EXTRACT.

[1]C. F. Hoffman, of New York.

[1]

C. F. Hoffman, of New York.

EXTRACT.

———

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

———

So die the young, ere yet the bud has burstIts leafy prison-house—perchance, ’tis best—The flower may pine and perish with the thirstFor dew and moisture, but the dead will rest,Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breastThe modest violet at Spring will bloom,And speak their noteless epitaph—the westMay blow too rudely in an hour of gloom,But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb.It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed,That taught within a flower might dwell the soulOf a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breedWithin thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll,Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scrollBe there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweetTo know that when the dews from heaven have stoleDown to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet,The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat!Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowdBe thou a willing exile—but if FateHath otherwise decreed it, if the proudShould sneer upon thee, or the rich and greatLaugh at thy misery, do thou awaitThe coming of that hour which shall decideThe issue of the game; and then, with state,Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glideAway to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride.

So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst

Its leafy prison-house—perchance, ’tis best—

The flower may pine and perish with the thirst

For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest,

Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast

The modest violet at Spring will bloom,

And speak their noteless epitaph—the west

May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom,

But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb.

It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed,

That taught within a flower might dwell the soul

Of a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breed

Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll,

Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll

Be there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweet

To know that when the dews from heaven have stole

Down to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet,

The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat!

Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowd

Be thou a willing exile—but if Fate

Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud

Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great

Laugh at thy misery, do thou await

The coming of that hour which shall decide

The issue of the game; and then, with state,

Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide

Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride.

THE UNFINISHED PICTURE.

———

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

———

O God! to clasp those fingers close,And yet to feel so lonely!To see a light on dearest brows,Which is the daylight only!Elizabeth B. Barrett.

O God! to clasp those fingers close,

And yet to feel so lonely!

To see a light on dearest brows,

Which is the daylight only!

Elizabeth B. Barrett.

I was sitting one morning in the library of a friend, looking over a valuable collection of works of art, made during a five years residence abroad, and listening to his animated description of scenes and places now become familiar to every one who reads at all, through the medium of “Jottings,” “Impressions,” and “Travels,” with which the press abounds.

Among the paintings were small copies in oil from Corregio, Guercino, Guido, and Rafaelle. There was a head of the latter, copied from a portrait painted by himself, and preserved in the Pitti Palace. With the slightest shade of hectic on the cheek, and the large unfathomable eyes looking into the great beyond, it was truly angelic in its loveliness. No wonder the man for whom nature had done so much, and who delighted in portraying the loftiest ideal beauty, no wonder he was called “divine!”

“Here,” said my friend, lovingly holding forth one of those inimitable creations, the beauty of which once seen, haunts us for a lifetime, “here is the far-famed ‘violin-player,’ the friend of Rafaelle. By the bye, I must tell you an anecdote I heard while abroad. There were two gentlemen sight-seers looking at pictures in the Vatican; one called to the other, who was at a short distance from him, ‘come, look at this, here is the celebrated violin-player.’ ‘Ah!’ said his companion, hastening toward him, ‘Paganini!’ I give you the story as I heard it related for truth, and as a somewhat laughable example of traveled ignorance.”

On one side of the room in which we were conversing, stood a picture apart from all the others, which soon engrossed my entire attention. A young man was represented reclining on a couch, and wrapped in a robe falling in loose folds about his person. His countenance bore the traces of suffering, but his dark eyes were filled with the light of love, and hope, as they looked up into the face of a young female bending mournfully at his side. On the head of this female the artist had lavished all theloveof genius. With the sunny hair parted on the fair forehead, and the rich braids simply confined by a silver arrow—the dark eyes from which the tears seemed about to fall—the half-parted lips quivering as if from intense devotion—oh, it was transcendently lovely! The rest of the figure was in outline, but as vividly portrayed as some of those wonderful illustrations by Flaxman, in which a single line reveals a story.

“How is this,” said I, after gazing long and earnestly upon it, “how is this?—why is the picture unfinished. And who was the painter?”

“The tale,” replied my friend, “is a sad one; and if you are tired of looking at pictures and medals, I will relate it to you.”

“Not tired, yet I should like to hear the story to which this picture imparts an unusual interest.”

“You remember Paul Talbot, who left here some years ago to pursue the study of his art abroad.”

“I do, but that young man—sick—almost dying—I thought the face a familiar one; but can that be Paul?”

“Alas! yes—he is dead!” and my friend dashed away a tear as he spoke.

“Dead!” repeated I. “Paul Talbot dead! when did he die?”

“Not long before my return. Poor fellow! he endured much, and his career was an exemplification of what a man of untiring energy can accomplish under the most adverse circumstances.

“Soon after the birth of Paul, his father died, leaving little, save a mother’s love and a stainless reputation to his infant son.

“Mr. Talbot was a man of refined taste, and had collected round him objects of which an amateur might be justly proud—and thus from childhood had been fostered Paul’s love for the beautiful.

“Well educated and accomplished, Mrs. Talbot undertook the tuition of her child, and by giving lessons in drawing, painting miniatures on ivory, and small portraits in oil, kept herself and her boy above the pressure of want. Carefully she instilled into his tender mind those lofty principles of rectitude, of uncompromising integrity, and that child-like trust in the goodness of an overruling Providence, which sustained him through all the trials of after years.

“How holy, how powerful is the influence of a mother! The father may do much, but the mother can do more toward the formation of the mind, and the habits of early childhood. Exercising a power, silent, yet refreshing as the dews of heaven, her least word, her lightest look, sinks deep into the hearts of her children, and moulds them to her will. How many men have owed all that has made them great to the early teachings of a mother’s love! The father, necessarily occupied with business or professional duties, cannot give the needful attention to the minor shades in the character and disposition of his little ones, but the mother can encourage and draw out the latent energies of the timid, can check the bold, and exert an influence which may be felt not only through time, but through eternity.

“It was beautiful to see Paul Talbot standing by his mother’s side, with his childish gaze fixed uponher face, while receiving instruction from her lips, and to hear him as he grew in years, wishing he was a man, that he might be enabled to supply her every want.

“‘You know,’ he would exclaim, while his fine eyes was flashing with enthusiasm, ‘that I will be an artist; and, oh, mother, if I could, like Washington Allston, be a painter-poet; could I but paint such a head as that we saw in the Academy, and write such a book as Monaldi, then, mother, I would gain fame; orders would crowd upon me—and then—then we would go to Italy!’

“Go to Italy! of this he thought by day, and dreamed by night; and to accomplish this was the crowning ambition of the boy’s life.

“He was willing to toil, to endure privation and fatigue, could he but visit that land where heavenly beauty is depicted on the canvas, where the marble wants but the clasp of him of old to warm it into life, and where the soft blue of the sky, and the delicious atmosphere brooding over the glories of centuries gone by, make it the Mecca of the artist’s heart.

“But amid all these dreams of the future, all these ambitious aspirings of the gifted youth, death cast his dark shadow over that peaceful dwelling, and the mother, the guardian angel of the fatherless boy, was borne away to be a dweller in the silent land.

“With what passionate earnestness did he call upon her name. How did he long to lie down by her side. His mother! his mother! she had taught his lisping accents their first prayer; she had watched over his little bed, and moistened his parched lips when he was ill with fever—so ill, that his mother’s watchful tenderness was all, under God, that saved him from the grave. As he grew older, she had spoken to him, not like the boy he was in years, but like the man to whom she would impart her thoughts, and with whose mind of almost premature development, she might hold converse, and feel herself understood. And now, in his fifteenth year, when he was thinking of all that he could, nay, of all that hewoulddo for her, his mother had died! Who can wonder that the boy pined, and sat upon her grave, and longed for her companionship, and wept as if his heart must break.

——

Then all the charmIs broken—all that phantom-world so fairVanished, and a thousand circlets spread,And each misshapes the other.Coleridge.

Then all the charm

Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair

Vanished, and a thousand circlets spread,

And each misshapes the other.

Coleridge.

“Abstracted in his habits, quiet and sensitive, from his reveries in dream-land, the orphan woke to find himself the inmate of a new home.

“Mrs. Winter, the only sister of the late Mr. Talbot, was wholly unlike her brother. With little taste for the elegancies of life, except so far as she thought their possession would give her importance in the eyes of others, with no sympathy for any ambition save that of acquiring money, she looked with no very favorable eye on her brother’s orphan. Dazzled by the prospect of a carriage, a town and country-house in perspective, she had married a man of sixty, when she was barely sixteen, and could never forgive her brother for not falling in with her scheme of catching the rich heiress, who, she avowed, waited but the asking to change the name of Miss Patty Pringle, for the more lofty-sounding title of Mrs. Percy Talbot. But Percy Talbot preferred the portionless Isabel Morton, and the monotony of a counting-room, to the bank-stock, real estate, and soulless face of Miss Patty Pringle. Hence there was little intercourse between the brother and sister, and when the younger Talbot sought the shelter of his aunt’s roof, she animadverted with great bitterness on the folly of people gratifying a taste for luxuries beyond their means, and encouraging boys without a shilling to spend their time in reading books and daubing canvas.

“Nor could Mrs. Winter refrain from talking of stupidity, when Paul sat quietly at his drawing, while her own sons were making the house ring with their boisterous mirth. The boys, catching the spirit of their mother, ridiculed Paul’s sketches, and with the petty tyranny of little minds, subjected him to every annoyance, and taunted him with his dependent state. The proud, sensitive boy, writhed under such treatment, and determined on leaving the relatives who had neither tastes nor sympathies in common with his own.

“When at the age of twelve years, he hung over the landscape he was trying to imitate, and from which no boyish sports could lure him; when he saw the sketch grow beneath his touch, and look more and more like the original, until in the exultation of his young heart, he exclaimed, ‘I knew that I could do it if I did but try,’ he unconsciously displayed that perseverance of character without which no one can hope to attain eminence. And now that same energy was employed in seeking means to gain a livelihood without being subjected to the bitterness of insult.

“He succeeded in obtaining a situation in a dry-good store, and in compensation for his services, received his board and a scanty salary. True, he had but little, but that little was his own; he had earned it, and a proud feeling of independence was his, when purchasing the scanty stock of drawing materials with money obtained by his own exertions. And so passed a few years, during which he diligently devoted himself to the business of his employer through the day, and to reading and drawing at night.

“The long cherished hope of visiting Italy had never been abandoned, although the many obstacles in the way seemed almost insurmountable. But now a bright thought occurred to him; ‘I will give up my situation; I will hire a room with the money already saved, and devote myself entirely to the pursuit of art. I shall paint a picture—it will be placed in the exhibition—and then—’ Talbot paused, and his cheek glowed, and his heart-pulse quickened as he looked into the future.

“The resolution once taken, he was not long in carrying it into effect; and day after day saw him at his easel, laboring with patient assiduity, and flattering himself that his picture would not pass unnoticed.

“When the day of exhibition arrived, Talbot walkednervously up and down the gallery where the pictures were hanging, every now and then glancing at his own, with the small ticket appended announcing it for sale, and pausing to observe if it attracted attention. But it had been placed in a bad light, directly beneath two brightly-tinted landscapes, and so low down that you were obliged to put one knee on the floor before it could be examined. Poor Paul! no one gave more than a passing glance to what had cost you weeks of patient labor, and the papers passed it by with merely announcing its name and number on the catalogue.

“What a rude dashing down of all his hopes was here! What a fading of the air-built castles he had taken such delight in building? The land of promise had receded from his view, and the shores of Italy were as a far-off vision seen in the dimness of deepening twilight. Oh, what a sinking of the heart follows such disappointments! A goal is to be won—the aspirant rushes eagerly to the race—hope lures him on—he grows weary, oh, how weary—courage—the thrilling sound of fame’s trumpet-peal is ringing on those heights afar—courage—one more struggle and the prize will be his own! One more struggle—and hope fades from his sight—and the last faint echo of fame’s music dies upon his ear—and a dull lethargy seizes on his mind—and the pulses of his heart grow still and cold as the waveless, tideless surface of a deep, dark lake! Happy he who can shake off the despondency attendant on times like these, and, like the bird momentarily driven back by the storm, can plume his wings and dare a nobler flight.

——

Look not mournfully into the Past. It comesnot back again. Wisely improve the Present. It isthine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future,without fear, and with a manly heart.Longfellow.

Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes

not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is

thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future,

without fear, and with a manly heart.

Longfellow.

“The spirits of youth are elastic, and after great pressure will naturally rebound. ‘Hope on, hope ever,’ is a maxim seldom forgotten until age has chilled the blood and palsied the powers of life. After a few days spent in brooding over the present, Paul again looked forward to the future, and determined to seek some other avenue by which he might gather up a little, just a little, of the treasure which others possessed in such abundance. His fondness for literature suggested the idea that his pen might be employed with more profit than his pencil, and the periodicals of the day appeared to offer a wide field for exertion. But emolument from such sources was precarious at best. All who held an established reputation in the world of letters were contributors to the various popular publications, and Paul Talbot wanted the “magic of aname” to wingoldenopinions from the Press. Sometimes he met with those who were more just, and more generous, and thus encouraged he toiled on, hoping even against hope, that his desires would yet be accomplished.

“With many misgivings, and a fear that he had mistaken his vocation, he had taken his ill-fated picture to a place where engravings were kept for sale, and left it with the shopkeeper, promising to pay him one half the money for which it might be sold. How discouraging to see it week after week in the window, until it began to look like a soiled fixture of the establishment. No one would ever buy it, that was certain, and if they would not purchase this his best work, how could he ever hope to dispose of others of less merit, which were standing round the walls of his little room? Alas, no! but when once in Italy—then he would paint pictures such as he dreamed of in imagination. For the present, with weary frame and throbbing brow, he must Labor on.

“There are few but know

‘How cruelly it tries a broken heartTo see a mirth in any thing it loves.’

‘How cruelly it tries a broken heart

To see a mirth in any thing it loves.’

And who that has ever walked forth on a particularly bright morning, when he was nursing a deep sorrow, or was weighed down by the pressure of misfortune, but felt annoyed by the light, and noise, and cheerfulness around him? Those vast tides of human life what are they to him? He is but a drop in a wave of the mighty ocean—but a pebble thrown upon the sand—a broken link in the great chain of the Universe. Thus felt Paul, as on one of the loveliest days of laughing June, he wended his way to the office where he had left a manuscript to be examined by the publisher.

“‘How can those people look so smilingly,’ thought he, while glancing at the well-dressed groups on the side-walk. ‘And those children, how noisy they are—and see that carriage with its liveried attendants—pshaw!’ Now Paul was not envious, and he was particularly fond of children, but the feeling of loneliness in the crowd was oppressive, and with another half audible pshaw! he turned into a quieter street.

“The smiling face of the great man who employed so many subordinates in his large establishment, somewhat reassured the desponding youth, and after a little preliminary talk about encouraging native talent, a sum was offered, which, though small in itself, was just then a god-send to the needy Paul, who with many thanks bowed himself out of the publisher’s presence. One ray of light had dawned on his darkened path, one beam of hope had shed its warmth upon his heart, and how differently now looked the scene through which he had lately passed! With buoyant step he went on. He, too, could smile,—the darling little ones, how delighted he was to see them looking so happy—and the poor blind man at the corner must not be forgotten! Like the child who plays with the kaleidoscope, and every moment sees some new beauty, so Paul toyed with the many-colored hues in the rainbow of Hope, grouping them together in the most beautiful and dazzling forms.

“It was destined to be a red-letter day in his book of life. As he passed the print-shop he saw that his picture was gone from the window. It had been sold, and a companion-piece ordered by the purchaser. ‘Oh that my mother were living!’ sighedPaul—‘oh that my mother were living, we might yet go to Italy!’

“Again the painter laid aside his pen and resumed his pallet. The one order was executed, the money transferred to his slender purse, and even now he began to think how much might be put aside for his darling project.

“‘Could I but obtain enough to pay for my passage—once there, in that delicious climate, I could live on so little. Oh that some one would buy this,’ he continued, taking up a small picture on which he had bestowed unusual care, ‘it is worth more than either of the others. I shall leave it with the kind Mr. Barry; how generous he was in refusing the commission I promised him for the last one he sold.’

“Mr. Barry, at whose print-shop Paul had left his first picture, had kindly drawn from him the story of his life, and felt deeply interested in the young artist’s changing fortunes, but, like many other generous-hearted men, he was always forming schemes for the benefit of others, which his means would not permit him to accomplish.

“The kind man had just reared a goodly super-structure of greatness, upon a rather sandy foundation, for his young protégé, when Paul entered with the new work fresh from his easel.

“‘Why, Talbot,’ said he, cordially grasping the painter’s hand, ‘this is capital! and I consider myself a tolerably good judge. When younger, I was in the employ of a picture-dealer, who pursued the profitable business of making old pictures look like new, and the still more profitable one of making new pictures look like old. You stare, it is a fact, I assure you. To a Madonna, that had been bought for a trifling sum, I had the honor of imparting a time-worn tinge, which so took the fancy of an amateur, that he paid two hundred and fifty dollars for it at auction. But I never could endure cheating, so I left the picture manufactory, and commenced the sale of prints on my own account.’

“‘Do you think there is any chance of selling this Landscape?’ inquired Paul. ‘I will take fifteen dollars for it.’

“‘Why, Talbot, you are foolish, it is worth at least fifty.’

“‘Ah, no one would give me so large a sum for a picture; fifty dollars! that would almost take me to Italy.’

“‘Well, well, my dear fellow, it is said, Providence helps those who help themselves, and you are sure to be helped in some way or other. I was thinking about you this morning, and wrote a note of introduction to Mr. C., who is a great patron of the Fine Arts. I have told him of your desire to go abroad, and how you are situated—’

“‘Nay, nay, my kind friend,’ interrupted Paul, ‘this looks too much like begging a favor, remember I cannot sacrifice my independence, even to secure the accomplishment of my most ardent wishes.’

“‘You are wrong, Talbot, you do not solicit him for aid; he has a taste for art, and if he give you money, you return an equivalent in your picture, so that the obligation is mutual.’

“Paul was persuaded, and, bearing his friend’s letter, bent his way to a fine-looking house, a long way from his own abode. Upon ringing the bell, he was informed by the servant that the family were at dinner. Leaving the letter with the waiter, he desired him to hand it to Mr. C., and say that Mr. Talbot would call to-morrow evening. The next evening Mr. C. was engaged, and on the next, when Paul was ushered into the drawing-room, and his name announced, he received a stately and patronizing bow from a short, stout gentleman, who stood with his back to the fire, conversing with three or four more who were seated near him.

“‘Take a seat, sir,’ and the short man waved his hand toward the intruder, and resumed the conversation thus momentarily interrupted.

“Paul grew nervous, and taking advantage of a pause he rose, and bowing slightly, advanced toward Mr. C. for the purpose of speaking. The latter began first—‘I have looked over Mr. Barry’s letter, young man, and hardly think it will be in my power to assist you.’

“‘I came not seeking assistance, sir,’ replied Paul; ‘my friend Mr. Barry thought you might perhaps wish to add another picture to your collection, and, as I purpose going abroad, assured me that you would cheerfully give a few lines of introduction to your young countryman.’

“‘Well, well, we will see, wewill see, but all you young men have taken it into your heads that you must travel, and this makes so many applicants.’

“‘Applicants!’ the word stung Paul to the quick, and again bowing to Mr. C., he left the apartment. Once in the free air of heaven, he gave vent to his suppressed feelings, and vowed that should be his first and last visit to a patron.

“Barry was indignant when he heard the non-success of his young friend. ‘Why, Talbot, that man’s name is bruited abroad as a most liberal patron of Art, a fosterer of early genius, an encourager of native talent—how I have been deceived!’

“‘Never mind, my dear friend, you will sell the picture to some one else, and I will conquer yet.’

“And Paul Talbot did conquer. When another year had gone by, he stood with the hand of his friend Barry clasped in his own, returning the warm ‘God bless you,’ fervently uttered by the old man in that hour of parting.

“In a wild tumult of feeling, half joy half sorrow, he stood upon the deck of the vessel, and watched the shores of his native land as they faded in the distance.

‘The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,As glad to waft him from his native home.’

‘The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,

As glad to waft him from his native home.’

And now he is on the ocean—the waves are dashing against the ship and bearing him onward—whither? To the land of his hopes. To the land of his dreams. Why each moment does he grow sadder and sadder? Why, as the crescent moon rises serenely in the heavens, does he press his eyelids down to shut her beauty from his sight?

“‘Oh that my mother were here! Great God! yon moon is shining on my mother’s grave!’

——

Wilt thou take measure of such minds as those,Or sound, with plummet-line, the Artist-Heart?Mrs. Norton.

Wilt thou take measure of such minds as those,

Or sound, with plummet-line, the Artist-Heart?

Mrs. Norton.

Its holy flame forever burneth,From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,At times deceived, at times opprest,It here is tried and purified,Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest!It soweth here with toil and care,But the harvest time of Love is there.Southey.

Its holy flame forever burneth,

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;

Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest,

It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest!

It soweth here with toil and care,

But the harvest time of Love is there.

Southey.

“Paul Talbot is in the city of wonders. Ivy-girdled ruins of the time-embalming Past are lying in the distance. Lofty cathedrals, rich in votive offerings of surpassing magnificence, surround him on every side. Stately palaces, their long galleries filled with the noblest works of the mighty minds of old, are baring their treasures to his gaze. The ‘dew-dropping coolness’ of the marble fountain, breathes new vigor into his frame. He is excited—bewildered—‘dazzled and drunk with beauty,’ and for weeks Paul wandered about Rome and its environs, half forgetful that his lot was still to struggle and to toil.

“When roused to action, he threw himself heart and soul into his art, and the consequence was a long and severe illness, brought on by that absorbing devotion which often kept him at his pursuits until the morning dawn peering into his room reminded him that he was weary and overtasked. For months he lay wasted by sickness, helpless at times as a feeble child, but nature triumphed over disease, and he wandered once more beneath the blue sky, and felt the kiss of the balmy air upon his pallid cheek.

“With a return to health, Paul returned with renewed ardor to his task, until the picture on which he had long and earnestly labored was at length completed. He had chosen for his subject a scene representing the Hermit Peter exhorting the people to join the crusaders. Standing in the midst, with one arm outstretched, and the other raised to heaven, was seen the enthusiast. On either side, were grouped mailed knights andstalwart forms, the tillers of the soil. One gentle lady, like the weeping Andromeda, was clinging to her lord, and a villager’s wife held up her child for his father’s last fond kiss. So animated and life-like was the figure of the preacher—so eager and intense the emotion betrayed by the assembled multitude—that you listened to hear the eloquence that roused all Europe, and sent prince, peer, and peasant to rescue the holy sepulchre from the hand of the Infidel, to cast down the crescent of Mohammed, and to raise the cross of Christ.

“And now came that fame for which the young painter had toiled, and to which he had looked forward as his highest guerdon. Crowds were daily drawn to hisatelier, and artists who had themselves won a world-wide renown, bestowed their warmest praises upon the ‘Hermit’ of Paul Talbot.

“The following winter Paul passed in Florence, and there his picture waspurchased by a Florentine merchant, at a price which relieved the artist from fear of pecuniary embarrassment. Paul was requested to visit the house of the merchant, and select the most fitting place to display the work of which the fortunate possessor was so justly proud. He went, and in the picture-gallery of the wealthy Florentine was opened a new page in the artist’s book of life.

“Poets and painters have ever an eye for beauty in women; and when Carlotta D. entered the apartment, leaning on the arm of her father, Paul started as if one of the bright visions of his ideal world stood suddenly embodied before him. The lady, too, was for a moment half-embarrassed—for the fame of the young painter had reached her ears, and, womanlike, she had been wondering if report spoke truly when it ascribed to him the dark clustering locks, and the lustrous eyes of her own sunny south.

‘Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth;Springs by the calendar; must wait for sun—For rain; matures by parts—must take its timeTo stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It ownsA richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed!You look for it and see it not: and lo!E’en while you look the peerless flower is up,Consummate in the birth!’

‘Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth;

Springs by the calendar; must wait for sun—

For rain; matures by parts—must take its time

To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns

A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed!

You look for it and see it not: and lo!

E’en while you look the peerless flower is up,

Consummate in the birth!’

“Was it strange that Paul and Carlotta, both worshipers of the beautiful, with souls alive to the most holy sympathies of our nature, was it strange that they should love?

“Paul had hitherto lived for his art alone. Painting was the mistress he had ever wooed with intense passion, but now another claimed his homage, and he bowed with a fervor little less than idolatrous at woman’s shrine. Such a love could not long remain concealed. The father of Carlotta, a vain and purse-proud man, hoping by his wealth to obtain a husband for his daughter among some of the haughty but decayed nobility, frowned on the artist, and forbade him his house. In secret the lovers plighted their troth, and parted, not knowing when they should meet again.

“Paul left Florence with the resolve to win not fame alone, but wealth.

“At Rome he was enrolled a member of the Academy of St. Luke, under Overbeck—the spiritually-minded Overbeck—who himself the son of a poet, has enriched his art with the divinely poetical conceptions of his own pencil. At Munich, one of his pictures was shown by Cornelius to the king of Bavaria, and purchased by that munificent patron of art at a price far exceeding the painter’s expectations. At Vienna a similar success attended him, and he returned to Florence after an absence of six years, with fame, and wealth enough for the foundation of a fortune.

“From Carlotta he had rarely heard, but he knew her heart was his, and he had that faith in her character as a true woman, which made him believe that no entreaties or commands of her father would induce her to wed another. And Paul was right—Carlotta D. still remained unmarried. In her the budding loveliness of the girl had expanded into the fuller beauty of the woman, but Talbot was sadly altered. The feverish excitement—the continued toil—the broken rest—the anxiety of thought to which he had been subjected, undermined his health, and planted the seeds of that insidious disease, which, while it wastes the bodily strength, leaves the mindunimpaired, and the hope of the sufferer buoyed to the last. The father of Carlotta finding that neither persuasion nor coercion could make his high-souled daughter barter her love for a title, consented at last that she should become the bride of the artist; but many said the wily Florentine had given his consent the more readily, because he saw that Paul would not long be a barrier in the way of his ambition.

“Paul Talbot had buffeted the adverse waves of fortune; he had gained renown in a land filled with the most exquisite creations of the gifted; he had won a promised bride. Whence, in that bright hour loomed the one dark cloud that blotted the stars from the sky? Could it be the shadow of the tomb? Was death interweaving his gloomy cypress with the laurel on the painter’s brow? Oh, no, no—he was but weary—he only wanted rest, and his powers would again be in full vigor. Then, with Carlotta at his side—with her smile to cheer him on—he would aim higher, and yet higher in his art.

“And the young wife was deceived. Although a nameless dread, a dark prescience lay heavy at her heart, she yet thought the bright flush on the cheek of Paul a sign of returning health. How tenderly and anxiously she watched lest he should fatigue himself at his easel, and how gently she chid, and lured him from his task into the open air of their beautiful garden.

“One of the days thus passed had been deliciously mild, and, although mid-winter, in that heavenly climate where flowers are ever blooming in the open air, each breeze was laden with the heavy odor of the orange blossom, and the fainter perfume of the Provence rose. Stepping lightly from the balcony where Paul and she had been seated watching the piled-up masses of crimson, of purple, and of gold that hung like regal drapery round the couch of the western sun, Carlotta pushed aside the opening blossoms of the night-jasmine which intercepted her reach, and gathering a handful of rose-buds, carried them to Paul. He took the flowers from his wife, and looking mournfully upon them, said, ‘When we cross the waters to visit my native land, we will take with us some of your precious roses, beloved, and beautify my mother’s silent home; and now,’ he continued, twining his arm round her waist, and leading her to the harp, ‘sing me that little song I wrote while yet a student in old Rome.’ Pressing her lips upon his brow, Carlotta seated herself, and sung the song, which she had set to music. The air was soft and melancholy, and the sweet tones of the singer were tremulous with emotion.

Fill high the festive bowl to-night,In memory of former years,And let the wine-cup foam as brightAs ere our eyes were dimmed with tears.Pledge, pledge me those whose joyous smileAround our happy circle shone,Whose genial mirth would hours beguile,Which, but for them, were sad and lone.Those hours, those friends, those social ties,They linger round me yet,Like twilight clouds of golden dyes,When summer suns have set.Then fill the bowl—but while you drink,In silence pledge all once so dear,Nor let the gay ones round us thinkWe sigh for those who are not here.

Fill high the festive bowl to-night,

In memory of former years,

And let the wine-cup foam as bright

As ere our eyes were dimmed with tears.

Pledge, pledge me those whose joyous smile

Around our happy circle shone,

Whose genial mirth would hours beguile,

Which, but for them, were sad and lone.

Those hours, those friends, those social ties,

They linger round me yet,

Like twilight clouds of golden dyes,

When summer suns have set.

Then fill the bowl—but while you drink,

In silence pledge all once so dear,

Nor let the gay ones round us think

We sigh for those who are not here.

“‘My dear Paul,’ said his wife, smiling through the tears with which, in spite of her efforts to repress them, her eyes were suffused, ‘this sad song should be sung on the last night of the year, the night for which it was composed. It should be sung while the student-band of artists stood around, each holding the flower-wreathed goblet from which he might quaff in silence, while his heart-memories were wandering back to fatherland. Let me sing,’—she paused on seeing the deep melancholy depicted on her husband’s countenance—‘nay, forgive me for jesting, love, I know with whom are your thoughts to-night, and will not ask you to listen to a lighter strain.’

“A month went by winged with love and hope. Paul found himself growing weaker, but he looked forward to a sea-voyage as a sure means of restoring him to health. Carlotta was hastening her preparatory arrangements, willing to leave her home, willing to brave the perils of the deep, in the belief that old Ocean’s life-inspiring wave would prove the fabled fountain of youth to her beloved. She had never seen consumption in any of its varied and sometimes beautiful forms. She knew not that the eye could retain its lustre, that the cheek could glow with more than its usual brightness, that the heart could be lured by a false hope, until, like a red leaf of the forest, dropping suddenly from the topmost bough, the doomed one fell, stricken down in an unthought of moment by the stern destroyer.

“One morning, when Paul had remained much longer than usual in his apartment, Carlotta sought him for the purpose of whiling him abroad.

“He was lying asleep on a couch, where he must have thrown himself from very weariness, as one of the brushes with which he had been painting had fallen from his hand upon the floor. His wife softly approached. She stooped and kissed his lips. He opened his eyes, smiled lovingly upon her, and pointed to the picture.

“‘You have made me too beautiful, dearest; this must be a copy of the image in your heart.’

“‘Ah, I have not done you justice, you are far more lovely, my own wife, yes, far more lovely—my mother—my mother—’ repeated Paul, dreamily. It was evident his thoughts were wandering.

“‘You are exhausted, dear love; but sleep now, and I will watch beside you.’

Carlotta knelt down and laid her cheek on his. Afraid of disturbing him, some minutes elapsed ere she again raised her head and turned to look upon the sleeper. She took the hand that hung listlessly by his side. It was cold, and she thought to warm it by pressing it to her lips—to her cheek—to her heart. She bent her ear close to the sleeper—there was no sound; she laid her lips on his—oh, God! where was the warm breath? A horrible dread came over her, and unable from the intensity of her agony to utter anycry, she sunk down and gazed fixedly in her husband’s face, realizing the heart-touching thoughts of the poet.

‘And still upon that face I look,And think ’twill smile again,And still the thought I cannot brookThat I must look in vain.’

‘And still upon that face I look,

And think ’twill smile again,

And still the thought I cannot brook

That I must look in vain.’

“And thus were they found by her father, who was the first to enter the apartment. Paul quite dead—Carlotta lying to all appearance lifeless at his side—and before them the unfinished picture.

“When the fond wife was restored to consciousness, and felt the full weight of that misery that was crushing out her young life, her reason became unsettled. It was very sad to see her wandering from room to room as if in search of some lost object, often stopping to unfold, and then folding again, the garments prepared for their journey. She would frequently rise with a sudden start, walk hurriedly to the window, and stand for a long time in an attitude of fixed attention, then mournfully shaking her head to and fro, would slowly resume her accustomed seat, and in a low voice repeat ‘not yet—not yet—Paul still lingers in Rome.’ Carlotta remained in this melancholy state during the time I was in Florence, but a letter received since my return home informs me that after a short interval, in which reason resumed her sway, the sufferer calmly departed, coupling the name of her beloved with the rest and the bliss of Paradise.

“The wretched father was filled with self-upbraidings. But for him, he said, Paul Talbot might have been living, and his daughter living, happy in each other’s love. He spoke truly. To gratify his ambition, Paul had overtasked the powers of life. The frail shrine was consumed by the flame which for years had been scorching and burning into the heart and soul of the artist. Too late had he obtained his reward. Too late had Carlotta’s father consented to her union with Paul. Too late had the old man found that by his daughter’s alliance with a man of genius, a greater lustre would have shone upon his house than could ever be reflected from his glittering hoard.”

Here ended my friend’s narration, and while with him I lamented the fate of genius, I could not forbear blaming the conduct of the wealthy Florentine. Nor could I help thinking, that too often the golden ears betray the ass, while wisdom, virtue, talent, constitute the only real greatness.

Back to Index Next