never been in America. I shall never go there. I am now too ola. I have been in Paris and in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now seventy-eight years old.'

"He took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit by his side on the sofa. And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, on touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, and listened to life's curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till morning.

6

"You see,' he continued, my hands are cold. They were warmer once. I am now an old man.' "Yet these are the hands that sculptured the beautiful Ariadne and the Panther,' replied Flemming. The soul never grows old.'

"Nor does Nature,' said the old man, pleased with this allusion to his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window. This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing is also unimpaired. For all which I thank God.'

"Directing Flemming's attention to a fine engraving which hung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued: "That is an engraving of Canova's

Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for hours together. It is beautiful. He made the statue for his native town, where they had no church, until he built them one. He placed the statue in it. He sent me this engraving as a present. Ah, he was a dear, good man! The name of his native town I have forgotten. My memory I cannot remember names.'

fails me.

"Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain long; but he took his leave with regret. There was something impressive in the scene he had witnessed; this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the open window, in the bright summer morning; the labor of life accomplished; the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet; thinking it was angel's music when he heard the church bells ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, he thought within himself whether he likewise might not accomplish something which should live after him ; — might not bring something permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he could no longer go to church, but must sit at home, and read the Bible in large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret that as yet he had accomplished

JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.

289

nothing, but had felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth passionflowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after midsummer, when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest; and after the harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost."

Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last drawing, done when he was extremely old, represented an angel guiding an aged man from the grave, and pointing to him the opening heaven. It was

a beautiful occupation to

console the last days of

this truly Chris

tian artist's

WHEN a good man dies,

one that hath lived innocently, then the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God, and owns so much integrity that it can hope for pardon and obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty and then into glory.

From the lofty Elder-tree!

See the kitten! how she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,
First at one, and then its fellow.
Just as light and just as yellow!
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty kitten, from thy freaks.
Spreads, with such a living grace,
O'er my little Laura's face!
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine;

That I do not wholly fare

Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!

Spite of melancholy reason;

Will walk through life in such a way,
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye,
Sharing in the ecstasy.

I would fare like that, or this;
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake;
And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care and spite of grief,

To gambol with Life's falling leaf.

His sixty summers

what are they in truth?

By Providence peculiarly blest,

With him the strong hilarity of youth
Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest.
His sun has veered a point toward the west,
But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet,
That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,
Where truth and manly tenderness are met

With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set.

HENRY TAYLOR.