them; obliges them to release their hold, and then pursues her way, careless as to what may become of them. Happily for them, if they have a bad mother, their father shows himself much more affectionate. He hears their cries of distress and comes to their succor, takes them upon his back and carries them. In the course of time he overtakes the mother, and presents them to her for nourishment, which she offers with very bad grace.

In captivity the Marmozet, though everywhere much admired by the ladies, does not show itself any more amiable. If we should judge by the motion of the large rolling eyes, and the sprightliness of its motion, we should suppose it to be possessed of much penetration, but it is not so; these are the result of distrust and fear. They never caress others, nor suffer themselves to be caressed. They distrust all the world, the hand that feeds them as well as others; they bite all indifferently. They are hardly susceptible of affection, but are very soon angry; the least opposition irritates them, and when frightened they utter a short, piercing cry, while running away to hide themselves.

The two individuals in our engraving (the Jacchus penicillatus and Jacchus auritus) are other species of the same genus, both from Brazil. They are very little known, but their leading characteristics are the same as those of the preceding species.

CESAR DUCORNET.

N the 6th of January, 1806, there was

Othe, fint of humble dwelling of a poor

shoemaker in the Rue St. Jacques, at Lille, an infant so strangely helpless and deformed, that the attendants at its birth hesitated to show it to its parents. They regarded it with a species of horror; its utter feebleness foreboded its speedy death, and that they were ready to hail as a merciful dispensation, both for mother and babe.

But the mother took it to her bosom with all a mother's love, and the hapless little stranger did not die. Some days after, when the poor shoemaker and his wife were left alone with their new-born son, they might have been seen stooping, with a mingled expression of terror, of pity, and parental compassion, over a cradle, in which there rolled and twisted about a little lusus naturæ, sent into the

world without arms, and whose lower extremities could be described as nothing better than a kind of bony stalks, with the barest indications of thighs, and what might pass for the rudiments of legs. On either little foot there were but four toes. It was happy for both these humble parents that the spectacle of their child's wretched condition, so far from exciting discontent and loathing, stirred up the deepest springs of affection in their bosoms, and they loved him all the more.

Such was the entry upon the world of Cæsar Ducornet, historical painter, victor in the academic schools, winner of the gold medal in the exhibitions of the Louvre, and corresponding member of the Imperial Society of Science, of Agriculture, and the Arts, at Lille.

The early infancy of Ducornet is not, perhaps, to be regarded as unhappy; innocence is unconscious of its defects. Moreover, people found a charm in the vigorous and determined expression of his face; so much sprightly and precocious intelligence in his look; so much characteristic and curious dexterity in all his movements, that every one noticed him with sympathy, and treated him with tenderness. Meanwhile the infant grew in years and stature, and the poor parents had to ponder the difficult problem of a profession for their boy. The shoemaker gained a humble subsistence by the labor of his hands; but Providence had given the young Cæsar no hands to labor with, and they puzzled themselves in vain, since it was plain he could work at no known trade, as to what was to be done with him. Many poor parents in such a predicament would have made a beggar of the boy, and have found their account in it; or they would have hired him out for exhibition by some traveling showman; but the father of Ducornet was an honest and independent artisan, who knew the true dignity of a workman, and was incapable of harboring any thought of this kind. Still the question arose, What was to be done? They had remarked that in his childish games the infant made use of his feet with most marvelous ability; he threw the ball to his comrades; cut things he wanted to cut with a knife; drew lines with chalk on the floor of the room; clipped out in paper figures and images with his mother's scissors; in a word, everything which other children did with their hands, he did with

equal, if not excelling adroitness, with his four-toed feet. One day they surprised him in the act of drawing upon paper some masterly capital letters. An old writingmaster, named Dumoncel, saw them with astonishment, and immediately proposed to the shoemaker to take the boy under his gratuitous instruction. In less than a year, the little Ducornet-we cannot say wrote the finest hand, but-had become the first penman in the worthy Dumoncel's class.

But the writing-master had soon fresh food for admiration. In addition to the fine character of the boy's writing, his copybooks began all at once to be illustrated by a crowd of designs, remarkable for their originality and correctness of outline. These were so abundant and striking, that Dumoncel, astonished, carried the productions of his pupil to M. Watteau, professor of design in the Academy at Lille. This second discovery had the same success as the first. M. Watteau, in his turn, fell in

ing the "Slave Market," now in the keeping of the Museum at Arras. During the years which followed upon the Revolution of 1830, Ducornet obtained from the government a commission for painting several of those portraits of Louis Philippe, which, all precisely alike, were distributed by hundreds to the mayories of the departments; an occupation this sufficiently wearisome to the mind of a true artist, but to which poverty must resign itself. While Ducornet is thus laboring to gain a subsistence for himself and father, the state deprives him of his pension of twelve hundred francs; and the town of Lille, following the example of the state, withdraws its three hundred, thus admonishing him that misfortunes rarely come single.

Nevertheless, poor Ducornet does not suffer himself to be cast down by this reverse of fortune; on the contrary, he redoubles the activity of his labors. In 1834 two of his works, "An Episode in the Siege of Antwerp," and "Magdalen at the Feet of the Saviour," are admitted to the Exhibition at the Louvre. The lattermentioned of these two pictures is eleven feet high and eight feet wide. We cite these dimensions, because they are very significant, when we recollect the deformity of the painter and the exclusion of 1828.

We pass over a number of Ducornet's productions of less importance, which would occupy too much space were they mentioned in detail. Let us record, however, his successes at the several exhibitions at the Louvre. In 1840, he gained a medal of the third class; in 1841, a medal of the second class; in 1843, a medal of the first class; and at length, in 1846, the great gold medal was awarded him for his picture of "Christ at the Sepulcher," a work of incontestable excellence. We must refer also, among the later works of the Lille painter, to "Saint Philomena," painted in 1847 for the Church of St. Rignier, (Somme ;) to a “Gloria in Excelsis," painted in 1849 for the Church of Aux-le-Château, (Pas de Calais ;) and to "An Event in the Life of St. Martin," painted in 1853 for the Church of Zulkerque, (Pas de Calais.) Add to these a multitude of portraits of all kinds, many of them elaborately finished, and executed at full length, and you will be convinced that if Ducornet lived and died poor, it was not for want of industry. Neither did his

poverty spring from dissipation, to which he was a total stranger, his wants being few, and his capabilities of physical enjoyment still fewer. As to luxuries, his palace was a loft over his painting-room, and his coach and pair was his father's back. For exactly half a century did the father serve as beast of burden to the

son.

When we became acquainted with Casar Ducornet, General Negrier had been killed at the barricades of June, 1848. He had left his sword to the corps of cannoniers, stationed at Lille. Ducornet wished on this occasion to offer the portrait of the general to the artillery corps, his fellow-citizens. Now the painter had never seen the deceased general. The portrait was to be a full length, and for sole guide the artist had a bust, tolerably well executed by the sculptor Bra, and a few lithographs, not much to be relied on. Ducornet felt the want of information as to the personal demeanor and general facial expression of his absent model. He applied first to the commandant Lebrun, formerly aide-de-camp of Negrier, whose recollections of the deceased officer were of material use. Afterward he sent to me with a request that I would favor him with my personal recollections. It was on this invitation that I went for the first time to visit the artist phenomenon.

No matter how long I may live, I shall never forget the wonderful impression I received upon entering his painting-room. There, extended upon an easel, stood a huge canvas, on which the image of the General Negrier was beginning to assume the semblance of life; and across the whole extent of the canvas ran, with incredible agility, like a fly upon a wall, the stunted trunk of a man, surmounted by a noble head, with expansive brow and eye of fire; and wherever this apparition passed along the canvas, he left the traces of color behind him. On approaching a few paces nearer, we were aware of a lofty but slender scaffolding in front of the canvas, up and down and across the steps and stages of which climbed, and crouched, and twisted-it is impossible to describe how-the shapeless being we had come to

ette; by the other a pencil; in his mouth also he carried a large brush and a second pencil; and in all this harness he moved, and rolled, and writhed, and painted in a manner more than marvelous! For some minutes we had remained standing in the middle of the room, forgetful of ceremony, and stupified and mute, when there proceeded from this shapeless being a voice, musical, grave, and sonorous, saluting us by name, and inviting us to be seated. Then the apparition, gliding down the whole length of the scaffolding to the ground, advanced or rather rolled toward us, and, with a bound, established itself on the sofa at our side. It was thus that we found ourselves for the first time in the company of Cæsar Ducornet, historical painter.

In the course of the conversation that followed, this singular phenomenon exhibited so much joyous humor, so much frank cordiality, as won our affection completely. Forgetting everything else, we saw in him only a distinguished man, whose friendship we coveted, and, with unreflecting instinct, we held out our hand. cornet smiled sadly, with a look toward his armless shoulders.

Du

The portrait of General Negrier, painted without a model, by Ducornet, adorns at the present moment the hotel of the artillery corps at Lille, and, what is really astonishing, it is distinguished by its wonderful resemblance. We may add, that the cannoniers of Lille, to testify their gratitude to the artist, employed him to execute for their body a full-length portrait of their commander, M. Saint Leger, a work which was also perfectly successful.

It now only remains for us to relate the circumstances of the death of this interesting artist.

Thirty years of incessant labor had not provided for Ducornet even the humblest competence. He lived in want and privation; it was all he could do to live. One day last year his physical powers suddenly deserted him, his palette and pencils falling from his hold. His feet were struck with paralysis. . . . The sense of his helpless condition, and the prospect of approaching misery, came to finish the work of sickness. On the 27th of April, 1856, the historical painter of Lille died in the arms of M. Demailly and his father. These two old men had long been the whole world to poor Ducornet. In fact,

he looked upon them as the world; for little beyond their society did he, in his later days, know anything of. Well did they tend him, and, in return for their extreme care of him, well did he love them.

If the career of such a man is apt to suggest painful reflections, it is yet pregnant with the consoling thought that Providence is sometimes pleased to compensate bodily defects by endowing the subject of them with illustrious talents and nobility of mind. For our part, every one of the works of the Lille painter seems to assert with authoritative voice one truth-that, whatever be his personal deformities and defects, a man is a man who rightly uses his head and his heart.

A NIGHT AT SEA.

HE boy, a lad of some fifteen years,

Thad been missing for several hours.

No one knew when he left or whither he had gone.

"We must look after the lad," cried Harcourt, springing from his bed, and dressing with all haste. "He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even if it were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this."

The wind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he spoke, and the old timbers of the frame rattled fearfully. And with a promptitude that bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out.

The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along in torrents, and the thunder rolled incessantly, its clamor increased by the loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had repeated to Harcourt that Bill saw the boy going toward the sea-shore, and in this direction he now followed. His frequent excursions had familiarized him with the place, so that even at night Harcourt found no difficulty in detecting the path and keeping it. About half an hour's brisk walking brought him to the side of the Lough, and the narrow flight of steps cut in the rock, which descended to the little boat-quay. Here he halted, and called out the boy's name several times. The sea, however, was running mountains high, and an immense drift, sweeping over the rocks, fell in sheets of scattered foam beyond them; so that Har