an at home in France. Never
more shall the sheep, who were not more innocent at heart than he, sit
all unconsciously for his industrious pencil. He died too early, at the
very moment when he was beginning to put forth fresh sprouts, and
blossom into something worthy of himself; and yet none who knew him will
think he lived in vain. I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had
so much affection; and I find it a good test of others, how much they
had learned to understand and value him. His was indeed a good influence
in life while he was still among us; he had a fresh laugh, it did you
good to see him; and however sad he may have been at heart, he always
bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and took fortune's worst as it
were the showers of spring. But now his mother sits alone by the side of
Fontainebleau woods, where he gathered mushrooms in his hardy and
penurious youth.

Many of his pictures found their way across the Channel: besides those
which were stolen, when a dastardly Yankee left him alone in London with
two English pence, and perhaps twice as many words of English. If any
one who reads these lines should have a scene of sheep, in the manner of
Jacques, with this fine creature's signature, let him tell himself that
one of the kindest and bravest of men has lent a hand to decorate his
lodging. There may be better pictures in the National Gallery; but not a
painter among the generations had a better heart. Precious in the sight
of the Lord of humanity, the Psalms tell us, is the death of his saints.
It had need to be precious; for it is very costly, when by the stroke, a
mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and _peace-looker_, of a
whole society is laid in the ground with Caesar and the Twelve Apostles.

There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontainebleau; and when the
dessert comes in at Barbizon, people look to the door for a figure that
is gone.

The third of our companions at Origny was no less a person than the
landlady's husband: not properly the landlord, since he worked himself
in a factory during the day, and came to his own house at evening as a
guest: a man worn to skin and bone by perpetual excitement, with baldish
head, sharp features, and swift, shining eyes. On Saturday, describing
some paltry adventure at a duck-hunt, he broke a plate into a score of
fragments. Whenever he made a remark, he would look all round the table
with his chin raised, and a spark of green light in