adopted child, and gave her a better dower than either she or her husband expected.

When Kapten and Kaptenska Hjalmar arrived at their neat and comfortable boställe, they found all in order for their reception, under the busy and anxious cares of Anders and his cheerful laughing wife. Kaptenska ran eagerly through the rooms, delighted with them, and everything in them. But the kitchen was, in the estimation of the brother and sister-in-law, the charm of the whole house. This sight was reserved for the last; and, decorated as it was with flowers and green boughs, it looked really attractive. Anna was allowed to flee through the other apartments as she pleased, alone, when the rest could not keep pace with her; but in the kitchen the whole party must congregate, although the preparations for a great supper rather disarranged the elegance of its aspect. Every one uttered exclamations of admiration, and every one presented the usual bridal gifts, to increase the household stores of the new beginners. Mrs Accountant Miller had sent some house-linen, but promised herself still a whole year's occupation in preparing more, since poor Annette had never learned the art of weaving. Accountant had given all the silver. Anders's wife brought a piece from her own loom, for the especial use of that 'dreadfully beautiful' kitchen. But the jewel of all the bridal presents was that offered by Anders himself. 'See, dear thou-that is, I should say, Fru Kaptenska-see,' he said.

The

"Fru Kaptenska!' cried the happy bride, laughing, and clapping her rough but good-hearted brother. But what is this, Anders?no, really! a wooden spoon! Ah, good brother, is there lead in the handle?'

'Nay, little sister; nay, my dear Anna, it is not silvered. It is like thyself a true, common, beautiful wooden spoon.' 'Thanks, kind good brother. Thanks, Anders. Trust me, it shall never be silvered: it shall ever remain just what it is, and what it appears to be-nothing more, and nothing less.'

And my wooden spoon,' said her husband, as his arm encircled the speaker, is as precious to me as any silver one, for it is most excellent of its kind.'

32

THE PAINTER'S FAMILY.

UR true tale is of a daughter of Venice-Venice of which the poet sings:

'There is a glorious city in the sea:

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea
Invisible; and from the land we went
As to a floating city-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky—
By many a pile in more than eastern splendour,
Of old the residence of merchant kings.'

In this splendid and interesting city, in the year 1575, was to be seen, close to the church of Santa Maria dell' Orta, or St Mary of the Garden, a house which the long stripes of red and green and

No. 136.

I

blue and yellow that covered its front betokened to be that of a dyer, while the absence of the piece of cloth or stuff usually hung out as a sign, together with the perfect stillness that reigned in the warerooms, and the idle boilers that lay turned upside down, as plainly told that the trade which used to support its inhabitants had ceased to be carried on. Evening was approaching, and a fresh breeze had just sprung up to succeed the burning heat of an August sun, when the door of the garden attached to the house opened, to admit an old woman to enjoy the pleasant coolness. Leaning on a stick, she was slowly advancing through the trees, examining with both eye and hand the fine fruit hanging down from the branches, when the noise of a man's step behind her made her turn her head. 'Is it you, Jacopo?' said the old woman. But what is the matter with you? You look quite cross.'

The matter?-the matter is, that the night is falling, and I cannot see any longer,' said the man, breaking between his fingers, in his vexation as he spoke, one of those small pencils used by painters to lay on their colours.

'The night falls for every one as well as you, my son,' replied the old woman in a calm and gentle tone.

'Yes; but my colours were all on the palette: I had just caught the precise tone of colouring; and all will be dried up to-morrow, and I shall have to begin the whole again. It is too bad-quite too bad.'

'Well, what is to hinder you from beginning your dyeing again to-morrow?'

'My dyeing!' replied Jacopo impatiently: 'you are always talking, mother, as if my father were still alive, and you were the wife of a dyer. You are the mother of a painter, Signor Jacopo Robustiremember that, mother-of the Tintoretto. Painting and dyeing are two different things.'

'Not so very different after all,' said the old woman coolly. 'Painting or dyeing, call it what you please, but both must be done with colours; so it is all the same thing.'

All the same thing!' repeated Jacopo with a momentary gesture of impatience.

'Yes, indeed; I know very well what I am saying. I am sure, at all events, if there be any difference, it is only in the way of using the colours. Your father, my poor Robusti-Heaven have mercy on his soul !-used to boil them and dip the cloths in them; and you lay them on canvas with your pencil: but one way or the other, they are still colours; and I hope you do not think your mother, the daughter, wife, and mother of a dyer, born in the very midst of them, wants to be taught at this time of day what colours are.'

*Tintore is the Italian for dyer; and Tintoretto, or Little Dyer, was the name usually applied to Jacopo, the son of old Robusti, although painting, not dyeing, was his profession.

'Well, well, mother, let us talk no more about it,' said Jacopo, endeavouring to repress every expression of impatience; 'let us talk of our children.'

'O yes, dear, handsome little Dominic, and my sweet, pretty little Marietta;' and, as if there were magic in the very names to soothe her, she now took the arm of her son with a look of gratified affection.

'Little Dominic indeed! A great tall young man of twenty-my pupil and successor ! He is, indeed, I own it, my joy and my boast,' said the artist-father, proudly raising his head. 'What simplicity and boldness of design! what brilliancy of colouring! Like myself, he has taken for his motto the inscription that I have put over the door of my studio-"The design of Michael Angelo, and the colouring of Titian." He will inherit my fame, as he inherits my genius. Posterity will confound Tintoretto the father with Tintoretto the son. Have you seen his last picture, mother; the picture which the canons of St Ambrosio have ordered for their chapel of Santa Maria dell' Orta?'

'How could I see it?' said the signora; 'I do not even see himself: the boy is never at home.'

'That is to say, mother, he never stirs from his workshop.'

'If that be the case, when I go and knock at the door, why does he never open it, or even answer me?'

'Because, when an artist is at work, he hears nothing of what is passing around him. I rather approve of that fancy of his of locking his door; it prevents his being disturbed. My Dominic will yet be an honour to me; for to his natural talent he unites indefatigable industry, and you know how much that alone can do. I wish I could say as much for his sister,' added he with a heavy sigh.

Marietta! Well, well, what can you possibly have to say against the dear little girl?'

'Much, mother, much; and this among other things. Having but two children, and wishing to dedicate them both to the fine arts, I had determined, in my wisdom, that one should learn painting, and the other music. Dominic has met my wishes; and I have nothing to lay to his charge. But as for Marietta, I never hear her either sing or play on the mandoline.* Why is this, mother-why is this? She well knows, ungrateful child as she is, what a relaxation her sweet voice is to me after all my toils, and how I delight in hearing it.'

'Well, Jacopo, I will tell her this, and you will find she will begin again her singing. Do not be always finding fault with everything. You grumble at the night for falling-at the sun for casting too great

* The mandoline was a stringed instrument, shaped like a lute, and played with the fingers.

a glare at me because I see no more difference between painting and dyeing than between a white cap and a cap that is white-at my poor little Marietta, who is meekness and gentleness itself, for not singing, when perhaps she has a cold, and is hoarse. Jacopo Robusti, instead of calling you, what all Venice calls you, the Tintoretto, I will call you by the name which the Society of Artists of St Roch gave you-Il Furioso (The Furious).

"Ah!' exclaimed the artist, whose countenance seemed suddenly to light up, I can scarcely help laughing, even now, at the surprise of my rivals at the unparalleled proof of the wondrous quickness of my execution. The Society offered a prize for the best design to decorate the ceiling of the hall; and though my competitors were Paul Veronese, Salviati, and Frederico Gucchero, my picture was finished, approved, and fixed in its place, before the others had completed even their sketch. What a triumph! what a brilliant triumph!'

'Triumph it may be, Jacopo; but now, since the children are not here, will you give me leave to ask you one question? Will you have the goodness to tell me of what use is painting?'

'The noblest art in existence, mother; animating the canvas, and making it live, and breathe, and move before you. Were it only in its power of recalling the features of the object of our fond affections, the snatching from oblivion and making immortal the beloved image, no other is worthy to be compared with it. And yet you can ask of what use is painting?'

'I am speaking as a housekeeper, and you are answering as an artist, Jacopo. Painting scarcely affords us a livelihood; and it is of this I complain. Your father's dyeing brought in a hundred times more than your painting, Jacopo.'

'This is all idle, mother: you know I am not a tradesman,' said Jacopo coldly.

'The very thing I complain of, my son; for we must live.' 'But have we not enough, mother? Is there anything wanting in the house?'

I

'No; but that is all Marietta's good management, Jacopo. do not know how our little girl contrives it, but money, in her hands, lasts a month, when, with any other, it would be gone in a week.'

'Where is she now, mother?'

'She is out, Jacopo.'

'Out at supper-time! This is one of the charges I have against the child. I have not time to watch over her, and I confide her to Where is she?'

your care.

'Your daughter does not require to be watched over by us: she is an angel, and the angels will take care of each other.'

The appearance, at this moment, of a third person at the gardendoor, silenced both the mother and son.