It was the afternoon of Christmas eve. The weather was delightfully mild for the season, and the sky without a cloud. The streets of Philadelphia were unusually crowded, and the whole appearance of the city was gay and animated. The fancy stores were resplendent with elegant ribbons, laces, scarfs, and reticules, and the shops for artificial flowers, made a display which rivaled nature in her most blooming season. It was a pleasing spectacle to see so many parents leading their children, all with happy faces; some full of hope, and others replete with satisfaction; some going to buy Christmas gifts, others carrying home those already purchased. Mr. Woodley went out with his two boys to choose little presents for them, regretting that Amelia, his eldest daughter, was obliged to remain at home in consequence of a severe cold.
They soon entered a toy-shop, where Charles made choice of a toy representing William Tell directing his arrow toward the apple on the head of his son, who stood blindfold at a little distance, and, by pulling a string, the arrow took flight and struck the apple off the boy's head. This Charles called a very sensible toy, and his father bought him also a box containing little wooden houses, churches, and trees, which could be so arranged as to form a village.
Oswald, who was long since past the age of toys, selected, at a neighbouring shop, a very pretty and curious little writing apparatus of the purest and most transparent white marble. It looked like a very small vase, but it contained an ink-stand, sand-box, wafer-box, a candlestick for a wax taper, and a receptacle for pens: all nicely fitting into each other, and so ingeniously contrived as to occupy the smallest space possible.
"Oswald," said Mr. Woodley, "you have chosen so well for yourself, that I will leave to you the selection of a present for your sister Amelia. Oswald thought of many things before he could fix on any one that he supposed would be useful or agreeable to Amelia. She had already a handsome work-box, a bead-purse, and a case of little perfume bottles. For a moment his choice inclined to one of the elegant reticules he saw in a window they were just passing, and then he recollected that Amelia could make very beautiful reticules herself. At last, he fixed on a Souvenir, and wondered that the thought had not struck him before, as Amelia drew very well, and was an enthusiastic admirer of fine engravings.
They repaired to a neighbouring book-store, where, amid a variety of splendid Souvenirs, Oswald selected for his sister one of those that he considered the most beautiful, and had the pleasure of carrying it home to her.
To describe the delight of Amelia on receiving this elegant present, is impossible. She spread a clean handkerchief over her lap before she drew the book from its case, that it might not be soiled in the slightest degree, and she removed to a distance from the fire lest the cover should be warped by the heat. After she had eagerly looked all through it, she commenced again, and examined the plates with the most minute attention. She then showed them to her little brother and sister, carefully, however, keeping the book in her own hands.
"Amelia," said Oswald, "I know a boy that would be very happy to examine this Souvenir. He has no opportunity of seeing any thing of the kind, except by gazing at the windows of the book-stores."
Amelia.—And who is this boy?
Oswald.—His father, who has seen better days, is an assistant in our school, and the boy himself is one of the pupils. His name is Edwin Lovel. He has a most extraordinary genius for drawing, though he has never had the means of cultivating it to any extent. He is a very sensible boy, and I like him better than any one in the school. His mother must be a nice woman, for though their income is very small, Edwin always makes a genteel appearance, and is uniformly clean and neat. He is also extremely handsome. All his leisure time is devoted to drawing. He first began on the slate, when he was only four years old, and had nothing else to draw on till he was nine or ten. Now, he saves what little money he has, for the purpose of buying paper and pencils. He has no box of colours, but draws only in Indian ink, which he does most beautifully. He never likes to see any thing wasted that can be used for drawing, and is even glad to get the cover of a letter.
Amelia.—You remind me of the French artist Godfrey's fine picture of the Battle of Pultowa, which he drew, while in prison, on the backs of letters pasted together; using, instead of Indian ink or colours, the soot of the stove-pipe mixed with water.