is nothing a French peasant abhors so much as superiority, except in an old man. Vignon was one of those discontented dispositions who could not even tolerate it in old age.

"Why, Monsieur le Curé, as to that," he at last replied, "I think I have always been wise, and I don't see why you should always sermonise me more than others."

This was said in a tone of unmistakable impertinence.

"Instead of the rudeness with which you treat me, Vignon, you should not only respect me, but you should obey my teachings."

"Oh, as to that," said the young man, with a contemptuous sneer, "we know something better." And turning on his heel, he walked

away.

"Poor fool!" murmured the curé.

"He thinks himself strong be

cause he can brave an old man's wrath."

"What is that animal ?" inquired Horace.

"It is a fool. But a fool of the worst kind. Endowed with great strength, he fights every one who displeases him, even friends and parents. He knows no law but that of his own will. He not only never enters the poor little sacred edifice we have just visited, but a good girl of the parish, one of the most regular attendants, has been foolish enough to become attached to him, and ever since she has also never passed the threshold of the house of God. Alas! alas! two lost souls, I fear." And the big tears rolled down the old man's cheeks.

Horace listened to this other story of a village curé's troubles with an emotion which he would not before have believed to have been in his nature.

On their return to the presbytery, the curé and the artist, assisted by the ancient attendant, discussed arrangements for the future. The said presbytery was built of pebbles and mortar, and had but one floor, surmounted by a sloping roof, with a garret divided into two parts. This Horace selected for himself, notwithstanding prolonged opposition on the part both of the curé and of good Margaret.

"I shall have a whole apartment to myself," he replied to all their objections. "My bedroom and my study on the same floor. What can be better? There is light and air. I can rise early and work late. I shall be in nobody's way, and here I stay."

It was no use opposing so decided a resolve. Margaret set to work at once arranging the one room as a bedroom, whilst Horace, on his side, busied himself in setting up his easel, and disposing his canvas and his box.

"And is this all that is necessary to produce a chef-d'œuvre ?" asked the old man, laughingly, as he examined the little bottles, the colours, and the brushes.

"That is all," said Horace, laughing in reply. A few feet of canvas, some brushes and colours, and- But he hesitated.

"And what ?" interrupted the curé.
"The genius," replied Horace, blushing.

"Oh, I had forgotten that," said the curé, naïvely. "Well," he added, on the point of withdrawing, "you can work here, for a month or three months if you like it, my dear friend; there is no necessity for hurry. These rooms belong to you, and no one shall touch a

thing." And so saying, the curé and the servant left Horace to himself.

The young man went and opened the window. It was lined with ivy, clematis, and grape-vines. Below were the old man's roses; beyond, orchards, woods, and fields, and the river, winding like a silver snake embosomed in green foliage. Horace, refreshed by the cool air, fragrant with the perfume of flowers, muttered to himself:

"How lucky I was to have gone into that restaurant of the Rue Bourbon-Villeneuve! And how pleased I am that, instead of finding there what I expected, I met this good old curé, who has infused a new sense of life into me!"

Horace had made one stipulation when he took up his quarters at the village curé's-one stipulation only-and that was, that no one should see his picture till it was finished. The old man, although he would have much liked to have been with his friend now and then, and have watched him at his work, had, perforce, to yield to his request. Every morning Horace was up by five o'clock, when he took a walk till seven; then he worked till ten, which was breakfast-hour, after which he withdrew again to his studio till five. The evening was spent in chat with the curé, or in reading a chapter or two of Walter Scott, a few volumes of whose works he had brought with him. At nine o'clock regularly he shook hands with his host, bade good night to Margaret, and in a few minutes was fast asleep in his bed. Just as if he had never been either a Parisian or an artist!

His morning walks, as his work proceeded and his health improved -for early hours, regular habits, and country air soon imparted a new vigour to his frame-had not been altogether fruitless. First, he had sought out the boor Vignon and his young betrothed. He had found them at first uncommunicative, and Vignon himself sullen and brutal. But Horace had two methods of procedure. What he could accomplish by conciliatory means was first proceeded with, and when these had no effect he had recourse to force. One morning Vignon had been unusually rude both to Horace, to his betrothed, and to the young girl's mother. Horace took the opportunity to interfere decisively. Words led to blows, and the bully and terror of the village and the neighbourhood was taught a lesson which he did not forget for a long time. From the time of this signal discomfiture of his vaunted prowess the bully became more humble, and finally, listening to the entreaties and recommendations of the Parisian, whom he could not but respect, however much he may have detested him at first, he became an altered man, steady at his work, civil in his manners, kind to his betrothed and her mother, and even respectful to the old curé.

Maître Poupillier was a more difficult customer to deal with. Worse than indifferent in matters of religion, boorish in manners, stubborn in opinion, and yet in a position as master-builder to defy interference or pressure from without, Horace managed, by meeting him at first on his own terms-retorting rudeness for rudeness, and repaying independence of manner by a haughty indifference-to make the rustic architect feel that he had to do with his equal, if not his superior. Having once ingratiated himself with the prosperous man of the village, Horace, knowing that appeals to respect the church

VOL. LXIII.

L

or its worthy minister would be thrown away upon such a character, had recourse to the one susceptible point in Frenchman and Japanese alike-the point of honour. He exposed to him how he had torn himself from the pleasures of Paris to immure himself in a village presbytery, and for what ?-to paint an altar-piece for what was, after all, the village church, where Poupillier's parents were wedded, and in whose cemetery they lay buried. He might be indifferent to the rites of the church, and entertain little or no respect for its venerable pastor; but would he, the only rich man of the place, stand by and see what might be justly termed his ancestral fane crumble to ruin, the steeple topling over, and the cemetery palings waste away, for want of a few bricks and a little mortar, or a few boards nailed together! By dint of such arguments, strolling at times in Poupillier's own house and workshop, and latterly over a glass of fragrant cider, Horace so won over the obdurate man, that he at length grumbled out compliance, and having once humbled himself to so unusual an extent, he set to work with a will, became interested in his task, more satisfied with himself, and, as a sequence, with those around him, and at length came to feel that it was more comforting to be on good terms with the church, the curé, the world, and himself, than live in sullen and morose hostility with all and everything.

If anybody was more astonished at the changes that were taking place in his little ministry, it was the worthy curé himself. He had heard one day a sob in his church; he had sought out the afflicted, it was the betrothed of Vignon; he led her to the confessional, and relieving her to the best of his ability of the burdens on her conscience, won back a lost sheep to the fold. But if his heart was gladdened by such a change, what was his surprise when, one fine day, old Margaret announced that Maître Poupillier wished to speak to him, and after some conversation of a most unusually sympathetic character, declared that he was about to repair the church, and build a wall round his cemetery at his own expense! It must be admitted that the simple and single-hearted old man was so astounded that he believed in a miraculous interposition of the Virgin-if not of Providence itself. A whole legion of angels must, in his estimation, have fallen down upon the house of the mason, to convert so obdurate a personage.

A month had elapsed since Horace had been settled at Fleuryworking assiduously in his rustic garret-when a post-chaise arrived one morning, as the curé and artist were seated at breakfast. A servant in livery stepped out with an object of considerable dimensions, carefully wrapped in paper.

"For Monsieur Horace, madame," said the servant to the curé's ancient domestic, who had hastened to the window at the unaccustomed sound of wheels.

"Ah! I know what it is," said Horace to his host; "it is my frame that they are bringing."

"What, in a post-chaise ?" exclaimed the curé.

Horace contented himself with smiling. Margaret had, in the mean time, fastened upon the man-servant.

"He would take a little refreshment ?"

"No, thank you!"

"And how long have you been with him ?" interpolated the curé, who had just come up; whilst Horace carried the frame up-stairs.

"Three years

יין

The curé and his old servant looked at one another and shuddered. There was some unfathomable mystery in all this. What if Monsieur Horace was not, after all, the poor water-imbibing artist that he had represented himself to be! The thought was overwhelming. The painful perplexity was, however, quickly relieved by the well-known voice of Horace himself, shouting from the top of the stairs :

"Father! good Margaret! you can come and see the picture now; it is finished, and it is framed."

The old man and his ancient servant got up the staircase as they best could, and there in reality was the picture awaiting their inspection, turned to the light in its splendid frame of gold. They looked, and both uttered an exclamation of joy, surprise, admiration, and gratitude, at the same moment. There was the most ravishing portrait of Mary that can be imagined, holding her divine child in her arms; and kneeling at her feet were two saints, one of whom was the living picture of the old curé of Fleury. Margaret involuntarily went on her knees and began to pray; as to the old curé, tears of joy rolled down his cheeks.

"Ah!" he said, when he had sufficiently recovered his composure to be able to speak. "I understand now the miraculous conversion of Vignon, the repentance of his betrothed, the humiliation of Monsieur Poupillier, and the repairs of the church. I see it all; it is the work of the same glorious hand that painted this adorable Virgin, and that portrait of the poor old curé, placed there in paradise before his time!"

There were high rejoicings in Fleury sur l'Andelle the following day. The church had been restored, the picture was to be inaugurated on the altar, a marriage ceremony was to be performed, the holy sacrament given to the faithful-nor, to the infinite delight of the worthy curé, was there one on that auspicious day who showed himself unworthy of its reception. That altar, simple as it was, was, after all, a loftier structure than the humble table-not higher than a stoolat which our Saviour and his disciples most probably partook of their last supper on the slopes of Olivet; and it was decorated by a noble work of art, painted especially for its exaltation. And if ever, reader, you feel curious to see that picture, and to know the name of the young artist who immured himself for a month in that rural village in order to paint it, you can go to Fleury sur l'Andelle. The picture is still there, although the worthy pastor has long ago gone with his faithful attendant to his long home. Its fame has attracted many visitors, and the church is no longer in a dilapidated condition; it has, indeed, reason to bless the memory of a name celebrated from father to son, for now nigh two centuries.

144

PRESTWOOD PAPERS.

BY FRANCIS JACOX.

IV. ABOUT LEAVE-TAKING, AND LEAVING IT UNTAKEN A CUSTOM MORE HONOURed in the BREACH THAN THE OBSERVANCE.

FEW things, even in Shakspeare, have more of the dignity and emotion, at once, of manly pathos than the leave-taking of Brutus and Cassius on the plains of Philippi. The elder soldier, all the more tender and earnest because of their recent quarrel, wrings the last of all the Romans by the hand, and says, in separating for the battle:

And whether we shall meet again, I know not;
Therefore our everlasting farewell take :-
For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!
If we do meet again, why we shall smile;

If not, why then this parting was well made.

And Cassius takes farewell in (how could he better them ?) the self-same words:

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus !

If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed

(and Cassius, we know on Cæsar's authority, is not a smiling man: seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort, as if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit, that could be moved to smile at anything ;* he, nevertheless, may he but meet Brutus again, this battle over, will smile indeed);

If not, 'tis true, this parting was well made.†

In what another key is pitched the strain of Cleopatra, reproaching and retaining Antony, when she bitterly prays him seek no colour for his going, but bid farewell, and be gone: "when you sued staying, then was the time for words: no going then ;-eternity was at our lips and eyes." The plain, frank, soldierly man shows to advantage in Antony's leave-taking of her at a more critical time, on his way to the fight:

Fare thee well, dame, whate'er becomes of me:

This is a soldier's kiss: rebukable,

And worthy shameful check it were, to stand
On more mechanic compliment; I'll leave thee
Now, like a man of steel.§

Leonatus Posthumus, at parting with Imogen, has to resist her pleadings to "stay a little," with the declaration, that, should they twain be taking leave as long a term as they had yet to live, the loathness to depart would grow. After all, Imogen has to complain, when he is gone, that she has not taken leave of him; for ere she could give him that parting kiss which she had set betwixt two charming words, came in her father,

*Julius Cæsar, Act I. Sc. 2.

Antony and Cleopatra, Act I. Sc. 3.
Cymbeline, Act I. Sc. 2.

† Act V. Sc. 1.

§ Act IV. Sc. 4.