gentleman officially concerned, ‘that the paupers abuse the charity to an enormous extent, and notwithstanding all we spend on them, and all our unwearied labours in their behalf, poverty, disease, and death are multiplying their victims, and are not anywise subdued by our exertions.'*

Humanity is in a similar dilemma regarding criminal prisoners. It desires to treat them leniently, and to win them back, if possible, to better courses. It has therefore dictated the total abolition of those dens of misery which Howard described, and which were such a terror to the well-doing, and has substituted in their place good comfortable houses, where indeed there is restraint, and solitary life, but no want of physical comfort, and nothing that can be felt as very degrading. At the same time, persons of education and humane feelings go to the prisoners, converse with them kindly, and endeavour to fortify them with moral and religious sentiment for their re-encounter with the world out of doors. And what is the consequence?-that jails have ceased to operate so well in deterring from the commission of crime. We may well re-quote the declaration of the chief criminal judge of Scotland upon this subject: Even on the separate system, imprisonment has really no terror for the bulk of offenders; and the better the system, it is an undoubted result, that the dread of imprisonment will and must be diminished. After these offenders are all taught to read, and get books to read at extra hours, if reformation is not produced, at | least the oppression of imprisonment is over to people of coarse minds, and living a life of wretchedness out of prison. And hence I am sorry to say, that with those who are not reclaimed in our prison, the dread of imprisonment seems to have entirely vanished. And I understand that among the community at large in Scotland, and with magistrates and police officers, the feeling is very general that, owing to the comforts necessarily attending a good jail, the separate system, looked on first with alarm, has now no effect in deterring from crime those who are not reformed. What a triumph, to all appearance, for the old harsh flogging system! To it we cannot return-we are too refinedly mild now-a-days for that; endless newspaper articles would din the public sin into our ears continually, till the philanthropic plan was resumed. But the inappropriateness of this plan to its object remains nevertheless palpable. We leave the poor man's home undisturbed in its wretchedness, and hold out a comfortable jail, as if to wile him from the paths of rectitude. Even our efforts to reform the prisoners, the best-meant part of the whole system, are attended with difficulties. The poor independent man out of doors sees the criminal thus obtaining a degree of attention from his superiors, and exciting an interest in them, which must have something agreeable about it. It cannot be encouraging for his virtue to reflect that, while he remains virtuous, no such care is taken of him, and no such interest expressed about his fate.

Is there a solution for these dilemmas of humanity? We think there must be, for otherwise, we should have to deny that predominating rule of good which appears in the whole of the providential arrangements of the world. These difficulties, it appears to us, are only inseparable from a system in which man's nature remains unregenerate in its native selfishness. Were the Christian aim realised, and we all did really love our neighbour as ourselves, there would be no exaltation in the rendering of a favour, and no debasement in receiving it. The selfhood extinguished on both sides, we should feel in these matters exactly as parents and children do in their intercommunication of good offices. The very idea of gratitude would be extirpated, as something not necessary to the case. The giver and the receiver of common charity would alike feel that they were work

ing out the will of God, and it would be as blessed to take as to give, because both acts were essential to the realisation of the Divine decree. Probe all humane dilemmas, and you will find that selfishness is at the bottom of them. If we were not each so much for ourselves, there would be less of crime, and no such problem as that of the jails would exist. The remedy is a change of our feelings to the effect of making all others' interests as dear to us as our own. A remote one, you will say. True, but it may not be the less certain that, till it is realised, dilemmas must continue to beset all | benevolent designs.

JAQUES CALLOT.

FROM THE FRENCH.

THE ancient town of Nancy slumbers peacefully amid the pretty landscape which surrounds it, scarcely recalling to the traveller the glories of its earlier days; but the villages embosomed in trees, the vineyards varied by cherry orchards, the bright green of the meadows, the sombre depth of the forests, the sparkling river, and the clear, ever-changing sky-all at once remind us that Nancy was the birthplace of Claude Lorraine; that from these forests, these hamlets, these flowery fields and sparkling waters, he drew inspiration for those pictures which charm alike the accomplished artist and the simple child. Remembering this, and that the efforts of genius, both in painting and in poetry, generally take their colour from first impressions, we might wonder how so peaceful and gentle a landscape can have been the cradle of Jaques Callot; and we ask where he found the originals of the soldiers, conjurors, and gipsies, which form the subjects of his pencil. The history of his early life will enlighten us.

In the town of Nancy, near the old Hôtel de Marque, let us picture to ourselves an old house with a high roof, its door and windows ornamented with weatherbeaten carvings. Below is a stone bench, used by tra vellers and beggars; on the first floor are two windows, encased in stone; and in the roof, above the gutter, are two others, surrounded by moss, tufts of grass, and here and there a flower, planted by the wind or the birds; above all rises a tall chimney, with its neverceasing smoke-wreath. At the lower windows may occasionally be seen a gentle and anxious woman, or a grave and worthy man, the parents of Callot-Jean Callot and Renée Brunehault; at the upper windows might be seen a young and happy family, among whom we recognise Jaques by his inquisitive and fearless look, always seeking subjects for his pencil.

The interior of this house corresponds with its exte rior. There are chairs sculptured in oak; Gothic tables, with twisted legs; a devotional chair; an ebony crucifix, on which the spider has never been suffered to hang a thread; a wide chimney, decorated with a lozenge shaped glass, a timepiece, and silver goblets of elegant form and good workmanship; while on the shelves are vessels of pewter and stoneware-all dimly lighted by the little lozenge-shaped panes which compose the window. Our first glance shows us Jean Callot in a showy dress, walking up and down the room to aid his thoughts, and Renée sitting in the chimney-corner spinning.

In this house was born, in 1593, Jaques Callot, of a family originally Flemish, but afterwards attached to the Burgundian family. Claude, the grandfather of Jaques, was ennobled by Charles III., Duke of Lorraine, for his bravery and loyal services: he married a grandniece of the Maid of Orleans. Jean, the father of Jaques, was herald-at-arms to the Duke of Lorraine, and Renée his wife was daughter to the physician to Christina of Denmark. She was a good, quiet woman; and having lost all her daughters, placed her warmest affection upon her youngest son Jaques, who never for got her tender care of him. Jean Callot, prouder of his title of principal herald-at-arms than the Duke of Lor

raine was of his duchy, fixed upon his youngest son for his successor, his elder ones having already embarked in other callings; and from the age of eight years Jaques was taught by his father how to draw and paint armorial bearings. His passion for drawing was such, that at his writing-school he made a sketch of each letter of the alphabet. A was the pointed roof of his house; B the weathercock of his neighbour's; and thus with the rest. There had been painters in his mother's family, and Renée herself loved the arts, unconsciously giving the same taste to her youngest son. She could not comprehend how any one could pass a whole life in clearing away the dust from old coats of arms, as her grave and austere husband did; and whenever she was alone with Jaques, she roused his young fancy by lively tales of the adventures of men of genius. Well acquainted was this good woman with the strange histories of the old painters; and after hearing these, Jaques would go up to his own chamber, and with pen or pencil make sketches at random. When his ardour cooled, he would lean out of his attic window, and while feeding the sparrows with the bread which he had used for his drawings, he would ponder upon his mother's tales, and gaze upon the streets, or into his neighbours' windows. From his window he saw before him a beautiful landscape, hemmed in by mountains and forests, variegated by groves and villages, and cultivated fields, among which the Meurthe meandered. But Jaques cared little for the beauties of scenery: man had far greater attraction for him; and he studied all that he saw of singular, extravagant, or original in his fellow-creatures. He delighted in bullying soldiers; street singers, with mouths wider than the wooden bowls out of which they ate; quack doctors, who sang and danced; beggars in picturesque rags; pilgrims with their doublets slashed with the rents of time, and carrying about boxwood rosaries, artificial flowers, leaden medallions-all the devotional gewgaws of the saints. In 1600 there were no theatres in the provinces; thus it was a rich age for dancing-bears, fortune-tellers, and tumblers on fête-days. Jaques early attempted to sketch all these grotesque figures, either from his own window or in the open street; and he has been seen sitting carelessly on the pavement quietly drawing in his schoolbook some conjuror who struck his fancy. Once his father found him seated upon the edge of a fountain in Nancy, his naked feet in the water, earnestly sketching the great nose and wide mouth of a clown who was grinning at some distance.

Even when these sights were wanting, Jaques knew how to amuse himself with his pencil in sketching his schoolmaster, sometimes grave to absurdity, sometimes inflamed by the worship of Bacchus; and when tired of reading, he would play the truant, rush into the first open church, and pass hours there contemplating the sculptured altars and monuments, the frescos, the Gothic windows, the religious paintings of the old artists. He made his way wherever anything curious was to be seen-into churches, monasteries, hotels, even into the ducal palace; and, thanks to his handsome face, half hidden by fair curls, thanks to the fine Flemish lace with which his mother ornamented his throat and wrists, no one stopped him.

One Sunday morning Jaques was attracted to his window by the sounds of the fife and drum of a band of gipsies, who were setting up their tents before the Hôtel de Marque. The beams of a spring sun fell brightly upon the group, and Jaques, enchanted, crept down to the gutter to watch them; he next mounted to the chimney, and there, with his eye fixed, his mouth half open, but silent, his ear listening, he beheld the curtain raised, and preparations made for the play: he saw the decorations taken out of a little cart drawn by an ass, which ass and cart were themselves among the actors. Spangled dresses, faded long ago, shone in the sun; while three infants were deposited among lions and serpents of pasteboard, which served them as playthings. In the space of a quarter of an hour

Jaques saw so many things, natural and unnatural, come forth from the cart, that he imagined the chief of the party must have the power of creation. Hastening down to the spot, he stood aside for a little while; but as his astonishment increased, he approached close to the curtain, and to obtain pardon for his boldness, he offered the first gipsy who passed near him a wild sunflower which he had gathered on the house roof.

'By the saints!' said the gipsy, smelling the flower, here is a handsome child! Do not blush, boy. Did your mother sew on this rich lace? She may well kiss your fine curls. Come, do not be afraid: I am not the red woman.'

Saying this, the gipsy embraced Jaques tenderly, adding, This face foretells us a lucky day, so I shall tell the pretty child his fortune. Come, look at me with those blue eyes; they will recommend you to the ladies, and you will make your way, my child.'

I

'My way! my way!' murmured Jaques sighing. Then he asked, 'Have you people ever been in Italy?' 'Many times. Do you wish to travel? Yes indeed; read it in your countenance. You shall travel so much, and to so good purpose, that when you die, your bones shall be shrouded in your cradle. If that proud lip is to be believed, you will be a valiant soldier." Never!' cried Jaques.

'What, then, could you better like to be?' 'A painter.'

A painter! That is a low trade: do not try it if you wish always to wear such lace as this. I know more than one who is obliged to live upon chance. Nevertheless, if it amuses you, forward! But it is not your destiny.'

'When do you set off for Italy?' asked Jaques. 'In November; for in winter the sun of Naples is warm enough for us.'

'Since you know everything,' said Jaques, hesitating, tell me at what age I shall die?'

The gipsy took his little hand. By a chance with which his after-fate agreed, the line of life was broken in the middle; and the gipsy turned away her head sorrowfully. The line is not yet formed; at our next meeting, I will tell you how long you will live.'

If I live to be forty years old, like my Uncle Brunehault, I shall be content.'

At this moment Jaques saw his father coming from the ducal palace, and he hastened into the house. 'A good journey, and good-luck!' cried the gipsy to him, touching her lips with the sunflower.

Jaques hoped his father had not seen him; but the first thing the latter did on entering the house was to call his son and wring his ears, crying out, 'Go along : you are only a mountebank, unworthy of bearing either my name or my shield; above all, unworthy of my dignity of herald. I had reckoned upon you; but do you think the grand duke will confide his great genealogical book to you after my death? Instead of learning the old histories of the nobility of our land, in order to do justice to each according to his arms and his deeds, you should make sketches of jugglers: the greatest prince to you should be the best rope-dancer. Go; I despair of you, disobedient child! With your vagabond habits, you will end your days at the galleys.'

Thus speaking, the venerable Jean Callot walked with a dignified air into his closet; Jaques went to hide his tears on the bosom of his mother, who also wept while rebuking her son.

'You are going to be more prudent, my dear child; these are repentant tears; from this day you will study earnestly the noble science of heraldry. Go-go, the bell is ringing for mass; do not be the last at church, as usual.' When Jaques had dressed himself, he thought with a smile of hope, This costume will do well for my journey to Italy.' Till this moment he had not thought of Italy but with trembling; he now gave himself up to the dream with more confidence; and at church his

teel movements of the child, whom he could not imagine to belong to the people in whose company he found him. The manner in which Callot was gazing enraptured upon the sculpture of a fountain, taking no part in the grotesque dance and begging manoeuvres of the troop, convinced the gentleman; and calling Jaques to him, he questioned him kindly. Finding that the boy did not understand Italian, he spoke to him in French, and soon learned the little history of his leaving Nancy, his meeting with his companions, and his intention of studying the great masters at Rome, that he might, if it pleased God, become a great master also. This high resolve in a child of twelve or thirteen interested the gentleman greatly; and taking Callot by the hand, he led him at once to an engraver and painter with whom he was acquainted-Gauta Gallina-saying, Treat this child as if he were mine; make him worthy of me and yourself.'

Callot was received at once, but at the end of six weeks, he told his protector that he wished to go to Rome, to study where Raphael had studied. The gentleman feared that he had befriended a vagabond rather than a young artist; however, as he loved Jaques, he did not desert him. He bought him a mule and some clothes, gave him excellent advice, with a promise to visit him at Rome, and parted with him affectionately, and with tears. Jaques, proudly seated on the mule, also shed tears; but once set off, the brilliant future occupied all his thoughts. At Sienna, he stopped to visit the church, and learned a lesson in engraving from the splendid mosaic of the pavement under the dome, the work of Duccio. He thought if he was ever an engraver, he would give effect by the breadth of single lines, without using hatching. Arrived at the gates of Rome, he left his mule to take its course, and the beast trotted along after an ass laden with vegetables, of which he now and then took a mouthful, unobserved by Jaques, whose bewildered eye wandered over the Eternal city, now clothed by the setting sun with a golden garment. At length he had gained his desire; but, as it often happens, that very moment he was foiled. Some merchants of Nancy, on their return to their city, met Jaques Callot perched on his mule. Oh, ho! Master Jaques Callot, where are you going in this style?' The young traveller saw his danger, and spurred his mule; but escape was impossible with an Italian mule which was feeding so agreeably; and the merchants seized the fugitive. As these good folks had witnessed the grief of the Callot family, they declared their resolution to reconduct him safely to his paternal roof; and notwithstanding his tears, his prayers, and his anger, Jaques was obliged to submit. He bade adieu to Rome without having set his foot in her streets.

In vain did Callot repeatedly attempt to escape from the travelling merchants; they never let him go out of their sight, keeping him on his mule in the middle of the party; and he arrived at Nancy after a month of tedious travelling, in which he heartily regretted his gipsy friends. His father received him with a lecture upon truanting, and a discourse upon heraldic science, which made Callot secretly determine to be off again; the tears of his mother alone restrained him for a short time.

However, he soon went off, with a purse light enough, and skirting the Lake of Geneva, entered Italy by Savoy; but at Turin he was again stopped by his brother the lawyer, who happened to be there, and who forced him back to Nancy a second time.

His third departure was more prosperous, for his father, with tears, gave his consent to it, and Jaques set off in the train of the ambassador from Lorraine to the Pope, to acquaint the latter with the accession of Henry II. Callot was now fifteen, and had still time enough before him to study at Rome. His enthusiasm at the wonders of the ancient city cannot be described; he worked under several masters, but followed his own genius only, and he soon felt that painting was not his forte. He entered warmly into engraving, and placed

himself under Thomassin, an old French engraver residing at Rome. This art was then in its infancy, and Thomassin had made his fortune by it. His subjects were principally religious ones, of which Callot was soon weary. Young as he was, he discovered at each attempt some new resource; and he soon gave way to his fancy, recalling to his mind the beggars, strolling players, mountebanks, and other human curiosities whom he had seen. Under Thomassin he used the graver; but this process was too slow for his imagination, and he soon left it for that of etching.

One day when the pencil had fallen from his hand, as he was sadly thinking of those charming young gipsies who had loved him as their child, the figure of the Lady Bianca, Thomassin's young and handsome wife, rose before him. She often visited Callot when he was at work, and unconsciously he made her his study. Thomassin encouraged this, requesting Callot to be his wife's companion to church and to the public promenade when he could not accompany her; but at length, taking alarm at the result to which this might lead in a young and imaginative man, he desired him to leave the house. Callot did so, taking with him only his works, and bade adieu to Rome, leaving behind him his dreams. He never saw Madame Thomassin again-he never revisited Rome. After this, the history of Callot loses its adventurous and exciting character, offering little more than a succession of undisturbed days and a laborious end.

Jaques Callot went to Florence, undecided whether to remain there; but he hoped to establish himself with his first master. He was almost penniless, and what was worse, his courage had left him. At the city gate he was stopped as a stranger, and, careless of his fate, he fell into a passion, and resisted, demanding to be conducted to the ducal palace without delay. On telling his griefs and his pretensions to Cosmo II., who patronised art of all kinds, the grand duke congratulated himself on what had occurred, and told Callot that he should remain at his palace, where he had a grand school of painting, engraving, and sculpture. Callot was delighted at the accident, and set to work in the palace with even more ardour than when with Thomassin. Besides his former master, he met there a painter and engraver who was of great service to him, Alphonso Parigi, who prepared the scenery for the duke's theatre. Callot passed some time at this work, and also painted some subjects in the Flemish style, of which one remains in the Florentine Gallery. It is the half-length of a Spanish soldier, and has the same bold yet delicate touch-the same grace of composition as his engravings.

Callot remained ten years at Florence, enjoying the same patronage under Ferdinand that he had done under Cosmo II., and receiving the gold medal which was bestowed upon native talent. During these ten years he produced his best works, creating a new world under his touch, and seeing all through the prism of his fancy. His art became his sole passion, enchaining him more and more without relaxation, till it conducted him to the grave, young in years, but bowed, faded, exhausted like a noble horse, which has run too long a race. He had no longer eyes except for his work; if he went out of his studio, it was but to seek for subjects for his etching needle-a beggar, a soldier, or some other extraordinary actor on the scene of human life. He never allowed himself time to admire the grandeur or beauty of creation; neither the sun nor the stars, neither the flowers nor the streams: heart and mind were dead, as it were, and the sheet of copper was his only joy.

He returned to Nancy. One evening the aged heraldat-arms, leaning at his window, seeing a carriage stop at the door of his house, asked his wife if it belonged to the court. The good woman Renée, whose heart and eyes saw more clearly, cried, almost fainting upon the window-sill, It is Jaques!-it is thy son!' The aged herald went down instantly, asking himself whether it