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Her engraving was exceedingly careful and skilful. Among her plates are "Three Sibyls," 1617; an "Annunciation," "Cephalus and Procris," "Latona," and landscapes after the works of Bril, Savery, Willars, etc. <b>PATTISON, HELEN SEARLE.</b> Born in Burlington, Vermont. Daughter of Henry Searle, a talented architect who moved to Rochester, New York, where his daughter spent much of her girlhood.
Is the nightingale any happier, do you think?" David rose to his feet. The crow cawed harshly from his tree. "I thank you, Monsieur Bril," he said, slowly. "There was not, then, one nightingale among all those croaks?" "I could not have missed it," said Monsieur Bril, with a sigh. "I read every word. Live your poetry, man; do not try to write it any more." "I thank you," said David, again.
That learned man broke the seal of M. Papineau's letter, and sucked up its contents through his gleaming spectacles as the sun draws water. He took David inside to his study and sat him down upon a little island beat upon by a sea of books. Monsieur Bril had a conscience. He flinched not even at a mass of manuscript the thickness of a finger length and rolled to an incorrigible curve.
Then you will know if you shall write more, or give your attention to your wife and business." "Write the letter," said David, "I am sorry you did not speak of this sooner." At sunrise the next morning he was on the road to Dreux with the precious roll of poems under his arm. At noon he wiped the dust from his feet at the door of Monsieur Bril.
He was brought up in his father's profession of pastrycook, and in that capacity he went to Rome seeking for employment. As it happened he found it in the house of a landscape painter, Agostino Tassi, who had been a pupil of Paul Bril, and he not only cooked for him but mixed his colours as well, and soon became his pupil. Later he was studying under a German painter, Gottfried Wals, at Naples.
Monsieur Bril bored to the last page of the poems. Then he took off his spectacles, and wiped them with his handkerchief. "My old friend, Papineau, is well?" he asked. "In the best of health," said David. "How many sheep have you, Monsieur Mignot?" "Three hundred and nine, when I counted them yesterday. The flock has had ill fortune. To that number it has decreased from eight hundred and fifty."
"I have read all your verses," continued Monsieur Bril, his eyes wandering about his sea of books as if he conned the horizon for a sail. "Look yonder, through that window, Monsieur Mignot; tell me what you see in that tree." "I see a crow," said David, looking. "There is a bird," said Monsieur Bril, "that shall assist me where I am disposed to shirk a duty.
It would distress me to be obliged to attest a paper signifying the bankruptcy of his son. But that is what you are coming to. I speak as an old friend. Now, listen to what I have to say. You have your heart set, I perceive, upon poetry. At Dreux, I have a friend, one Monsieur Bril Georges Bril. He lives in a little cleared space in a houseful of books.
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