ANECDOTES. 315 



pale, haggard, Paul, the large beads of sweat stood on his cold, pale 

 brow — he wept not — moved not. — Hush — a low step was heard at 

 the door, a female figure glided shadow-like across the room. She 

 looked not around — she spoke not — kneeling down by the side of 

 the insensible Paul, she took his powerless hand, she pressed it to 

 her lips. He looked upon her upturned tearful eye, that fair and 

 beautiful face, shaded with her unbound streaming hair — but a 

 moment, and he clasped her to his bosom, and his tears were the 

 incense of love and joy. 



Again the sweet birds awakened the happy Luke to his morning 

 duties, the spring blossomed, and the summer ripened her fruits 

 for him — the murmuring bees wantoned in their flower-bells, and 

 gladness rested on the quiet dell. But a word of Paul — he ** won 

 golden opinions from all sorts of men," and gave an immortality to 

 a name, which wealth and birth could never have secured. 

 To THE Reader, 



To believe that the brightness of the morning shall continue 

 through the day, is the happiness of youth, whose feelings and 

 sensibilities would sink into the indifference of age, but for the 

 illusions of hope. 



He who journeys on in fair weather, without preparing for the 

 storm, may be sacrificed to its fury — he only is wise, who, by 

 anticipating evil can mitigate its penalty ; who is neither too con- 

 fident of happiness, nor without hope in affliction. 



MoRELL. — ^Vossins told Paul Colomies the following story of 

 Frederic Morell, that great scholar and eminent printer in Paris. 

 Whilst Morell was employed on his edition of Libanius, one day he was 

 told that his wife was suddenly taken ill ; "I have only two or three 

 sentences to translate, and then I will come to look at her.'* A second 

 message informed him that she was dying. " I have only two words to 

 write, and I will be there as soon as you,'* replied Morell. At length 

 he was told his wife was dead, ** I am sorry for it j indeed, die was a 

 very honest woman." 



Da Vinci advises an artist to inflame his imagination with picturesque 

 ideas, by loooking on an old dirty stained wall, where he will find many 

 a fine landscape. Gainsborough frequently formed a landscape on his 

 table, with the fragments of stones and herbs for trees, and a piece of 

 looking-glass for his water. Another artist designed his rocks after 

 lumps of charcoal, which he broke into fragments of picturesque 

 rudeness. The Rev. Jas. Griffith, a gentleman of Oxford, practised a 

 method of burning portraits in wood. There is a portrait of Sir P. 

 Sidney in the picture-gallery there ; and in University College a copy of 

 Carlo Dolce's Salvator Mundi, burnt in wood. Why may not we 

 anticipate striking likenesses by the smoke of a candle upon our ceilings, 

 if the floors may be so decorated by a red-hot poker ! 



