court of Charles II.," "Female Sovereigns," "Characteristics of Women" (chiefly Studies from Shakspeare), one of her most popular and deservedly popular works; and in 1838, "Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada," the latter work containing recollections of a visit undertaken to that country in a hopeless attempt to arrange her family affairs. In this book there is the account of her solitary canoe-voyage, and her residence among a tribe of Indians.

To this list of Mrs. Jameson's literary works may be added her "Reminiscences of Munich," and a translation of the "Dramas of the Princess Amelia of Saxony." Mrs. Jameson's literary life may, to use the words of a contemporary journal, be divided into three epochs. The first includes various books of foreign travel, containing social and artistic criticism-in short, all the works that we have already named belong to this period; to the second epoch belong her elaborate works on Art proper, beginning, in 1842, with a "Handbook to the Public Galleries of Art in and near London ;" and the third is represented by her two celebrated lectures on the "Communion of Labour" and "Sisters of Charity," and her "Letter to Lord John Russell."

Mrs. Jameson only busied herself with "Art" as it was understood in the last generation, when it meant almost exclusively painting and sculpture. To appreciate her labours aright, it is essential to remember the state of literature and art before she commenced adding to it. The Germans had, indeed, begun their laborious reconstruction of the history of art; but in France there was not much, and in England still less; for there were only Richardson's old world talk and Walpole's gossip, Reynolds's discourses, and a few fossil lectures of the Academicians; Ruskin, Lord Lindsay, Fergusson, and others, were all subsequent to Mrs. Jameson's first appearance in the field.

Her contributions to the literature of art, or, rather, of painting-the direction in which she created for herself her soundest and most enduring reputation— stretch over nearly twenty years. After the "Handbook to the Public Galleries” (1842), came her popular memoirs of "Early Italian Painters," first published by Charles Knight in the "Penny Magazine," then as two one-shilling volumes, and finally they were reprinted, in a revised and more expensive form, by Murray, in 1858. As a condensation of Vasari, and a resume of all that need be said about the early painters and their works, these volumes are invaluable.

Other books of a similar scope are the "Companion to the Private Galleries in London," "Memoirs and Essays Illustrative of Art and Literature," collected from various periodicals. Then came the large and copiously-illustrated volumes of sacred and legendary art, "Legends of the Monastic Orders," "Legends of the Madonna ;" and death found her busy in the completion of a History of the Life of Our Lord, and of His Precursor, St. John the Baptist; with the Personages and Typical Subjects of the Old Testament, as Represented in Christian Art." For two long years had Mrs. Jameson been engaged upon this work; she had taken many and exhausting journeys, made diligent examination of far

scattered examples of art, and, in completion of this labour, had revisited Italy, and passed several months in Rome and other Continental cities. Mrs. Jameson was putting the last finish to the work (which we are happy to hear is nearly ready for the press) when she was, after a very brief illness, bidden to cease for ever.

Of her "Communion of Labour" and "Sisters of Charity" we cannot speak too highly. Prisons, reformatories, schools, hospitals, workhouses, all engaged her attention; and she most eloquently pleads that women may take their share in every good work with men. When the "Letter to Lord John Russell" was written and published, she said

"Now I have said all I can say upon these subjects, and I must return to art." But at the meeting of the Association for the Promotion of Social Science, at Bradford, in October last, she attended, and sat, during the whole of one day, in section B., where papers on the employment of women were being read, and occasionally joined in the discussions which ensued, while her brief observations and suggestions were received with marked respect.

In the course of her indefatigable literary career, she drew around her a large circle of steady friends, and "many foreign households will grieve for the English friend who knew how to sympathize with every nation's best; how many learned and literary circles in Rome, in Florence, in Vienna, in Dresden, in Paris, will regret the bright mind, the accomplished talker, the affectionate heart, which recognized merit, and cheered the student, and made the studio and the salon gay and pleasant with her cordial smile."

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Mrs. Jameson came up from Brighton, where she resided, to work at the "Life of Our Lord." At the British Museum, where she went to inspect some prints, she caught a severe cold, which increased to inflammation of the lungs; and on Saturday evening, the 17th of March, within eight days of her seizure, she expired, at her lodgings in Conduit-street, in the sixty-fifth year of her age. A contemporary pays this tribute of respect to the deceased lady: "The death of Mrs. Jameson is a great loss to the literature of the arts, but a greater still to the many friends of this most exemplary, intelligent, and genial lady. Few of the public knew under what circumstances Mrs. Jameson's works were produced, at what cost of ill-remunerated [i. e., for the amount of labour bestowed upon them] but most conscientious labour; and on what holy and selfsacrificing purposes the proceeds of that labour were employed. For many years Mrs. Jameson was the almost sole support of her mother and sisters, and a sister's child besides. No one ever bore a heavier load of self-imposed obligations, or carried that load more uncomplainingly. She moved as if she never felt it. But it was very heavy for all that; and it broke her down at last. Her almost incessant labour, during the latter years of her life, was lightened by an annuity of 1007. (in addition to a Government pension of the same amount), which annuity she owed to the determined kindness of her friend, Mrs. Procter (wife of that sweetest of singers and kindliest of men, better known to the world by his nom de plume of Barry Cornwall), who raised the sum required for the purchase of this annuity, by her own unaided efforts, from among Mrs. Jameson's friends, and presented it to the unsuspecting and astonished dame as a birthday gift. It is well that such acts should be known, especially when done so unostentatiously and bravely."

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