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———S——SSe Sa

TO AN OLD VOLUME: OF ROBINSON CRU- SOE.

My ancient favourite! while [ bend On thee my fascinated gaze,

The voice of some old pleasant friend Seems talking of my childish days.

Such sweet and mingling memories cling About the dear familiar page ;

Back to my mind they freshly bring The joys of that light-hearted age.

Time shakes not thine established sway So long as boys and girls there be ; Forgotten tasks, neglected play, Will prove thy changeless witchery.

To me what real life they seemed,

While yet thy graphic sccnes were new! Admiring childhood never dreamed

They could be otherwise than true.

I read till twilight’s gradual shade The letters to confusion turned, Taen stooping to the fire, I read Till eyes and forehead ached and burned.

When bedtime came, the volume lay Beneath my pillow closed in vain—

I spent the hours till dawn of day With Crusoe in his lone domain.

Girl as I was, I felt thy spell, My cherished day-dream for a while, How I, like thee, should one day dwe!! On some far-off unpeopled isle!

Since then, old friend! I’ve learned too wel] How desert islands there may be, Surrounded by the roar and swell Of human life’s great restless sea.

To be shut out from sympathy, Unloved, and little understood,

The heart feels all too bitterly How deep that real solitude!

For ‘ cast away’ [ too have been; Just such a jonely spot was mine ; As desolate, althouch I ween Not half so beautiful as thine,

lis culture was a sickening toil,

For the green things I planted there Refused to grow in such a soil,

Or withered in the chilling air.

Thad my ets and parrots too, Bright flutterers with plumage gay, Who not, like thine, attached and true, Chattered of love, and flew away.

And those sleek silky friends whose stay Linzgered till they could wound no more,

While the ravgh billows washed away The fow strange footprints on the shore.

watched till hope itself was spent,

While some fair bark went heedless by, And signal after signal sent,

Till distance mocked my straining eye.

Love's language, all unused. grew strange, Not even x Pridny turned to me,

I had but God, whose eye can range O’er field and desert equally.

And now that those dark days are gone, And that Tam at home again,

A. life in Eden’s bowers alone I feel would be a life of pain.

The loving tone, the kindly glance,

Must be the spirit’s longed-for food, Despite the rose-hue of romance,

Which sheds such charms o’er golitude.

Had we no love, no friend to great, What wonld our human nature be ?

Sure Heaven's rich anthems rise. more cweet Because they’re sung in company !

SCHMITZ, THE ENGRAVER.

A TRUE STORY,

Professor Krahe, superintendant of the Gallery of Paintings in the city of Dusseldorf on the Rhine, was aeated one morning 10 his study, whena servant inform-

~s nefax, him, to his lady,. when.something in. the youth's;

THe BEXAAMINER. countenance and manner made him hesitate until the business was announced. When apparently about to speak, however, the lad hesitated and cast his eyes on the ground. “ What is it you wish with me, my lad ?” said Krahe, inakindtone. “I havea book, sir,” replied the youth, drawing one at the same time from his breast, “which I wish you to look at, and to—to buy, ifit should please you.”

The professor took the proffered book, into his hands, and found it te be an illuminated prayer book, or one ornamented according to the ancient fashion, with a number of coloured figures and engravings. The skill of the examiner told him at once that the book was one copy of an edition whick the Elector Clement Augustus of Bologne had ordered to be thrown off, and which had become very scarce and valuable. But there was more in the work before him than the professor imagined.— “ Where did you procure this, my lad ?” said he to the young baker. “It is acopy frum one which was bor- rowed,” said the youth, looking down. “ Not an origi- nal!” said the piofessor, turning over the leaves again; “and by whom was the copy executed?” The youth blushed modestly as he replied, “ By myself.” Krahe gazed onthe lad with surprise, and then turning toa book-case, took down an original volume, of the Elector’s edition, with which he compared the copy brought by the baker’s boy. The difference was scarcely distin- guishable.

“ Young man,” exclaimed the professor, “ why do you pursue the trade which your dress betokens, when you are so well fitted to succeed in a much higher one ?”— The youth replied, that it was his perpetual, his dearest wish; but that his father having a numerous family, could not afford the expense of suitable iustruction.— “| knew your love of art, and this emboldened me to make application to you, inthe hope that you might purchase the copy, and honour me with your counsel and assistance.” The modesty and enltivation apparent in the young baker’s manner charmed the superintendant of paintings, and confirmed the impression made by the beautiful prayer book. “Call on me here to-morrow, without fail,” said the professor emphatically grasping the yonth’s hand and shaking it warmly, as he led hiin to the door.

Karly next morning, M. Krahe was on his way to the house of a friend who resided some miles from Dussel- dorf. ‘This gentleman was blessed with abundant wealth, much of which he generously expended inan enlightened patronage of the fine arts and their cultiva- tors. Krahe knew this well, and told him the story of the baker’s lad, showing at the same time the illuminat- ed prayer-book. The gentleman was astonished and delighted with the style of the engraving. What can I do to assist this wonderful boy ?” This was the ques- tion the professor wished and anticipated. Lend him two hundred crowns to continue his studies. and I have no doubt but he wii] become one of the most distin guished engravers of the day. And | myself wil! be his security tor the repayment.” © He shall have three hundred crowns,” said the gentleman, © and: I will have no security.” Pleased with his success, the professor returned to Dusseldorf.

Young Schmitz, as the baker’s lad was named, could have fallen at the feet of M. Krahe, when the latter pro- duced the means of liberating him from the oven, and of pursuing his favorite studies. Under the professor’s auspices, Schmitz was soon prosecuting the science of geometry and drawing, besides storing his mind with other elements of a liberal education. For two years he continned his studies assiduously in Dusseldorf, and inade such rapid progress that Professor Krahe saw the place could «fford. his protegee no further instruction, anu advised him ta proceed to Paris. Schmitz ofcourse followed his benefactor’s advice. With a letter to M. Willes, a celebrated engraver in the French metropo- lis, and the remains of his well economised store of money, he took his leave for a time of Dusseldorf, leav- ing his heart hehind him, without knowing whether or not it would be taken care of till his return. More of this however, hereafter.

Schmitz, now a fine-looking young man of twenty, ac- complished his journey to Paris in safety; but so anx- lous was he to live frugally by the way, that he had done his Constitution injury, and hie fell iil immediately on his arrival. He got himself conveyed to a monastery, where every attention was paid to him. Incidental expenses nevertheless, during his long continued illness, swal- lowed up the whole of the money upon which he depen- ded for the commencement of his studies. When he did at last issue from the monastery restored to health, he was penniless, and his pride of bashfulness or per- haps a mixture of both, farbade his making an applica- uuons toM. Willes in the character of an indigent bee- gar. Poor Schmitz now wandered about the etreets musing upon the unfortunate condition to which he was reduced, and ignorant in what direction to turn for his

of Jeisure time to prosecute any studies he jiked.—Af- ter a little consideration, Schmitz, seeing no better course open to him, followed the soldier's advice, and enlisted for four years in the Swiss guards,

The captain, who enlisted him was struck with bis appearance, and enquired into his story. This was the unexpected means of good to the new soldier; for the captain shortly after took him to M. Willes, and intro- duced him to that eminent artist. The consequence was, that every moment of leisure time which the ser- vice would permit, was spent by Schmitz in pursuing the art of engraving under M. Willes, who appreciated his talents, and was extremely kind to him. Thus did the four years of soldiership pass agreeably away, and when they were ended, the young man continued @r two years longer to study his art. He then returned to Dusseldorf, loaded with the most honourable attesta- tions of his skill, industry and probity.

Professor Krahe received his protegee with open arms, being equally delighted with his mental and scientifie progress, as with the improvement which a military life had made in his personal appearance. M. Krahe him- self was the first to secure the professional service of Schmitz, engaging him to work in the cabinet. Every successive day his conduct endeared him more to the professor, who acquired for him a fater’s affection.— Two years passed away in this manner after Schmitz's return to Dusseldorf, when one day he was invited by the professor to a great entertainment to meet a party of friends. Schmitz presented himself at the appointed hour at M. Krahe’s, and found many persons assembled whom he knew, and whose friendship he had gained.— Seating himself by one of these, Schmitz began to coa- verse with him. After a little discourse, the gentleman cast his eyes to the top of the room, and whispered to the young engraver,. “ How pale the professor’s daugt- ter looks! One would have thought Henrietta would have mustered a better color for such an occasion as this.” Had the speaker at this moment turned hie eve upon the party he addressed, he would have seen a face grow in an instant much more pale than that whieh caused his remark. His words indeed had excited an extraordinary emotion in the heart of Schmitz. As soon as it subsided a little, the latter asked his friend what he alluded to as distinguishing this occasion from othere. —“ What!” said the other “do you not know that the stranger who is now at Henrietta’s right hand, has been for some years affianced to her, and has come from his home—at a distance—to arrange the marriage? But, Schmitz! Good heavens! are you ill?” “Yes,” mut- tered the artist, in achoaked voice, then constraiming himself into something like outward composure, he whis- pered, “ Assist me, for mercy’s sake, to retire without observation! I am very il)!” His friend took him by the arm, and they succeeded in leaving the room without notice. When they reached Schmitz’s residence the latter begged his companion to return to the company, and to mention nothing further, if his—S.’s—absence should be observed, than that he felt a litte unwell.- The gentleman, though suspicious that something lay under the matter, promised to do a3 the artist imploreé him to do,

Schmitz was left alone with hig wretchedness, for very wretched he was. He had long loved the daugb- ter of his benefactor, with a passion of which he scarcely knew till now the force. Though he had never dared to hope for success, and had always regarded her as far above him in every respect, yet the knowledge that she was to be united to another came upon him like a dread- ful awaking froma dream. His eyes, on this night, closed not in sleep; and when he appeared in the pre- fessor’s cabinet in the morning, dejection was too deep ly written on his countenance to escape that gentleman's notice. “By the bye,” said M. Krahe, kindly, “you were unwell last night; we were told, Schmitz. I fear you are really very ill..—The poor artist burst inte tears. Startled and vexed at his condition, the profee - sor inquired narrowly into the cause, and at last the young man confessed the truth. “Have you ever int mated to my daughter the state of your affections ¢”- said the professor, after a pause, in which anxiety ane sympathy were depicted on his features. ‘“ Never,”- answered Schmitz, with energy; “notin the most dis- tant manner. Could { have dared, humble as I am te have spoken of love to the daughter of my patron and benefactor ? J was contented to see her; but that satse- faction,” continued he, witha sigh. “I will not lows have now !”

The benevolent professor tried to soothe and comfor' the youth; assured him of his affection—that he loved him as his own child—but counselled him to subdue his passion, as it would soon be wrong, criminal, to 1s dalge it. Schmitz promised end strove to obey him. But the struggle was too much for his constitution.

He fell ill, and the illness was destined to bea long one When it first attacked him, as was impossible to cor

‘daily, bread. Accident determined his course. One day be was met by two soldiers of the Swiss evard :'

one of them gazed attentively at him and exclaimed, |

“Pr . . ; |“ Friend, are you nota German?” “Jam.” © What!

quarter do yon come from 2” “ From the neighbour a : : “ , : > nei irhood | ed him that a young man wished to see him. “ Show lof Dusseldorf.” was |

’ ;

it) hither,” said the professor. Accordingly, in a few countryman.” stid the eo! minutes a lad of seventeen or eighteen years ofage Was | into his condition. i .otroduced by the servant into the study. Seeing the|and that. as | drese of his visitor to be that ofa baker, the professor) ynagined him to have brought a bread bill, and was about}

Schmitz’s reply. “You are my! ldier joyfully, and the inquired, Schmitz told what had befallen him,| 1¢ could not think of being troublesome to! or Gependent upon any one, he was in want of a liveli-!

ryt . ae ° i | hood. Vhe soldier advised him strongly toenlist in! he guards, assuring lim thathe would have abundance.

ceal from Henrietta, the bodily state of one who had long been her friend and companion, Professor Krahe thought it best to tell her the whole truth at once, de termining, ifhe found her now averse to fo. fil the en- gagement, which had been entered into wnen she wos very young, and before Schmitz’s return to Duaseidor!, that he would take some means to break off the pre posed match. But Henrietta heard the intelligence of t- young artist’s passion merely with a sigh, and rose 656 left her father’s presence. Her father did notknow = actly what to think of the symptom. When he saw her again, howover, he thought he could see that she had becs

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