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art for its own sake as well as for Lisa's, and almost forgave her harsh father for his unconquerable will.

It was with a delicious sensation of conscious power, and patient conquest over difficulties, that Quintin Matsys viewed his first picture. Many talk of the vanity of genius, self-sufficient, thinking itself above everything. But it is not so. Without a certain consciousness of innate talent, a man would be unequal to any great attempt; his very soul would sink within him, thinking of his weakness and inferiority. As well might a lovely woman look daily in her mirror, yet not be aware of her beauty, as a great soul be unconscious of the powers with which Heaven has gifted him; not so much for himself, as to enlighten others a messenger from God himself, with a high and holy mission to perform. Wo unto him who abuses that mission!

Quintin Matsys was not vain, but he felt a noble satisfaction in himself and his work. His whole life had been a lofty struggle against difficulties. The last and greatest he was now surmounting; but he had yet to wait. He was too proud to come before Johann Mandyn's eye anything but a superior artist; so, during a long season of unwearied perseverance did Quintin toil. Now and then he secretly visited Antwerp, and received the sweet assurances of Lisa's affection and encouragement. Her woman's heart swelled with delicious pride in him who possessed its deepest feelings, and every new triumph of his was sweeter to her than, perchance, even to Quintin himself.

At last the young man had become a painter, and a great one. He returned to Antwerp, and went openly and boldly to Mandyn's house with his last and best picture in his hand. The artist was out; but Lisa came, surprised and doubtfully, to meet the stranger, and was greeted by her lover, who, with his countenance full of joy and hope, showed her his work. It was a household group; simple, life-like, and painted with that minute fidelity to nature and magic light and shadow for which Matsys' pictures are remarkable.

Lisa looked at it long and fixedly, and then turned her bright face, radiant with happy pride, to her lover. "Quintin, my dear Quintin, you are indeed a painter!" was all she said; but it was the sweetest praise to him.

And now they thought of the discovery to her father, how it should be effected. Their happiness was almost like that of children, and in the exuberance of their mirth they imagined a playful trick. The old painter had left on the easel his darling picture of the fallen angels, the same which had struck Quintin's excited imagination in the last momentous interview which had influenced so strongly his whole life. The young artist now took a brush, and painted on the outstretched limb of his former imaged tormentor a bee, with such skill and fidelity, that Lisa's joyous laughter, as she stood by Quintin's side, was irrepressible.

"He will surely be deceived," said she as they both departed from the studio, leaving Quintin's picture there, out of sight. Mandyn came, and Lisa was right.

"How came the insect on my picture?" cried he, trying to brush it away; then discovering the clever delusion, he hastily called his daughter. "Who has done this?" said the old man. A bright colour rose on the girl's cheek, and a happy smile flitted about her mouth, as she answered, "It was an artist,

father, who has brought that picture for you."

Mandyn looked at it, and could not conceal his unfeigned admiration. "It is a noble picture—a beautiful picture!" he cried. "Where is the artist ?-what is his name?"

"Quintin Matsys!" answered the young man himself, entering at the door, and standing modestly before the father of Lisa. "You-you!" exclaimed Johann Mandyn; "have you become a painter? Where have you studied? Is this your work?” "It is indeed; I painted it at Haarlem."

The old man's piercing eyes searched his countenance; but there was no room for doubt in the young man's ingenuous though self-possessed look. He gazed at Quintin, then at his daughter; and then went up to the former, and seized both his hands. With eyes full of tears, and in a broken voice, the old painter cried, "Quintin Matsys, you are indeed a great artistgreater than I. You are worthy to marry my Lisa: take her, and God bless you!"

And Johann Mandyn went out of the studio without saying another word.

XII.

WEDDED LIFE.

Quintin and Lisa were married, though not immediately; for the young painter loved his betrothed too well to suffer her to share the necessary difficulties of the struggle which must always be endured before fame and prosperity crown the toils of the seeker after such. But this struggle was not of long duration with Quintin Matsys. His evident talent, his unwearied perseverance, and, it might be, the little romance mingled with his story, soon won for him friends and patrons. As soon as Quintin felt that he need not dread the future, and that the present was free from difficulty, he wedded his beloved Lisa, and brought her to a cheerful home, not luxurious indeed, but far removed from poverty. And Lisa's gentle spirit needed no more to constitute her happiness. To be the patient, devoted wife, looking up to her husband as the model of all that was high and noble; keeping his household in order, that nothing might trouble him; surrounding him and all about him with a mantle of perfect love, which hid from every other eye, almost from her own, any slight failing which might obscure his character

or hastiness produced by his intercourse with a world not always smooth-this was Lisa's daily life.

It is needless to say theirs was a blessed home; not perfect, for what on earth is perfect? but still as near to Heaven, and as complete in happiness, as an earthly home can be. Perhaps, too, the sorrows of Quintin's youth made him feel more deeply the quiet happiness of his mature age. To one who has been long travelling through a desert region, how sweet is every little flower that he finds on his path! Quintin and Lisa had not married in the first bloom of youth and hope, expecting to find earth a paradise, and wedded love a thornless rose. Their hearts were matured even beyond their years, and therefore they grew old together, daily loving one another the more, with a deep, earnest, household love, far stronger than in their earlier youth they could have conceived or pictured. Children sprang up around them; and Johann, their eldest son, his grandfather's darling, bade fair to be a worthy follower in the art which both his immediate progenitors had delighted in.

The life of Quintin Matsys as a painter is well known. He was one of the most extraordinary men of his time, when art was in its infancy, and when the stars of Michael Angelo and Raphael had yet scarcely risen. Matsys' style was peculiarly his own-he followed no school, imitated no master. Nature and his own mind were his sole guides. In general, he did not follow the higher style of art, but contented himself with depicting simple nature as she showed herself to his loving eye. Quintin never left his native city, nor visited Rome, nor studied the antique. Had he done this, several judges have declared that he would have become the noblest painter that his country ever produced, so great were his natural powers. His pictures are little known in England, with the exception of one at Windsor, "The Misers," which is universally esteemed and lauded. In his latter days Quintin painted an altar-piece for the noble cathedral of Antwerp, which still remains there as a testimony of the powers of his genius. Our own Reynolds visited it, and was struck beyond measure with this work of the blacksmith of Antwerp. The cold, cautious Sir Joshua, who seldom gave way to admiration or enthusiasm for any but his grand idol, Michael Angelo, was heard to declare that this "Descent from the Cross," by Quintin Matsys, was a wonderful picture at that early age of art, and that some of the heads were executed in a manner worthy of Raphael himself. Higher praise could scarcely have been given by any one.

Quintin and Lisa descended the vale of life together, slowly and peacefully. Johann Mandyn died, having gained his wish in seeing his Lisa an artist's wife, as she had been an artist's daughter, though this wish had been accomplished in a manner contrary to all his expectations. Quintin's origin cast no shade over his good name in the world's eye, or in that of his father-in

law. The blacksmith's son had nobly and successfully fought against ill fortune; and it was no shame, but a glory to him, to have once been poor. Johann Mandyn himself acknowledged this; and Quintin and his wife never passed by the lowly home of his youth-the cottage and the forge-without a thrill, not of discontent, but of pleasure. Many and many a day, when they saw their children playing about the two graves-now, alas! three-in the churchyard which had witnessed their first meeting. did Quintin tell over again to the attentive little ones that old story, and Lisa pressed closer to her husband's arm, as she felt how justly proud she was of the noble and brave heart which had lived through all-triumphed over all.

We have now traced Quintin Matsys through the trials of his youth, and the cares of his manhood, to the settled calm of his middle age. As after a stormy morning there often comes a season of peace, and stillness, and sunshine, so in many instances do the sorrows of early life lead to a happy old age. May it be so to all those who have struggled, and do struggle, often with a weary and a fainting heart! But the reward, though it seem long delayed, must come at last. There is no storm so great that a true, courageous, and loving heart cannot live through, and, it may be, prove conqueror at last. Let this be the moral of Quintin's simple history; let it encourage the feeble, bring hope to the hopeless, and excite to energy the despairing. The most helped of Providence is he who helps himself; and he who shrinks from disaster in coward fear, or sinks in listless apathy, is not worthy to go through, but must fail in the ordeal. To all on earth should this watchword be precious-Despair not; endure all things for to him who fears God, and loves his brother man, life can never be without hope.

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THE quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes :
"Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptred sway:
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy season's justice. Therefore, man,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this-
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

-Merchant of Venice.

No ceremony that to great ones 'long's, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace No. 127.

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