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 flowers wafted on the breeze--this
deep silence, only broken by the murmur of the neighboring rill--all
affected me with one of these passing fits of vague and sweet emotion,
which one feels but cannot express. You well know it, my friend, who, in
your solitary walks, in the midst of your immense plains of flowering
heath, surrounded by forests of fir trees, o