+

the prize, Joe wrote to his friend to expect him in three months, dating from that day. He was sure of himself; he had improved so much, that notwithstanding the merit of seven competitors, all much older than he was, his picture was unanimously judged the best. It surpassed those usually presented at these meetings to so great a degree, that it was exhibited for some days beyond the time to gratify the crowd of amateurs. Dame Robert fully enjoyed the triumph of Joe, and perhaps still more the satisfaction of telling the story to her neighbours. Gabri would rub his hands, and bow when he heard the praises of his adopted son: even the honest Barbe was proud of having furnished for this boasted picture the finest and best canvas in his wareroom.

The happy Joe departed for Rome, where he was received by Mr and Mrs Enguehard as a second son. He lived in their house, and enjoyed with Francis the pleasures of a life devoted to friendship and study, in that delightful country so favourable to the arts.

Several years have passed since these events. Mr and Mrs Barbe have become rich and old, and have given up their trade to the excellent Gabri, who has removed to a better situation, and has his warerooms filled by a new generation of young artists. Francis Enguehard has become steady, and is happily settled, having married the daughter of a rich antiquary, the object of whose anxiety was to have a man of talent for his sonin-law. Dame Robert has been succeeded by her eldest son in business, and rests her fingers, but not her tongue; for she never ceases relating to any one who will listen, how Joe was a poor orphan, how she took pity upon him, &c. &c. Philip, a good man, but an indifferent tailor, is also comfortably established at

the Marnes.

The Angerin, notwithstanding all his efforts, is far from being a first-rate painter, and has returned to Angers, where he has become director of the school which had formerly sent him to Paris. "Poor Joe!" as he was once called, is one of the most distinguished artists in France. He possesses a competent fortune, acquired by his talents; and what is of greater value, he is held in high estimation for his noble disposition and irreproachable conduct.

Faithful to true and delicate friendship, Francis has never been made acquainted with the sacrifice which obtained him his crown. That of Joe is suspended in his fine studio, near his first palette, and his shoe-boy's knife, an object which reminds him of what he has been, and useful in keeping him from being too proud of the success which, under God's blessing, he has honourably achieved.

Such is the story of one of the most eminent painters at present in Paris-once a shoe-black. If it be read by any youth painfully struggling in secret, let him assure himself that by earnest perseverance in the line suitable to his faculties, he can scarcely, like Poor Joe, fail of success.

THE KIDNAPPED BOY.*

A SHORT time ago a respectably-dressed man walked into a working-jeweller's shop. He was about the middle age, of dark, or rather sun-burnt complexion, of easy manners, and of a gentlemanly appearance. The proprietor of the shop was engaged in transacting business with an elderly lady, who was attired in mourning; she had called respecting some repairs to be done to her watch, which was on the counter, and the subject of conversation between her and the jeweller. The strange gentleman, too well-mannered to interrupt the business, amused himself by examining several articles in the shop; but the master, after requesting the lady to excuse his leaving her for a moment, accosted the stranger, and inquired his pleasure. The stranger then drew from his bosom, suspended from his neck by a black ribbon, a small pocket-case, which he opened, and took therefrom an ancient-looking crimson-velvet cushion: this cushion might have formed a model for a Cupid's heart; it was, moreover, encased in silver filigree-work, which traced the outlines of several similarly-shaped hearts, and many other devices. On presenting the cushion to the jeweller, the stranger observed, that although the article appeared a trifle, its value to him was above price, and that, as it had sustained a slight injury, he was anxious to have it carefully repaired. The lady in black had not seen the face of the stranger, but when the jeweller left her to wait upon him, she occupied herself with looking at the bijouterie in a glass-case on the counter. While the gentleman was addressing the jeweller, he held out the cushion in his fingers, and as he was about to pass it from his hand, the lady turned round, and instantly fixed her eyes upon the cushion: she seized the gentleman's arm, her whole frame trembling from agitation; she uttered a shriek, and then fell lifeless into the arms of the stranger. She was immediately removed into an adjoining parlour, and in a short time kindness had successfully applied the required restoratives. Now followed exclamations, and questions, and explanations, in rapid succession. In a word, a mother had found a long-lost son! The tale is brief.

Some five-and-thirty years ago, a gentleman and lady, with two children, a boy and girl, took up their residence in a small village in Monmouthshire; the spot was one of those delightful ones for which this county is justly celebrated; the varieties of hill and dale, wood and water, were here beheld in prospects that combined the soft with the picturesque, and were never gazed upon but with pleasurable emotion. The income of this couple *The above little story of romance in real life was lately communicated, by a credible authority, to the editor of the Hereford Times, from which paper we copy it, in the words of the writer.

was not large, but ample for the exigencies of comfort and even elegance, though inadequate to an ostentatious style of living. The gentleman had a share in a mercantile house in London, in which concern he was a sleeping partner; this establishment was the destination he intended for his son. He had also some property in the funds, with which he purposed portioning off his daughter. After he had thus provided for his children, he would still have sufficiency to insure to him and his wife ease and comfort in their old age. The daughter was now seven years of age, the son five, and the parents were at that time of life when an increase of family is not common. Both boy and girl were educated by the father, whose chief pursuits were of a literary cast. It was usual for the youngsters to have a holiday once a-week, when they either went to spend the day at the house of a neighbour, who had a family of two boys, and a girl of a similar age, or their playmates came and spent the day with them at their father's house. It happened on one occasion the boy made one of those weekly visits alone, his sister having, from some cause or other, been detained at home. It was in the month of September, and the boy left his friend's house at the close of as fine an autumnal evening as ever glowed in the western heavens, and beautified the face of the earth. But the quiet loveliness of the scene was a faithless harbinger to the parents of the boy, for it betokened not the sweet serenity of a contented mind, but the wild fitfulness of despair-they never saw their boy again! Diligent inquiries in every corner of the county, the searching of woods, the dragging of ponds and a river, rewards for restoration, and prosecution for detention: in fine, all that parental love could devise-and what will it not devise in so hapless an emergency?—was put into action; but, alas! without success.

Year rolled after year, but no tidings of the lost child ever reached the ears of the fond and mourning parents. The father was observed always to carry about him an air of abstraction that made him appear solitary in the midst of a crowd, and he never looked upon a child but his eyes were seen reading the lineaments of its face. Ten years after the fatal event, he witnessed the death of his daughter, who died by the hand of that fell destroyer of youth and beauty-pulmonary consumption. This second shock he survived but a few years; but he left behind him a wife who had developed all those virtues of her sex which enable a woman, albeit of keener sensibilities, to comfort and help the husband in the hour of sorrow and of sickness. She survived him, and bore her bereavements with the meekness of a Christian and the gentleness of a woman; she never afterwards appeared but in the sable habiliments of grief, and thus her outward person harmonised with her sorrowing heart. She lived in close retirement, and seldom went beyond the boundaries of her wonted walks, for they wooed her into a musing recollection of the infant days of her children. Her distant friends urged her to forsake Mon

mouthshire for ever, for their hopes were, that a total change of scene would produce a change of habits, and a more lively enjoyment of life. But no: she loved to linger on the spot sanctified by her endearments as a wife and mother, and she fondly indulged a hope that her boy lived, and would some day be restored to her longing arms. Her hope was attached to the heart by one of those imperceptible threads which the mind almost unconsciously weaves when surrounded by despair; for if that thread were visible, it would appear frail indeed, and quite unable to sustain the slightest shock; nevertheless, its texture is of that elastic tenacity which, while it yields to the severest strain, never breaks, but recovers its wonted position, and retains its firm hold on the heart until death severs the cord that life could not break.

But the boy, now the man-hear his own tale. He has a dim recollection of the events of his childhood. He well remembers the evening when he was returning home from the house of his playmates; he remembers walking along with a man, and a woman in a red cloak, and that when he cried, he was threatened to have his head cut off if he did not keep silent and go along quietly, as he would not be hurt, for he was being taken to see his papa and mamma, who had gone out visiting, and had sent the man and woman for him. Some such narrative is vividly impressed on his remembrance, and has ever been floating in his mind. He also remembers residing for several months in a large seaport town, but was never allowed to go out from the little house where he lived, except at night, and then only in company with the man or woman: he recollects very well the person who saw him frequently in that house, because he was very kind to him, and at length took him on board a ship. The first town he remembers abroad was Kingston in Jamaica, where, he believes, he remained about nine years with the person who took him out. This individual was the owner of a large store, and the lad was employed in its business. During this time his education was not totally neglected, as his patron took some pleasure in improving his reading and writing.

Having frequently expressed a desire for the sea service, our young hero was bound apprentice to a merchant captain, whose vessel traded between the West India Islands and the ports of the United States and South America. In this vessel he remained eight years, and had become so far a favourite of the captain, that the last year he kept his accounts, acted in some manner as his secretary, and was rapidly advancing in his affections, when death broke the connexion. The captain died in New York. He now thought of visiting England, but not with any special intention of seeking his parents, as he had been assured by the person who took him to Jamaica that he was an orphan, but had been taken care of in early infancy by the benevolence of a lady and gentleman, and that he had been sent to sea to get a livelihood as he best could. However, as he could

not readily obtain a suitable situation on board a British vessel, for which, moreover, he was not very anxious, as the times had been, and were likely to continue, very troublous, he succeeded in getting into a merchant's office in New York, where he began at a very subordinate post. Being of temperate and persevering habits, he became in five years a corresponding clerk. He was rising high in the scale of advancement, when one of his brother clerks married a daughter of the merchant, and was immediately taken into partnership. His elevation caused the new partner to assume consequential airs, which discomfited the peace of the establishment, and ended in our hero's separation from the house. He afterwards filled another responsible situation in New York, when, after two years' service, he accepted a lucrative offer to superintend a merchant's office in New Orleans, and subsequently he became a partner in the concern, and accumulated a moderate fortune. For these last ten years he had had a growing desire to visit England, and at length he resolved on its gratification. About three months ago he landed in Liverpool; and after sojourning in that town and London some six weeks, he visited Bristol. From the appearance of some of the public buildings in Bristol, particularly the Exchange, he was convinced that Bristol was the port whence he sailed from England. After spending a fortnight at Clifton, he determined on returning to Liverpool, through South Wales, by way of Monmouthshire: and it was in this county that accident threw him in the path of his mother. The recognition has been described; but the history of the means, namely, the cushion, remains to be told.

When the hapless boy was kidnapped from his home, he had the cushion case in his pocket; he knew it was dearly prized by his mother, and he had often heard her say it had been given to her by his grandmother. In the silver filigree-work that en closed the cushion, was traced in a circle the Christian name of his grandmother, and the words, "Keep this in remembrance of me." The boy managed to preserve the cushion, and as he grew to manhood, his affection for the relic became stronger. This little memento of the days of his childhood perhaps served to fix the remembrance of them more firmly in his mind. Of late years he wore it in his bosom, suspended from his neck by a black ribbon. On ascending the steps of the far-famed Wind Cliff, his foot slipped, he fell against one of the stone steps, and damaged the filigree that encased the cushion.

On his arrival at the first town in his route, he hastened to the shop of a working-jeweller. The reader already knows the sequel; his mother cast her eyes upon the relic, read her mother's name, and the never-forgotten words, "Keep this in remembrance of me." She felt as none but mothers can feel, but as no mortal can describe; and the evening of her old age will be smoothed by the affectionate attentions of a beloved but long-lost

son.