"How so?" said the man I had been sketching, holding out his hand, into which I put my note-book. "Good!" cried he, while a smile of satisfaction covered his face. "Will you sell this? I should like to keep it." "I will sell it if you like," replied I, as quietly as I could, though my heart was nigh bursting with excitement. "How much?" I knew my man, and asked but six sous, threepence, which the workman gladly paid, while five others followed his example at the same price. I went home a proud and happy man with my thirty-six pence of copper. Would you believe it? that was the commencement of a long and prosperous career, which lasted until the Revolution of 1848 threw me back again. Six months after, I received a thousand florins for a portrait in oil of the Grand Duchess of B----; and about the end of the same year I drove up to the hotel of the Minister of the Interior in a splendid carriage, a gentleman by my side; it was the English commercial traveler. We had a letter of audience, and were admitted at once. The Minister rose, and after a very warm greeting, requested us to be seated. We took chairs. "My dear Herwitz," said the Minister, a little, bowing, smirking man, "what can I do for you? Glad to see you doing so well. The Grand Duchess says wonders of you. I will have the committee on your machine." "I beg your pardon," said I, "but I have come to request your written order for its removal. I have sold it to the English house represented by this gentleman." "Its removal!" cried the astonished Minister; "but it is impossible. So excellent an invention should not pass into the hands of foreigners." "So I thought," replied I, coldly, "when for nine months I waited daily in your ante-chamber, with my family starving at home. But it is now sold. My word is my bond." The Minister bit his lip, but made no reply. He took up a sheet of paper, and wrote the order for removal. I took it, bowed stiffly, and came away.-- We all heartily thanked the old German for his narrative. Since the Revolution, and the consequent impossibility of selling his machines in Germany, he has come to Paris, and taken to portrait-painting once more. His perseverance and endurance are untiring. His wife died long since, and he is like a mother to his four girls--all of whom are most industrious and devoted. He still believes in his flying machine; but, for the sake of his parental love, his hard-working head and fingers--for the sake of his goodness of soul, his eccentricities, he must be forgiven for this invincible credulity. None can fail to admire the original dreamer, when he is also a practical worker; while few will be willing to patronize the mere visionary, who is always thinking and never doing. SEALS AND WHALES.