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belongs to our family." In truth, Charles very early showed genius; and the sculptor Legros, admiring his wonderful facility, instructed him in his art, which the young man, an enthusiastic admirer of Michael Angelo, would have combined with painting, but Legros died, and Charles was reluctantly compelled to relinquish the chisel and resume the pencil. He was then scarcely fifteen, but he painted the landscapes and accessory parts to his brother's pictures. His conduct, however, gave great uneasiness to this good friend, for no remonstrances could prevent Charles from passing his time among the actors, who humoured all his whims on condition that he drew their pictures; of these portraits he sometimes made ten in a day. With difficulty Jean Baptist persuaded his brother to accompany him and his family to Paris, and when there the unsteady conduct of Charles so much annoyed him that he used to exclaim, "This unlucky boy will come to a bad end; he seems always to have in his heart the bomb which burst upon his cradle." Wearied by his brother's remonstrances Charles left the Hôtel de Carignan and went to the opera, where he became a finished scene-painter.

"This is unworthy of your talent," said Boucher to him.

"Talent is a fine thing," replied Charles Vanloo, "but I love money, pleasure, play, society, better;" and he drew Boucher into the same follies.

In 1727 Charles set off for Rome with two sons of Jean Baptist-Louis Michel and Francis Vanloo. There the love of his art seems to have conquered his wild passions, and soon after his arrival he gained the Academy prize for drawing by his "Feast of Belshazzar." The Pope conferred knighthood upon him, for which he cared little, more welcome was the pension from the French Academy which he obtained through the Cardinal de Polignac. He then painted several sacred pieces, and departed for Paris with his two nephews, who were worthily treading in their father's steps. When near Turin, Francis wished to drive the young and fiery horses which were attached to the handsome carriage in which they travelled, but he had scarcely mounted when the animals plunged, reared, and, losing his control, Francis fell with one of his feet hanging in the stirrup. Vainly did his brother and uncle try to succour him, the frightened horses galloped on, dragging poor Francis with his head nearly touching the ground. If the stirrup give way he is dashed to pieces! Charles cried for help, Michel was mute with horror, their eyes were fixed on the victim, who was groaning heavily. At length the horses stopped before a house, but it was too late. Francis was raised in a dying state mangled by the stones and bushes on the road: describing his agony, he held out a bleeding hand to his companions, saying, "I have no lips to kiss you," and presently expired in their arms.

Charles Vanloo remained at Turin painting for the King of Sardinia. He there met Christine Somis, the nightingale of Italy, who to her fine voice united the charms of beauty and wit. Charles having seen and heard her asked permission to take her portrait. He, who could paint a full-length in a day, was five weeks painting Christine, and was then not satisfied; for at the last sitting, impelled by despair and love, he destroyed with one stroke of his brush the long-cherished work, and, throwing himself at Christine's feet, declared that it was not her picture that he desired. He spoke with so much effect that he married Mademoiselle Somis, and returned to Paris, where his handsome style of living, his wife's singing, and the welcome he gave to artists, filled his saloon. Praises and critiques were poured upon him, but he cared for neither; nobles and savans, ladies of rank and ladies of wit, all courted him; Madame Geoffrin presiding at his easel. He painted the queen, and Madame de Pompadour, then more influential than the queen, condescended to sit to him twenty times. At length she said, "Vanloo, I am tired, I cannot sit any more."

"As you please, Madame," said Vanloo, "only permit me to visit you as if you were sitting, I will paint you as I find you. For instance, you are now about to take tea, a very good opportunity;" and he painted the beautiful portrait thus named.

Charles Vanloo was so generally beloved that on entering the Opera-house after a dangerous illness the audience arose and cheered him.

Another anecdote relates to Mademoiselle Clairon. A foreign princess offered this actress either two fine horses, a valuable diamond, or a pearl necklace, as a tribute of admiration. The actress seemed undecided which to choose, and the princess said, "Tell me, what is it you wish for?"

"My portrait by Vanloo," was the reply.

Charles died poor, July 1765. Diderot says he was born a painter, but painting was to him more a trade than an art. Too often his works show an imitation of various schools, but in his best pictures he saw nature with his own eyes. His outline was good, his touch smooth, his colouring rather too red and white; and his figures have more dignity than character, more grace than beauty. His facility was wonderful, his industry great, he would paint for twelve hours together, and always standing, caring not for cold.

The cloud of grief overhung the last days of Charles Vanloo. He had two sons and one daughter, even more beautiful, more graceful, more charming, than her mother, with a voice which seemed intended for singing rather than speaking. "Oh! Raphael! Raphael!" Vanloo would exclaim while gazing on his daughter, and the feelings of the painter gave place to those of the father. In the beautiful countenance of Caroline Vanloo was seen that heavenly light which forebodes an early death; she was less a woman than an angel. From childhood she had been wrapt in dreamy reverie; speaking seldom, passing all her time in reading and thinking; caring not for worldly amusements; at the ball she danced not, at the fête she gave only her enchanting smile; her mind only seemed to be alive, the body which clothed it was as cold as marble. "Books are killing her," said her father, who had never learned to read, and to whom the thousand black marks running after each other were cabalistic signs. She often sat in the painting-room, reading or dreaming, while her father could scarcely get her to speak three words. If he asked her advice upon the heads of saints or pagan goddesses she answered not, but he had looked at her; "Good, very good, my daughter, you need not say more."

One morning she descended to the studio more pale and abstracted than usual, and, not finding her father there, she sat down before a canvass daubed with a few touches, and, taking a pencil, she began to draw. Vanloo, who had followed her into the room, was struck by her inspired manner, and concealed himself behind a large picture, murmuring, "Such are the Vanloos, they know how to draw before they are taught."

After a few minutes Caroline laid aside the pencil, contemplating the figure she had just traced. Vanloo came forward, and, at the sight of her father, of whose entrance she knew not, she screamed.

"You frightened me," said she, holding out her hand to him.

At the same moment the poor father turned pale, for he saw the figure which his daughter had sketchedit was Death! Before him were those shrouded bones, those feet which unceasingly wander through the world digging a grave at every step, and that terrible scythe of an everlasting harvest! But what struck Vanloo with the greatest alarm was the head of this solerun figure; Caroline, perhaps unconsciously, had bestowed her own angelic features upon Death; these features were lightly sketched, and no one but Vanloo would have recognised the likeness-but the father!

"Child," said he, hiding his tears by a burst of forced laughter," artists do not begin thus; rise, I will give you a lesson."

Caroline rose silently; her father seated himself, with an agitated hand rubbed out all his daughter's sketch except the face, took the red lead and quickly produced a metamorphosis. Presently a sweet smile animated the face, curls of silken hair seemed to wave in a spring breeze, light wings arose from the gracefully rounded shoulders; it was no longer Death, it was Love. Now the painter sketched in a quiver, some flowers, a pair of doves, and other mythological emblems. Caroline watched her father's pencil with a smile at once sweet and melancholy. When he had finished

Vanloo turned to his daughter, and, controlling his emotion, "Is it not 30?" he asked, kissing her hand. "No," she replied, bending her head with a melancholy air.

Her father, seeing her become paler, took her up in his arms, and carried her into her mother's room. "Death! Death!" cried the poor girl wildly, and extending her arms. She was delirious from this moment. The father's despair is indescribable; neither by night nor day did he leave his Caroline's bed-side, beseeching God for the first time in his life. She died in a few days, and the first physicians in Paris could not decide her disease. Might it not be called weariness of life? In the opinion of her father books alone caused the death of Caroline Vanloo, but it is not said what books. The poor painter never recovered this terrible blow; his fortune and his fame were obscured.

The Dauphin meeting him at court some years after asked him why he was so melancholy.

"Monseigneur, I wear mourning for my daughter," he replied, wiping away a tear.

The canvass on which Caroline had sketched Death he kept in his studio as a sad memorial; by examining it very closely the mournful outline by her pencil was apparent under the figure of Love which covered it. Madame de Vanloo gave this canvass to the Count de Caylus.

The last of the Vanloo family were Michel and Amadeus, the surviving sons of Jean Baptist. Michel rapidly made his way, and was first painter to Philip V. of Spain. He made some money which he lent to a friend for a sea speculation. The ship, the friend, and the little fortune, were shipwrecked and lost. Michel had a noble heart; on hearing of the disaster he cried, "I have lost a good friend." On the death of Philip he returned to France, where he established his fortune, partly by portrait-painting; and died at sixty-four years of age, mourned by all who knew him, especially by his brother, sister, aunt, and niece, whom he had gathered around him. He succeeded better in painting men than

women, and his pencil was more sure than his palette. Amadeus Vanloo passed his best years in Germany, and returned to France but to die. He was the last of this family of artists, for the sons of Charles Vanloo did not follow the path of their father.

THE SHEPHERD BOY.

See Illustration.

F. C. B.

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EDITH KINNAIRD.-PART III. CHAP. VIII.

PHILIP EVERARD was not a man to be overcome by any circumstances in which he might be placed; his will, vigorous and disciplined, rose to the encounter with a strength which failed not to increase in proportion to the difficulties which opposed him. Yet, on the present occasion, his selfpossession well-nigh forsook him, his eye sank, his voice trembled, and, for the first moment, strange as

it may appear, Edith, in the very desperation of her enforced composure-Edith, the weak and unstable woman, was apparently the calmer of the two.

"There is some mistake, I think," said she, gently, in answer to his scarcely articulate salutation, and, but that her hand closed tightly on the back of the chair by which she stood and her lips quivered a little, there was no outward sign of agitation. "You inquired for Miss Forde.”

"I can scarcely hope to be forgiven for an intrusion which must seem so unwarrantable," replied he, hurriedly, "but my visit was to Miss Forde. Can I see her?"

"She is not at home."
"And you expect her—"

"Not for a fortnight, at the least."

Quietly, though with a certain breathlessness, were these few every-day sentences exchanged; who would have dreamt that such a Past lay hidden under such a Present? But it is ever so; the lava destroys, the earthquake engulphs, and then the ground closes, and the humble village arises, and the very existence of the proud city beneath it is forgotten.

Everard hesitated for an instant, and then walked up to Edith with a mixture of reluctance and determination, his manner visibly changing, as if under the influence of irrepressible feeling. "Then, Edith,” said he,—“ Miss Kinnaird, I must needs speak to you myself. God strengthen us both. I beseech you to summon all your courage."

At the first note of tenderness in his voice all Edith's assumed self-command gave way, and she sank upon a chair, vainly labouring to conceal her tears. Everard continued to speak, and nothing but the exceeding and cautious gentleness of his manner betrayed that he had perceived her emotion.

"I wished to see Miss Forde," said he, “because I (1) Concluded from P. 180.

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thought she would communicate what I have to tell | took both her hands in his, and spoke with the utmost better than I could do it myself. I know I must tenderness. distress you greatly; God knows what it costs me to do so. I do not bring you good news."

He was evidently trying to prepare her for some terrible intelligence-the most painful task which ever falls to human love, and yet one which none but the truest love should execute. At first she had scarcely grasped his meaning, but now it suddenly flashed upon her.

"Tell me at once," cried she, starting up, and for the first time lifting her eyes to his face. "Frank?" she could say no more.

"He is alive, and there is hope," said Everard, quickly.

"My dearest Edith, be comforted; trust in God. Exert yourself for Frank's sake-he is longing to see you-you must be his nurse and companion, but you know you will not be allowed to be with him if your own strength fails. I have known worse cases than this recover; and if not, Edith,” he was afraid to encourage hope, for the surgeon's opinion had been very desponding,-" will you not try to submit to God's will and to take comfort? will you not try to support yourself? I know how hard it is, almost impossible in the first moment,-but, for Frank's sake."

The soothing words had their effect. The strange, wild expression passed away, and she bowed her face upon his hands, and wept like a child. When she looked up there were tears on his cheeks also. She rose hastily. "Now I am quite well," she said, "and quite ready. Do not let us waste a moment—

Edith neither screamed nor fainted, but she trembled from head to foot, and her white shivering lips tried in vain to shape the words with which she panted to question him. He understood her perfectly, and, without inflicting upon her all that well-pray let us go directly." meant torture of petty delays and useless restoratives so commonly employed in cases of sudden affliction, so needlessly oppressive to the sufferer, he proceeded to do the best thing he could, namely, to tell the truth, calmly, quickly, and sympathizingly.

"He has met with an accident,” said he; "do not fancy that I am keeping anything from you; I am going to tell you the exact truth. There is hope that he may recover,with his youth and strength there must be considerable hope; but I must not conceal from you that he is in danger. It was a fall; he went too near the edge of a cliff and part of the earth gave way. I came myself, both because he wished it, and because I was sure you would desire to come to him directly, and I thought there might be some difficulty; I thought, too, it would be a satisfaction to you to be quite sure that you were hearing the exact truth."

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“Thank you,” said Edith, in a choking voice; "I may come directly? "As soon as you feel equal to it," he replied. "A carriage is waiting."

"Thank you," repeated Edith. She was half stunned; it was a strange, unreal, dreamy sensation; she could feel no conviction of the truth of what she had been told, still less could she persuade herself that Everard was in the room with her, and that she had learned it from his lips. She put her hand to her forehead, and looked up with a delirious inclination to laugh, and tell him that it was all nonsense, and she was not deceived.

Everard rang the bell for some water, and, holding the glass for Edith to drink, he very clearly and deliberately repeated his intelligence to the servant, adding an order that she would pack up her mistress's things as quickly as possible, and get ready to accompany her, as it would be necessary for them to set off almost immediately. He watched Edith's face while he spoke, but there was the same unnatural, incredulous expression in it, and a cold fear came into his heart, and made it pause in its beating as though a strong grasp had closed upon it. Then he

He judged wisely that it would be cruel to detain her, and went out to expedite arrangements for their departure. When he returned he found her bonneted and shawled; very pale, but quite composed; her hand shook as she accepted his arm to walk to the carriage, but she did not withdraw it, neither did she speak, and they crossed the hall together. At the door she paused, shuddering and sobbing-he looked anxiously at her. "The last time we were together," said she, in a broken voice, “I vexed him.”

Everard was too deeply moved to answer immediately, but in a few moments he said, gently, "Do not think of it. I am sure he has long forgotten it. He spoke of you with the fondest affection." "When?" cried Edith suddenly.

"The last time he named you," returned Everard, with a little hesitation,-" yesterday, I think."

"Not since-" (she could not say "his accident." Why is a word so much harder than a thought?) "not when you left him?"

No," replied Everard, "he did not speak of you

then."

Edith felt the import of the sentence, and, burying her face in her hands, suffered herself to be assisted into the carriage. Immediately afterwards, however, she put out her head, unable to abstain from asking the question, though she was almost certain of the answer, and said in a low, desponding tone of voice,

"Will he not know me?"

"He may, very likely; indeed, I trust that he will. But, you know, temporary insensibility is the common result of an accident of this sort, even when it is not very serious, and I came away as soon as I learned that there was no immediate danger."

"How far?" inquired Edith.
"Twenty miles only."

And not another word passed between them. Silently Everard placed the maid in the carriage beside her mistress, directed the coachman to drive quickly, and, springing on a horse, which was in waiting for him, soon outstripped his fellow-traveller. Edith kept her face covered, and unclosed not her

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