ding to write to you yesterday, my bear Joseph, I seated myself
at the little old black table, that you will remember well. My window
looks, you know, upon the farmyard, and I can see all that takes place
there. These are grave preliminaries, my friend, but I am coming to the
point. I had just taken my seat at the table, when, looking from the
window, this is what I saw. You, my dear Joseph, who can draw so well,
should have been there to have sketched the charming scene. The sun was
sinking, the sky serene, the air warm and balmy with the breath of the
hawthorn, which, flowering by the side of a little rivulet, forms the
edge which borders the yard. Under the large pear-tree, close to the
wall of the barn, sat upon the stone bench my adopted father, Dagobert,
that brave and honest soldier whom you love so much. He appeared
thoughtful, his white head was bowed on his bosom; with absent mind,
he patted old Spoil-sport, whose intelligent face was resting on his
master's knees. By his side was his wife, my dear adopted mother,
occupied with her sewing; and near them, on a stool, sat Angela,
the wife of Agricola, nursing her last-born child, while the gentle
Magdalen, with the eldest boy in her lap, was occupied in teaching him
the letters of the alphabet. Agricola had just returned from the fields,
and was beginning to unyoke his cattle, when, struck, like me, no doubt,
with this picture, he stood gazing on it for a moment, with his hand
still leaning on the yoke, beneath which bent submissive the broad
foreheads of his two large black oxen. I cannot express to you, my
friend, the enchanting repose of this picture, lighted by the last rays
of the sun, here and there broken by the thick foliage. What various
and touching types! The venerable face of the soldier--the good, loving
countenance of my adopted mother--the fresh beauty of Angela, smiling
on her little child--the soft melancholy of the hunchback, now and
then pressing her lips to the fair, laughing cheek of Agricola's eldest
son--and then Agricola himself, in his manly beauty, which seems to
reflect so well the valor and honesty of his heart! Oh, my Friend!
in contemplating this assemblage of good, devoted, noble, and loving
beings, so dear to each other, living retired in a little farm of our
poor Sologne, my heart rose towards heaven with a feeling of ineffable
gratitude. This peace of the family circle--this clear evening, with the
perfume of the woods and wild fl