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that even the most indifferent must feel his loss. He was neither rich or noble, but had struggled in patient perseverance with a hard fate during his youth, and had felt in its fullest extent that discouragement of soul induced by the consciousness, how inadequate were his powers of performance to the grandeur and richness of his conceptions; he was an artist, and many a night was passed by him in patient labour, and many a dawn found him still at his easel with haggard brow and dejected look.

How toilsome is the ascent to fame, yet to attain its dizzy eminence how many have struggled, and fainted, and died. Fired with ambition, how many have wasted energy, and health, and the joyousness of youth in strenuous efforts and vain aspirings, till repulsed again and again by new difficulties, spurned by the interested and the envious, discouraged by the success of highly patronized mediocrity; stung by bitter sarcasm, and galled by poverty and mortifications; how many have utterly sunk under

this accumulation of griefs, and have been laid in an early and unhonoured grave, where the germs of perhaps a mighty and original genius may have been extinguished for want of a fostering hand.

But when, on the other hand, the eminence is gained, and the godlike painter stands on the summit whither all his hopes and ardent aspirings have tended-surrounded by the creations of his master-mind, on each of which immortality is stamped; when he looks into futurity, and sees from age to age the enthusiastic glow which his name calls up in every countenance, when he hears his name lisped even by infants, and honoured by hoary sages, then is it that his mighty labours receive their full reward, and his heart well-nigh bursts in ecstatic triumph.

These were the thoughts and hopes that revived the oft-fading energies of Alfonso Cellini, and served as goads to his lagging ambition; and by swift degrees the crimson blood receded from his cheek, and the deep lines that belong not to careless youth, were traced

on his brow and round his anxious eyes, and the strength of manhood left him, and so he would have died had it not been for the love of gentle woman.

In the house where Alfonso lodged in fair Florence, there dwelt an old man and his daughter; the old man watched with deep interest the sore struggle and failing health of the young Painter, and contrived to entice him occasionally to his apartment, trusting that the cheerful society of himself and his daughter might prove beneficial to him.

The daughter was a mild, graceful, endearing creature; innocent and happy, with no thoughts or wishes beyond her beloved father's happiness, and a crown of immortality in the heavens. But soon her interviews with Alfonso grew most precious to her, and love entered her young heart and would have lived whilst she lived, and only ended with her death, though unrequited. Alfonso, at length by a circumstance, unimportant in itself, discovered her secret, and from that moment became alive to

her merit and beauty; soon, his female heads began to assume the modest and soft looks of his newly found treasure, and soon his bosom glowed with a love as true and more ardent than her own. They unlocked their hearts to each other, and more blessed than the mass of mankind, were both united to their first and only love.

Alfonso then looked to domestic bliss as the purest this earth can afford, and if his sweet bride praised the efforts of his art, he asked no more. They both loved nature with enthusiasm and resolved to abandon the life of cities and retire to some beautiful and secluded spot, where Alfonso would find subjects for his pencil in wood and grove, and valley and mountain, and all the forms of grace which deck this lovely world; and where his wife would be fully blessed in the constant enjoyment of his dear society. The old man, Alfonso's father-inlaw died, and bequeathed them a moderate income, sufficient for their simple tastes, and they sought and found a home in the valley we

have described, a home embellished by taste, and sanctified by affection and devotional feelings. Religion, which was a vital principle in the heart of Alfonso's bride, soon communicated itself to his enthusiastic soul, and if ever peace, and joy, and tempered bliss were realised on earth it was beneath the humble roof of this loving pair.

Months passed, and the glow of health returned to Alfonso's cheek, and the elasticity of youth to his manly form, and their habitation, under his directing taste, grew into luxuriant beauty. Their happiness was at length crowned by the birth of a lovely boy, with his father's dark beauty and his mother's gentleness. What a flood of new and holy feelings swept through the mother's heart as her meek eyes rested on the sweet infant receiving nourishment from her heaving breast! What unutterable hopes and yearnings for the time to come thronged her brain! What pictures of promising youth and noble manhood floated before her mental vision, and made her eyes rain tears

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