portuned to receive Madame Ingrès, who was once a cook."

"But, your Majesty, if the cook were a woman of elegant manners and education, whom a great artist had raised to his level, why should she not be presented at Court as well as another?"

The King made no reply.

In Henri Heine's Lutèce, page 225 et seq., we find some acrimonious and unjust remarks about our proud artist. But we will not repeat them.

Delaroche always preferred sad scenes for his pictorial subjects; and his taste for them in

creased after his wife's death.

After criticism killed Gros, and drove Delaroche from the public exhibitions, the latter never read a paper where his name was mentioned. He worked on with energy and devotion, without seeming to think or care about what the world would say of his productions. From 1841 to 1856, Delaroche produced the following pieces :

The Bastile Conquerors; Herodias; Napoleon the First in his Cabinet; The Virgin under the Vine; Mary in the Desert; Napoleon at Fontainebleau; Christ in the Garden; Charles the Great crossing the Alps; Napoleon crossing St. Bernard; Marie Antoinette after her Sentence; a Mater Dolorosa; Moses in the Rushes; the Burial of Christ; Marie Stuart Communing; the Virgin among the Good Women; Peter the Great; and the Girondists.

The last of these pictures was sold for fifty

thousand francs.

Delaroche excelled in portrait-painting. The most distinguished faces he took were of Pastoret, Sontag, Fitz-James, Guizot, Thiers, Bertrand, Auber, Salvandy, Remusat, Delessert, Changarnier, Pereire, Princess Beauveau, Princess Shouvaloff, Princes Cisterna and Pourtales. When the picture-gallery of the rich banker Aguado was sold, Pourtales said to Delaroche: Why don't you go and see it?"

"Because there are but five paintings in it worth seeing, and I am not able to buy them; so I had better stay at home, and then I will be sure not to regret it," was the reply.

The next day when Delaroche came into his study, he found the five pictures he wanted at the sale, with the following laconic note from

his friend Pourtales :

"MY FRIEND: Masterpieces like these should not be owned by parvenues or bankers: I present them to you. "POURTALES."

Owing to his elegant manners, Delaroche was received by the first people in Paris, and the most distinguished delighted to visit his house. Though liberal in the expression of his opinions, and opposed to tyranny, yet he never gave the hand of fellowship to the late republicans.

He was naturally inclined to religion, and always had a due respect for those in power. Some have asserted that he was a philosopher, and not a Christian. He was wrong to attempt religious subjects; it only made his life sadder, and did not improve his style. Two things we must not attempt to analyze-religion and death. Eugene Guinot said of our hero: "If I cannot say he was a great painter, I can say he was a good man." He died of grief for his wife. She was the only being that he loved, and he ever revered her memory.

did not love money, and as a proof of this, we We have said that he was not selfish, that he small picture of his, of the Virgin, and offered may state, that a wealthy amateur once saw a he said; "it is one of a series, and you must a great price for it. "I will not sell it singly," take the whole number.

There is a singular fact in regard to the use of his hands, in his profession: he drew with his left hand and painted with his right. I don't see why most men condemn the right hand to do all the labour.

did justice to all of his fellows, and found someThere was one good quality in Delaroche: he thing to admire in every school. Ingrès shrugged his shoulders when called upon to look at any modern piece, and said he reserved all his admiration for the old masters. Delaroche encouraged every young artist in the style he thought he could excel in. "There are many paths to glory," he used to say; "select any one you choose."

Paul Delaroche died suddenly, the 4th of November, 1856. He left several sons; but none of them seem to evince any talent for their father's profession.

When Horace Vernet gave his daughter to Delaroche, he no doubt hoped to perpetuate the race of great painters that had already existed for three generations; but he is likely to be deceived in his hopes in that particular.

Delaroche was buried in the cemetery of Père-la Chaise, among his kindred.

mischief she could manage. Because you see there was the wedding-cake, coming from the confectioner's, to be put in boxes; the tables and parlours to arrange, besides two domineering dressmakers and a tyrannical milliner to wait upon. And when you think of the bouquets to be picked, the wreaths to be tied, and the dolls to be dressed in wedding garments, although they were not expected to be present, you will not wonder that in the midst of so much, the sad accident happened which I am about to tell. But first of all you must know, when the speckled hen hatched her brood of one chicken, to be company for herself, and nine ducklings, to be company for the frogs, eight of the ducklings started almost directly for the little shell-paved pond, striking out in the water at once as expertly as their grandmother. But the poor ninth, being somehow not put together rightly, lay sprawling upon his back, and could only kick and peep. No matter how often you stood him upon his yellow legs, over he went again, quite helpless.

"Cluck! cluck! Seeing I have one sensible chick, which knows enough to stay upon dry land, and come into the coop when it rains, I can stand eight venturesome giddy-heads, if they do damp my feathers when they come to be brooded; for, upon my word, they are smart youngsters, and I hatched them! But this miserable cripple will never be a comfort to himself nor an honour to the family," cackled the old hen, his stepmother, giving him a peck.

His brothers and sisters, too, being taught no better by their mother, stepped upon him with their broad-webbed feet as though he had been nothing but a plantain leaf, and never thought of helping him to a bit of grasshopper or a drop of water. So he must surely have starved or been trodden to death if it had not been for Daisy, who was just half-way between the oldest and youngest of the May children.

Now Daisy, either because she was always inclined to take the part of the unfortunate, or because her little heart was full of pity, had a particular liking for ugly or uncouth pets, and as soon as she saw this unhappy duckling she exclaimed, "Oh, see this poor little darling ducky! I will have him for mine, and his name shall be Johnny."

So she left her sisters to admire the cunning ways of the eight well-made healthy ones, which were strong enough to look out for themselves, and gave all her care and love to Johnny. Care enough she found him too, for he was a troublesome little fellow, and the more she did the more he wanted done.

Daisy fitted up for him a pretty Indian basket, with nurse's apron for a bed; but Johnny liked far better to be brooded between two soft warm hands, or to lie in somebody's lap, to be stroked and petted and talked to. He found himself such miserable company, poor thing, that he was not contented to be alone at all. His voice being as strong as his back and legs were weak, if left to himself long he would disturb the

whole household by his mournful, screaming cries. Sometimes he wished for flies; sometimes he would be satisfied only by a little swim in the bathing-tub; sometimes, in kicking about, he had floundered upon his back, and needed to be turned over and bolstered up again with folds of the apron. Certainly, at any and all times he insisted, like a spoiled child, upon attention and caressing in one form and another. And when you think how different his cramped up, crippled life was, from what the life of a duck should be, you will pity him yourself, though perhaps not so much as Daisy did.

The more we do for anybody or anything, the better we love it, you know; so Daisy was very fond indeed of the duck, and Johnny, in seven weeks, had learned to be very fond of Daisy. Week by week he was growing stronger, and then at last he could stand quite well, and even manage, half toddling and half tumbling, to straggle along a few steps upon the grass. Daisy took him out for exercise several times every day, and though at first he used to scream pitifully if she went out of his sight, he gradually learned to stay quietly by himself, only showing his loneliness by giving a glad peep of welcome as she came now and then to look after him.

On this day of Aunt Marion's wedding, Daisy had a great deal to do, yet nobody could have persuaded her it was possible anything could make her forget Johnny. But weddings do not come every day, and alas! we cannot answer certainly even for ourselves.

"Come, Daisy, come! Aunt Agnes wants us to help trim the parlours. She is going to have lots of flowers; come quick!" called Rose.

66

Yes, in a minute; as soon as I finish giving Johnny his bread and milk," answered Daisy.

But Johnny had a word to say to that, and he said very loudly he would not consent to be tucked away in his basket again, and would only be pacified by going out under an appletree among the clover and wood-sorrel. Daisy was glad aftewards to remember that she kissed him as she put him down, before running off to Aunt Agnes, who was decorating the front parlour, where Aunt Marion was to stand in her lace gown, trimmed with orange flowers and japonicas, under the picture of Evangeline.

This parlour had gold-coloured damask chairs and sofas, with shining white walls and white window-curtains; and Aunt Agnes, who was always doing something surprising, put nothing in it but yellow flowers. The curtains were looped up with festoons of golden rod and golden Alexander. Crosses and wreaths of them hung above and beneath the heavy gilt picture-frames and mirrors; while on the marbletopped tables and mantel she arranged baskets and pyramids of orange and straw-coloured dahlias.

The back parlour had crimson furniture, and this room she trimmed with Japan and water;

lilies, clematis, vines, and fern leaves. So you may believe it took seven pairs of feet to run for the wild flowers down behind the house, on the hill above the railroad, and no wonder Daisy quite forgot poor little Johnny. Once, indeed, she remembered him; but going out and seeing him staggering comfortably about, and dabbling his bill among the grass as though at last he was finding some pleasure in life, she ran away and left him for awhile longer.

Just as Aunt Agnes was arranging the last vase, Mr. Harley, who was to be Uncle Ralph at seven of the clock that very evening, came. "Run, children, run and dress before he sees you," called mamma from the stairway.

Then who could think of Johnny? poor little Johnny, whose weak legs had served him an ill turn in taking him out of the shade of the apple-tree into the August sunshine.

"Peep! peep! peep! I am too hot; my head aches and my legs are tired," he cried.

But nobody minded him. Daisy was out of hearing, off in the nursery, standing as patiently as ever she could, for nurse to tie the rosecoloured ribbons in her sleeves, and she had forgotten there was such a thing as a duck in the world.

Only Mr. Harley heard him, for the appletree was very near the window of the library, where he sat waiting for Aunt Marion, who was hindered by one of those despotic dressmakers; but never having heard of Johnny, he supposed it was merely a lost chicken, whose mamma would be sure to look it up in time.

Suddenly the peeping ceased.

"It has found the old hen," he thought to himself, and thought no more about it; for just at that moment the door opened, and instead of Miss Marion, whom he expected to see, Mrs. May appeared, with a troop of little girls, in fresh muslin frocks, with smooth hair, smiling eyes, and round red cheeks.

He had never seen these future nieces before, and having no actual knowledge of teething, measles, and croup-of making gowns, mending rents, and sewing on buttons, he supposed such a charming bouquet, which he thought they were, was no more care and trouble than so many lilies of the field.

The lilies clustered together at first, looking shyly at him through each other's curls; but Mr. Harley had a wonderful way with children, and by the time Miss Marion had escaped from that persistent dressmaker, she found him an island of black broadcloth in a sea of white muslin, and on the best of terms with every wavelet, especially the tiniest one. Little Bud, indeed, would by no means be shaken off, but clung fast to him until he was really Uncle Ralph, and even then could be drawn away by nothing short of wedding-cake with the icing

on. However, that was an hour later, and a sad tragedy came between.

"Oh, my darling Johnny! I haven't thought of him for ever so long!" exclaimed Daisy, of a sudden.

Ah, Daisy! you would be quite as happy never to think of him again, poor little Johnny! for there he lies, stretched upon his back, with glazed eyes and body stiff and cold, quite dead already.

Poor little Johnny and poor little Daisy! "It was my own fault; he had a sun-stroke and died! Oh dear me, if it wasn't for that I should not care so very much, for he was a plague if I did love him," sobbed she.

Änd then it turned out that Mr. Harley was as good a comforter as he had been playmate. "They don't want anything of me in the house for half an hour at least. I will help you bury Johnny," said he.

Thus it was, when they came to tell Mr. Harley it was time to put on his white gloves and stand with Aunt Marion in the golden room under the sad-eyed picture of Evangeline, that they found him writing Johnny's epitaph upon a shingle, with Bud clinging to one arm, and Daisy smiling all over her dimpled face.

I wish I had time to tell you how sweetly Aunt Marion looked under her white veil, and how little wilful Bud would not be parted from Mr. Harley, but held fast to his finger, standing half covered by the lace curtains all the while grave Dr. Crawley was making him into Uncle Ralph. Also, how wisely she shook her small head, after she had been listening to the bridal congratulations, when Aunt Agnes happened to call the bride "Marion."

"Aunt Nesa, you mustn't say Marion, you must say Mistress Harley!" she exclaimed, severely.

"I have met with a great infliction to-day in losing Johnny, but I have had a new Uncle Ralph, and I like him twenty times as well as ever I did that duck, so it has been a pretty nice day after all," said Daisy, after Uncle Ralph and Aunt Marion had started in the nine o'clock express train for Niagara Falls and the White Mountains, and she had grown so sleepy she could hardly untie her sash.

his friend Haydn how it happened that his church CHEERFUL MUSIC.-The poet Carpani once asked music was always of an animating, cheerful, and gay description. Haydn's answer was, I cannot make it otherwise. I write according to the thoughts which I feel. When I think upon God, my heart is so full of joy, that the notes dance and leap, as it were, from my pen; and since God has given me a cheerful heart, it will be easily forgiven me that I serve him with a cheerful spirit.

Into thy welcoming bosom, oh! broad and generous Lee,

From the far-off inland mountains, bearing message to the sea.

I know, too, that thy birthplace is 'neath mountains grand and grey,

Where thou babblest, like an infant, at its grandsire's feet at play;

Till farther on, grown older, thou art a sparkling rill, Where the peasant-girls, at even, bend down their cans to fill:

That rill at Allua deepening, a broad, fair lake there lies,

Many a wheel thy swift stream turning, with busy, plashing sound,

Where "merrily the mills go," that the corn may be ground,

Oh! fair, fast-flowing river, that look'st so pure and

young,

Art thou the same, above which the Kernes of Ireland hung?

Didst thou the adventurous Norman, in all his mailèd pride,

When first he stood amongst us, reflect within thy tide?

Art thou the same that roll'd by, in our Danish fathers' day?

Was it by thee that Finbar used pause to muse or pray *

The same; though many a strong place, and stately castle tall,

Were built along thy border, thou hast outlived them all!

Their gaunt ruins' silent shadow within thy clear tide falls,

From thy birth-place in the mountains, to old Carrigrohan's walls;

Then at Cork, that all who see thee may know thy love and care,

Thy gleaming arms spread open to embrace the city, fair;

Where oft, across thy bosom, the echo dies and swells, Of their clear and pealing music when ring out old Shandon bells;

Till onward thou, 'neath shadow of green branch and leafy tree,

Like shy maid, to meet her lover, stealest softly to the

sea.

waves,

That thy winding way doth bring thee to St. Owens' crystal caves;

That the nest of many a song-bird by thy green edge

is made

With soft, low, gurgling laughter, for ever as they go; Full many a one has praised thee, with praise more worthy thee;

But none ever loved thee better than I love thee, River Lee!

*Saint Finbar, to whom the cathedral at Cork is dedi cated.-ED.

A CHILD'S EYE.-Those clearwells of undefiled thought, what on earth can be more beautiful? Full of hope, love, and curiosity, they meet your

own.

In prayer, how earnest! in joy, how sparkling! in sympathy, how tender! The man who never tried the companionship of a little child has carelessly passed by one of the greatest pleasures it or knowing its value. A child cannot understand of life, as one passes a rare flower without plucking you, you think. Speak to it of the holy things of your religion, of your grief for the loss of a friend, in return. It will take, it is true, no measure or of your love for some one you fear will not love you sounding of your thoughts; it will not judge how much it should believe, whether you are worthy or soul will incline to yours, and ingraft itself, as it fit to attract the love which you seek; but its whole were, on the feeling which is your feeling for the hour,

With No. 14 cotton make a chain of 9 stitches, and join in a circle; work 12 single stitches under it.

2nd round. 7 chain, miss 1 stitch, 1 single, in next, 7 chain, repeat; there will be 6 chains of 7.

3rd.

1 single, 9 double, 1 single, under each of the 7 chain.

4th. Commence in the centre stitch of one of the 9 double; 9 chain, 1 single in centre stitch of next 9 double; 9 chain, repeat.

5th. 1 single in each stitch all round, cut off the cotton.

6th. Take a piece of the Anna Boleyn braid and sew each wave to the edge of the single stitches; join it neatly.

7th. With No. 20 cotton, commence in one of the waves of the braid, work 3 chain; take a piece of No. 1 waved braid, and unite the chainstitches to the second wave, thus: take the hook from the loop and insert it in the wave, and draw the loop through; 3 chain, * 1 single stitch in next wave of the Anna Boleyn, 3 chain; unite to the next wave of No. 1 braid, 3 chain; repeat from * all round, and join the braid.

8th. With the same cotton, commence in one of the waves, 5 chain, 1 single in next wave, 5 chain; repeat, cut off the cotton.

9th. 1 single under centre of one of the 5 chains, 5 chain, 1 single under next 5 chain; repeat.

10th. 6 single under each of the 5 chains; cut off the cotton.

11th. Sew two pieces of the Anna Boleyn braid together, sufficient to go round the circle, sew wave to wave; then sew it round the edge of the stitches, so that the outer edge will set perfectly even all round.

12th. With the 20 cotton, 1 single in one of the waves of braid, 3 chain, 1 single in next wave, repeat.

13th. 3 chain, take No. 1 braid, unite the

chains to the 2nd wave; 3 chain, 1 single in the single stitch of last row, 3 chain, unite in the next wave, 3 chain, repeat all round, join the braid.

14th. With No. 14 cotton commence in one of the waves, 3 chain, 1 single in next wave, 3 chain, repeat, cut off the cotton. Now sew a piece of the Anna Boleyn braid round the edge of the stitches; sew 2 pieces of No. 5 braid together, sufficient to go round the circle; then sew it to the Anna Boleyn; be careful to sew it so that it will set quite flat.

FOR THE ROSES.

With No. 14 cotton make a chain of 10 stitches, unite into a circle, 5 chain, miss 1 stitch, 1 single in next, 5 chain, repeat; there will be 5 chains of 5.

2nd round. 5 double under the 5 chain, 1 single in the single; repeat.

3rd. 5 chain, 1 single in the single, 5 chain ; repeat.

4th. 7 double under the 5 chain, 1 single in single; repat.

5th. 7 chain, 1 single in single; 7 chain; repeat.

6th. 11 double under the 7 chain, 1 single in single; repeat, and fasten off neatly at the back; 11 of these roses will be required. Now join them together thus: Commence in one of the single stitches 7 chain, *1 single in centre stitch of the 11 double, 7 chain, 1 single in next single, 7 chain; repeat from * four times, 3 chain; take another rose and work 1 single in a single stitch, then repeat as before directed until all the roses are joined; place the wreath on the circle, and sew the waves of the braid at the back of the roses in a line with the 3 chain stitches which connect the roses together, so that the larger portion of the rose will fall over the circle.