THE SKY.

———

BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR.

———

Thesky, the ever-changing sky,How broadly spans that arch on high!How calmly in the morning’s lightBlends its rich hues so purely bright,And lit by golden sunbeams nowIn glory bends its azure brow.The sky, the sky, serenely bright,No cloud sits on thy bosom’s light,No fleecy folds beneath the eyeOf the sun’s light are glancing by,Nor gath’ring clouds of misty sprayPlay round the sun’s imperial way.And with a look of light and loveThat azure sea bends far above,Its glories to the day unfurledAre resting o’er our circling world,And lit by many a brilliant starAt night that archway beams afar.And on its breast so pure and highThe burning paths of planets lie,Planets which ’neath its folds had birthWhen worlds on worlds first smiled o’er earth,And northern-lights and comets play,And meteors gleam, then die away.And oft that bending sky doth wearA look of deep and troubled care.When sunbeams by deep clouds are hid,The gath’ring tempests frowning lid,And thunders burst, and lightnings play,And storms sweep o’er the trav’lers way.And on the broad and rolling deepEach mariner doth turn and keepAn anxious vigil of the sky,When threat’ning clouds and storms are nigh,And tempests round them fierce are driven,Or rainbows span the arch of heaven.The sky, the sky, now clear, now bright,Now wreathed with folds of snowy white,Now tinged with amber hues, whose glowIs borrowed from the sunbeams flow,Then on its ever-changing breastBeam roseate streakings in the west.And oft upon the sky I gazeAs in my childhood’s early days,And watch at every morn and nightIts fading or increasing light,And trace with love each cloud and star,Which floats above, or beams afar.The sky, the sky, it bendeth o’erThe weary exile, who no moreCan greet his home, or feel the breezePlay through his native forest trees,Or watch upon his home’s clear streamThe moon’s pale rays reflected beam.And the bright sky o’er all that’s hereUnto the exile’s heart is dear;In it he sees each beaming starWhich shone above his home afar,And knows a power of deathless loveSpread out that azure sea above.And over all things here belowIt bendeth with a radiant glow;On peasant’s cot—on lordly hall—Alike its sun and shadows fall,And gems which gild its brow at evenShine forth for all beneath the heaven.And from its firm unwav’ring height,Its never-failing day and night,The fadeless glory of its sun—Its tireless stars, when day is done,May all, as tow’rd that sky they turn,A lesson of deep import learn.

Thesky, the ever-changing sky,How broadly spans that arch on high!How calmly in the morning’s lightBlends its rich hues so purely bright,And lit by golden sunbeams nowIn glory bends its azure brow.

Thesky, the ever-changing sky,

How broadly spans that arch on high!

How calmly in the morning’s light

Blends its rich hues so purely bright,

And lit by golden sunbeams now

In glory bends its azure brow.

The sky, the sky, serenely bright,No cloud sits on thy bosom’s light,No fleecy folds beneath the eyeOf the sun’s light are glancing by,Nor gath’ring clouds of misty sprayPlay round the sun’s imperial way.

The sky, the sky, serenely bright,

No cloud sits on thy bosom’s light,

No fleecy folds beneath the eye

Of the sun’s light are glancing by,

Nor gath’ring clouds of misty spray

Play round the sun’s imperial way.

And with a look of light and loveThat azure sea bends far above,Its glories to the day unfurledAre resting o’er our circling world,And lit by many a brilliant starAt night that archway beams afar.

And with a look of light and love

That azure sea bends far above,

Its glories to the day unfurled

Are resting o’er our circling world,

And lit by many a brilliant star

At night that archway beams afar.

And on its breast so pure and highThe burning paths of planets lie,Planets which ’neath its folds had birthWhen worlds on worlds first smiled o’er earth,And northern-lights and comets play,And meteors gleam, then die away.

And on its breast so pure and high

The burning paths of planets lie,

Planets which ’neath its folds had birth

When worlds on worlds first smiled o’er earth,

And northern-lights and comets play,

And meteors gleam, then die away.

And oft that bending sky doth wearA look of deep and troubled care.When sunbeams by deep clouds are hid,The gath’ring tempests frowning lid,And thunders burst, and lightnings play,And storms sweep o’er the trav’lers way.

And oft that bending sky doth wear

A look of deep and troubled care.

When sunbeams by deep clouds are hid,

The gath’ring tempests frowning lid,

And thunders burst, and lightnings play,

And storms sweep o’er the trav’lers way.

And on the broad and rolling deepEach mariner doth turn and keepAn anxious vigil of the sky,When threat’ning clouds and storms are nigh,And tempests round them fierce are driven,Or rainbows span the arch of heaven.

And on the broad and rolling deep

Each mariner doth turn and keep

An anxious vigil of the sky,

When threat’ning clouds and storms are nigh,

And tempests round them fierce are driven,

Or rainbows span the arch of heaven.

The sky, the sky, now clear, now bright,Now wreathed with folds of snowy white,Now tinged with amber hues, whose glowIs borrowed from the sunbeams flow,Then on its ever-changing breastBeam roseate streakings in the west.

The sky, the sky, now clear, now bright,

Now wreathed with folds of snowy white,

Now tinged with amber hues, whose glow

Is borrowed from the sunbeams flow,

Then on its ever-changing breast

Beam roseate streakings in the west.

And oft upon the sky I gazeAs in my childhood’s early days,And watch at every morn and nightIts fading or increasing light,And trace with love each cloud and star,Which floats above, or beams afar.

And oft upon the sky I gaze

As in my childhood’s early days,

And watch at every morn and night

Its fading or increasing light,

And trace with love each cloud and star,

Which floats above, or beams afar.

The sky, the sky, it bendeth o’erThe weary exile, who no moreCan greet his home, or feel the breezePlay through his native forest trees,Or watch upon his home’s clear streamThe moon’s pale rays reflected beam.

The sky, the sky, it bendeth o’er

The weary exile, who no more

Can greet his home, or feel the breeze

Play through his native forest trees,

Or watch upon his home’s clear stream

The moon’s pale rays reflected beam.

And the bright sky o’er all that’s hereUnto the exile’s heart is dear;In it he sees each beaming starWhich shone above his home afar,And knows a power of deathless loveSpread out that azure sea above.

And the bright sky o’er all that’s here

Unto the exile’s heart is dear;

In it he sees each beaming star

Which shone above his home afar,

And knows a power of deathless love

Spread out that azure sea above.

And over all things here belowIt bendeth with a radiant glow;On peasant’s cot—on lordly hall—Alike its sun and shadows fall,And gems which gild its brow at evenShine forth for all beneath the heaven.

And over all things here below

It bendeth with a radiant glow;

On peasant’s cot—on lordly hall—

Alike its sun and shadows fall,

And gems which gild its brow at even

Shine forth for all beneath the heaven.

And from its firm unwav’ring height,Its never-failing day and night,The fadeless glory of its sun—Its tireless stars, when day is done,May all, as tow’rd that sky they turn,A lesson of deep import learn.

And from its firm unwav’ring height,

Its never-failing day and night,

The fadeless glory of its sun—

Its tireless stars, when day is done,

May all, as tow’rd that sky they turn,

A lesson of deep import learn.

TAURUS.

———

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

The Scorpion’s stars crawl down behind the sun,And when he drops below the verge of day,The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run,Cling to his skirts and follow him away.Then, ere the heels of flying CapricornHave touched the western mountain’s fading rim,I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight grayThe glinting of thy horn,And sullen front uprising large and dim,Bent to the starry hunter’s sword, at bay.Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault;Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare,When the hounds follow, and in fierce assaultBay through the fringes of the lion’s hair.The stars that once were mortal in their love,And by their love are made immortal now,Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane,When thou, possessed with Jove,Bore sweet Europe’s garlands on thy browAnd stole her from the green Sicilian plain.Type of the stubborn force that will not bendTo loftier art;—soul of defiant breathThat blindly stands and battles to the end,Nerving resistance with the throes of death —Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful eyeFlamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment stayedTheir march at Night’s meridian, I was born:But in the western sky,Like sweet Europa, Love’s fair star delayed,To hang her garland on thy silver horn.Thou giv’st that temper of enduring mould,That slights the wayward bent of Destiny —Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of oldTo launch their dragons on the unknown sea:Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword,The proud, hot blood of battle—welcome madeThe headsman’s axe, the rack, the martyr-fire,The ignominious cord,When but to yield, had pomps and honors laidOn heads that moulder in ignoble mire.Night is the summer when the soul grows ripeWith Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,But in the noontide of thy ruddy starsThrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springsThe Heraclidean seed of heroes: thenWere sundered Gaza’s bars;Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bearThe kindled spirit on their mounting wave,Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glareAge thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,When, filled with pride and scorn,Thou mak’st relentless anger seem divine,And all Jove’s terror clothes a mortal brow.Thine is the subtle element that turnsTo fearless act the impulse of the hour —The secret fire, whose flash electric burnsTo every source of passion and of power.Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track:Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows dark,Slow rising, front Orion’s sword alongThe starry zodiac,And from thy mystic beam demand a sparkTo warm my soul with more heroic song.

The Scorpion’s stars crawl down behind the sun,

And when he drops below the verge of day,

The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run,

Cling to his skirts and follow him away.

Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn

Have touched the western mountain’s fading rim,

I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight gray

The glinting of thy horn,

And sullen front uprising large and dim,

Bent to the starry hunter’s sword, at bay.

Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault;Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare,When the hounds follow, and in fierce assaultBay through the fringes of the lion’s hair.The stars that once were mortal in their love,And by their love are made immortal now,Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane,When thou, possessed with Jove,Bore sweet Europe’s garlands on thy browAnd stole her from the green Sicilian plain.

Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault;

Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare,

When the hounds follow, and in fierce assault

Bay through the fringes of the lion’s hair.

The stars that once were mortal in their love,

And by their love are made immortal now,

Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane,

When thou, possessed with Jove,

Bore sweet Europe’s garlands on thy brow

And stole her from the green Sicilian plain.

Type of the stubborn force that will not bendTo loftier art;—soul of defiant breathThat blindly stands and battles to the end,Nerving resistance with the throes of death —Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful eyeFlamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment stayedTheir march at Night’s meridian, I was born:But in the western sky,Like sweet Europa, Love’s fair star delayed,To hang her garland on thy silver horn.

Type of the stubborn force that will not bend

To loftier art;—soul of defiant breath

That blindly stands and battles to the end,

Nerving resistance with the throes of death —

Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful eye

Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment stayed

Their march at Night’s meridian, I was born:

But in the western sky,

Like sweet Europa, Love’s fair star delayed,

To hang her garland on thy silver horn.

Thou giv’st that temper of enduring mould,That slights the wayward bent of Destiny —Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of oldTo launch their dragons on the unknown sea:Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword,The proud, hot blood of battle—welcome madeThe headsman’s axe, the rack, the martyr-fire,The ignominious cord,When but to yield, had pomps and honors laidOn heads that moulder in ignoble mire.

Thou giv’st that temper of enduring mould,

That slights the wayward bent of Destiny —

Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of old

To launch their dragons on the unknown sea:

Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword,

The proud, hot blood of battle—welcome made

The headsman’s axe, the rack, the martyr-fire,

The ignominious cord,

When but to yield, had pomps and honors laid

On heads that moulder in ignoble mire.

Night is the summer when the soul grows ripeWith Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,But in the noontide of thy ruddy starsThrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springsThe Heraclidean seed of heroes: thenWere sundered Gaza’s bars;Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.

Night is the summer when the soul grows ripe

With Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,

Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,

Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,

But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars

Thrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springs

The Heraclidean seed of heroes: then

Were sundered Gaza’s bars;

Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,

His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.

Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bearThe kindled spirit on their mounting wave,Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glareAge thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,When, filled with pride and scorn,Thou mak’st relentless anger seem divine,And all Jove’s terror clothes a mortal brow.

Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bear

The kindled spirit on their mounting wave,

Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glare

Age thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.

Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,

And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,

Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,

When, filled with pride and scorn,

Thou mak’st relentless anger seem divine,

And all Jove’s terror clothes a mortal brow.

Thine is the subtle element that turnsTo fearless act the impulse of the hour —The secret fire, whose flash electric burnsTo every source of passion and of power.Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track:Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows dark,Slow rising, front Orion’s sword alongThe starry zodiac,And from thy mystic beam demand a sparkTo warm my soul with more heroic song.

Thine is the subtle element that turns

To fearless act the impulse of the hour —

The secret fire, whose flash electric burns

To every source of passion and of power.

Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track:

Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows dark,

Slow rising, front Orion’s sword along

The starry zodiac,

And from thy mystic beam demand a spark

To warm my soul with more heroic song.

THE YOUNG ARTIST:

OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

———

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

———

(Concluded from page 112.)

Ellisonwas no longer, either in sentiment or purpose, an artist. His whole character had undergone a sudden, though temporary change. He reveled no more in Italian dreams. Beautiful creations arose not, in imagination, under his pencil. The ideal of his life had taken a new form. His end was no longer perfection in the Art at whose shrine genius had made him a worshiper. He had turned to another god; and bowed his knee on the threshold of the house of Mammon. What splendid castles arose in the air all around him! He saw his land cleared of its trees a century old; and fields of grain brightening in the sunshine and waving in the breeze, where now the light could scarcely penetrate the gloomy forest. In the centre of his estate a site was selected for a splendid dwelling, and he saw it rising up before him as if by the touch of enchantment.

But for no very long time was this vain dream to be indulged. An overseer, to give practical attention to the cutting of logs in the woods, two miles away from his mill; to look after their transportation to the place where they were to be manufactured into boards, and to have a general supervision of every thing connected with the business, could not be had for less than five hundred dollars a year. Besides this individual, an engineer to run the mill, hands to attend it, and wood-cutters and teamsters, were all to be employed. Six yoke of oxen had also to be purchased; and the expense of feeding them was something of an item in itself. The whole weekly cost of this force, independent entirely of his personal expenses, was about fifty dollars. A month passed, and, though a dozen trials had been made to start the mill, the gearing and machinery were found so defective that they would not work. All hands but the overseer and engineer were then discharged, and millwrights employed to half build the mill over again. They kept at work nearly three months, by which time Ellison’s cash being nearly all expended, he was beginning to be in no very enviable state of mind. A good many things had occurred, in the meantime, to cause more than a doubt as to the success of his scheme to cross his mind. His overseer was a practical man, and able to apply tests to the whole business unknown to Ellison.

One day, it was nearly five months from the time the mill came into the young man’s possession, and after some part of the new gearing had given way in an attempt to get it started, the overseer said to him —

“I’m afraid you will find this a losing business, manage it as you please. It’s my opinion that it will cost you more to cut the timber, haul it to the mill and saw it up, than the lumber will bring after it is produced.”

And then he exhibited to Ellison a series of estimates and calculations based upon things actually done, which fully proved all he said.

“Had the mill been erected on your land, you might have saved yourself. But, to cut the timber, and then haul it two miles, makes the cost of each log so great as to throw profit entirely out of the question. I think, sir, that you had better sell your mill, if you can find a purchaser.”

Ellison was confounded. The demonstration made by his overseer was so accurate that there was no possibility of gainsaying it. To go on, even if he had the money with which to proceed, would, he saw, be only an act of folly. He, therefore, after debating the matter for some days, saw that there was no way left for him but to discharge all in his employment, and sell the mill if a purchaser could be found. The sale he did not find a matter of easy accomplishment. He advertised it far and near, but only a few came to look at it, and they were not long in making up their minds that the road to fortune did not lie in that direction. In the meantime, the first note of one thousand dollars given to Claxton fell due, and was permitted to lie over. Ellison had not fifty dollars in cash left of the five thousand obtained from the sale of stocks, and how could he lift a note of a thousand. He wrote to Claxton, upbraiding him as the willful instrument of his loss—as having made him the scape-goat to bear the burden of his own folly and miscalculation. To this he received a brief answer from Claxton’s brother, who said that the notes were now his property, and that he would wait until the three were matured, when, in case they were not all paid, he would foreclose the mortgage in his possession and sell his land.

Unhappy young man! He was almost beside himself with anguish of mind. His castles in the air had all dissolved in storm-clouds. His confident pride in his own energy and ability to wrest a fortune from the elements around him was all gone. In the effort to make peace with his own mind—to secure his independence—by suddenly duplicating the value of the property obtained by his wife, he had lost nearly the whole of it in less than a year. His folly was the town talk. Not a man in D——, with whom he had conversed during the progress of his money-losing scheme, gave him a word of encouragement. Everyone said that his expectations would prove fallacious; and now that all had occurred as predicted, the only sympathy he received was the pride-crushing remark that it had turned out as every one knew it would.

The letter from Claxton’s brother awoke Ellison to a keener sense of the difficulty by which he was surrounded than he had yet experienced. There was no hope of selling his mill. It had already cost him about four thousand dollars, and three thousand were yet due. There was no escape from the payment of this last sum, as it was fully secured by a mortgage upon his land.

While in this sad dilemma, so distressed in mind that he often walked the floor for half the night, the owner of the other mill, which had been kept steadily at work, offered him two thousand dollars for the whole concern, which had cost him seven thousand. This offer he accepted without a moment’s hesitation. It was the severing of one fold of the horrible serpent that had entwined itself around him, and whose contractions were almost crushing out his life. The next step was to offer the four hundred acres of land for sale. It so happened that there were three large property-holders in D——, each of whom had particular reasons for wanting the tract of land. From this cause a better sale than even Ellison anticipated, was made. Twenty dollars per acre was realized, or eight thousand dollars for the whole tract.

Three thousand dollars canceled the debt to Claxton. About five hundred more went to pay various bills and accounts that were brought in as soon as it was known that Ellison was closing up his business. Of some of these the young man had no kind of recollection; but he paid them. After all was settled, only about six thousand five hundred dollars of the entire property which Ellison had received by his wife remained. In other words, in a little over a year, he had lost one half of it. During the progress of these disasters, Clara, who had never approved of what her husband was doing, avoided saying a word that he could construe into disapproval or disappointment. Still she felt troubled, and could not always keep her brow free from shadows. Whenever they were seen by Ellison, he felt them as smarting rebukes; and his quick fancy gave them a language which they did not really convey.

About two months prior to the closing up of Ellison’s disastrous business in D——, Clara presented her husband with a daughter. The birth of this child was not so glad an event to the father as it would have been a flew months earlier, when, waking or sleeping, his mind was full of golden dreams. From the effects of her illness Clara recovered but slowly. A change in her bodily feelings produced a change in her thoughts, which turned toward her old home and her old friends. From a small beginning the wish to go back grew into an intense desire. She had never been really happy since coming to the West; and now every thing she saw around her but increased her dissatisfied feelings. But as far as it was in her power to do so, all this was concealed from her husband.

One day, it was when Ellison was about making his closing transactions in D——, he spoke of their removal from that city, and mentioned Cincinnati.

“Why not go back to Philadelphia?” said Clara, with an eagerness that showed how much her heart was in her words. She spoke from an impulse, and therefore with a fuller exhibition of her real feelings than would otherwise have been the case.

“I’d rather hang myself!” was the equally impulsive and much less guarded answer of Ellison.

The effect of this rude, in fact, unfeeling reply, was a gush of tears, that flowed long and silently. The heart of Ellison smote him for the unkindly spoken words. But they had found an utterance, and he felt that an attempt to recall them would be of no use.

For the space of full half an hour the unhappy young man, and his equally unhappy wife, sat silent and almost motionless, yet their thoughts were busy all the while. What passed in the mind of Ellison will hereafter appear.

“We will go back, Clara,” he at length said, breaking the oppressive stillness of the apartment in which they sat, and speaking in a voice of affectionate sympathy. “Forgive me that I thought too much of myself. I know it must be a hard trial for you—this separation from all your early associations and most cherished friends. I hoped to make this visit to the West one of prosperity to us both. But I have erred, and a heart-crushing disaster has been the result. I will atone for this error in the future as best I can.”

“Alfred! Alfred! do not speak so,” said Clara, lifting her eyes from the floor. Tears were again upon her cheeks. “All has been done for the best. Do not think of the past. Do not reproach yourself. We have still something left, and it is enough, and more than enough, to sustain us until your own professional efforts meet with their deserved reward. Let us go to Cincinnati, or any where else that you may think best.”

“No, Clara, we will return to Philadelphia, and that immediately. You cannot be happy among strangers who feel for you no sympathy.”

“I can be happy any where with you, Alfred,” replied the young wife, leaning toward her husband and looking tenderly in his face.

“But happier in the old place. We will go back, Clara.”

“Forgive my weakness, wont you, dear?” said Clara, half imploringly. “It was only a weakness, and it is past now. No, no! we will not return. That would be painful to you; and I would not be the cause of your feeling a moment’s pain for the world. I can be happy any where with you and our precious babe.”

But Ellison’s resolution had been taken. Back to Philadelphia he would go, and no where else. Perceiving how firm he was in this, Clara soon ceased to oppose her husband. In about two weeks they left D——, and in a few days afterward were in Philadelphia.

——

There was a change in Ellison. Clara perceived it from the moment he avowed his intention to return to the East. Its meaning she could not tell. For some time before, a certain coldness, or more properly speaking, a reserve, had appeared in his manner toward her. Slight causes, too, had been productive of disturbance.But now he was more tender in his intercourse with her than he had ever been, and seemed to have scarcely a thought that did not involve her comfort and happiness. His affection for their babe appeared every moment to increase. Clara would often find him looking at it with a tenderness of expression that was almost tearful.

On arriving in Philadelphia, Ellison avoided all the relatives of his wife. He neither received nor returned the visit of any one of them. Contrary to the expectation of Clara, he did not take a room for professional use, nor did he say any thing about resuming his work as an artist. Immediately on his return, he purchased stocks to the value of five thousand five hundred dollars, the certificates for which, with four hundred dollars in money, he placed in her hands, saying, as he did so,

“I have kept five hundred dollars for a particular purpose.”

For about a week he remained nearly the whole time in the house, yet exhibiting many evidences of a disturbed and active mind.

One morning, after kissing his wife and the babe that lay in her arms, with visible emotion, he went away. Contrary to what had been his custom since their return, he did not come back during the forenoon, and was absent at dinner-time. A feeling of uneasiness—a vague dread of some impending evil—had weighed upon the mind of Clara ever since he had gone out, and this now changed into anxiety not unmingled with alarm. Slowly the afternoon wore away and night came sadly down. As long as she could see the forms of passengers in the street, Clara stood at the window, waiting and watching for her husband. Then she sat listening for the sound of his entrance below, starting and hearkening more intently, as one after another opened and shut the door. But supper-time came, and he was still away. All night he remained absent. Oh, what a night that was for Clara! Sleep visited her not until day-dawn, and then it came with frightful visions that broke the rest so much needed almost as soon as sweet oblivion had come upon her senses. Early in the day a letter was placed in her hands. She knew the writing to be that of her husband. Breaking the seal, she read,

“My Dear Clara,—I leave you for a time. How long the time will be, Heaven only knows! What it has cost me to break away from you and our sweet babe, no one but myself will ever know. I meant all for the best; it was to increase your property—not with a reckless indifference as to consequences—that I made that ruinous adventure in the West. The failure almost broke my heart. But I will retrieve the loss. I vowed to do so when the disaster came; and I mean to fulfill that vow, if it cost me the labor of a whole life. Happily, enough is left to keep you and our babe from want. Bear my absence, if you can, without repining. Do not think my affection for you has grown cold; it has but increased in fervor since our marriage, and absence will make it the more intense. Ah, me! How do our errors, like seed cast into the ground, reproduce themselves a hundred fold! I erred at first, and error has since followed me like a shadow. May Heaven keep you, my dear wife, until my return. It is best for me to go away. To be happy under present circumstances, is impossible. I am crushed to the earth, and if I remain here, will lie powerless. It may be a weakness in me to feel as I do; but I did not make myself, and cannot help it. Oh! how often have I wished that you had been without a dollar and without a friend. How tenderly would I have cherished you! How light would the hardest labor have been, if it but produced flowers in your pathway! Let me make a confession. It is wrung from me almost in tears. But we may never meet again, and I would not have you misunderstand me, nor feel a doubt, when you think of me, overshadowing your mind. I loved my art with a passion that few can understand. But I was poor, and had to work in my profession for bread, when I longed to go only in pursuit of the beautiful, and to labor for the attainment of what was excellent in the profession I had chosen. How blessed would I have been with a competence! A few hundred a year would have filled the measure of my desires. Bread and water would have sufficed for my natural wants, could I have breathed under an Italian sky, and lived among the wonderful creations of those master-spirits who have made our art immortal. It was thus with me, when, in an evil hour, a friend suggested a marriage in which money should be the first consideration. I threw the suggestion aside with a feeling of indignation. He re-presented it, drawing at the same time a picture upon which I could not look without a quickening pulse. I in Italy, and a loving wife by my side, sketching and painting amid the perfect works of art that fill the galleries of every city in that beautiful land. I looked at the picture, and my heart stirred within me. Then you were mentioned; but I rejected the thought of any end in marriage lower than affection for the person, abstract from all other considerations. But every time I looked upon you after this came the dream of Italy; I saw myself there, and you by my side. It was in this soil that the seeds of affection were sown; here they took root, and here they grew. I could not help loving you; but I loved you not, at first, all for yourself. There was something beyond. You had the means by which I could attain to a desired end—but I never thought of attaining it as a consummation to be enjoyed alone; it was to be shared with you. In this blindness I sought your hand; in this blindness we were married, at a time when my income was scarcely sufficient to meet my own light expenses. I had, with a feeling that was little less than an insanity, depended for the future on the property you were said to possess. But, after marriage, how like the leaf of a sensitive plant from the approach of an intruder, did my whole nature shrink at the thought of touching your money, particularly as I had no means of my own. I saw my error when it was too late to retrace my steps. I felt that I had been mercenary, and that you would perceive it and despise me. Anxiously did I struggle in my profession for the means of independence; but I struggled in vain. Ah, Clara! words can give you no idea of the humiliation I experienced when necessity drove me to a confession of my poverty. If I couldonly erase that impression from my memory! When your brother so cruelly taunted me, I felt mad with a wild desire to show him, and every one else, that I had power to make your property the stepping-stone to great wealth. How sadly I failed in my purposes I will not repeat. You know all too well.

“Clara! Since our marriage, love for you has been a daily increasing passion. The more deeply I looked into your heart, the more I saw to inspire that respect upon which affection lays its broadest foundations. And now the parting with you seems as if it would rend me asunder. But it is necessary for our future happiness. You have enough left for the support of yourself and our sweet child. I will return when I am, as I should have been before our marriage, fully entitled to the blessing of a loving wife, because able to support her. Farewell, my dear, dear Clara! Do not grieve over my absence. Think of me hopefully—pray for me. I will return. Hide from other eyes the pain this step must occasion you. Conceal the apparent desertion for your own sake. Say that I have gone abroad to perfect myself in my art. I will come back, for without the light of your presence, I feel that all around me will lie in shadow. How soon, Heaven only knows! Farewell! farewell! I write the words tearfully. Farewell!

Your Husband.”

Mrs. Ellison was a woman of great self-control and decision of character. She loved her husband truly, notwithstanding his conduct since marriage had often been incomprehensible, and never so open and freely affectionate as she could have wished. All was now fully explained. She understood much that had been covered by doubt. Though the sudden disappearance of Alfred was a painful shock, yet, in the explanations he had given, her heart found relief, and she caught, as she looked along the future, glimpses of a happier prospect. Though the letter was wet with tears, as she finished reading it for the third time, and then hid it in her bosom, yet she was far from being hopeless and entirely wretched. She could comprehend, to some extent, the feelings of her husband, and was thus able to find an excuse for conduct at first sight so extraordinary. Thus, though smitten almost to the earth by the desertion and mystery of his absence, she could yet find many avenues to consolation. If he had only said where he was going, it would have been a great relief. But this he had chosen to conceal.

“Let me be patient and hopeful,” said she, pressing her hand upon her bosom, as if she would thus still the flutterings of her stricken heart. And then she lifted her eyes tearfully upward and prayed for guidance and strength—prayed also for the absent one who had made himself a wanderer on the earth.

The next great trial of Clara was to meet her friends and answer for the absence of her husband in such a way as to conceal the fact of his having gone away without confiding to her his destination. The utmost self-control on her part was necessary; and her answers had all to be in a certain sense evasive. All this was painful; for it was too evident that none felt satisfied, and that suspicions against her husband were created. Thus was the weight she had to bear increased. But she strung her heart to endurance; and said, in the silence of her grieving spirit, “I will be patient and hopeful.”

Months went by after the departure of Ellison, but no word from him came to his anxious, long-suffering, hopeful wife. The sweet bud he had left upon her bosom gradually opened in the warm sunshine; but its beauty and fragrance were but half enjoyed because he was not there to divide the pleasure. In spite of her efforts to hold fast by her confidence in his return, the heart of Clara grew weaker every day. Nightly were her dreams full of her husband; but in visions she only saw him sick or in danger, and she often awoke in terror. The color left her cheeks; her face grew thin and overcast with anxiety. Still the months went by, but no intelligence from the absent one came; no ray of light pierced the thick clouds of uncertainty that veiled her sky.

——

It was a year since the young artist had deserted his home and the dear ones who nestled there. Twelve weary months had passed. He had been in Paris, Dresden, Rome, Florence, and now he was in Venice; wasted almost to a shadow; but still he sat with pencil or pallet in hand, striving to catch the wonderful grace, or to attain the masterly effect of color that he almost worshiped in those whose names were synonymous with all that was grand and beautiful in art. But all that he had yet achieved was so far below what was around him, that he was in despair.

He had thrown his brushes and pallet upon the floor, and was sitting in an attitude of despondency before his easel, upon which was a half-finished head after Raphael, when a young English artist, with whom he had made an acquaintance, entered his studio.

“You are ill, Marston,” (it was by this name that Ellison passed in Italy,) said the visiter, in a voice of concern.

“I am in despair,” replied Ellison.

“At what?”

“I cannot paint.”

“If I could produce flesh like that on the canvas before you, I would go home to-morrow.”

“It looks like any thing but flesh to me.”

“Come, Marston,” said the other, taking the hand of the young man, “an hour upon the water will give your eyes a better vision. But how your hand burns! And there is a flush in your cheeks. You have fever!”

As the young man spoke, Ellison gathered up his brushes, and taking his pallet, said, while his eyes brightened,

“There, Liston! stand just in that light.”

“No, I’ll do no such thing,” replied Liston, moving from his position. “You must paint no more to-day. If you will not go out and breathe the pure air, you must go to bed and let me send you a physician.”

“I’m not sick—I’m only in despair.”

The friend took him by the arm and tried to force him away from his easel; as he did so, a deathly paleness overspread the face of the young artist, and he fell back insensible. As soon as the first few moments ofsurprise and confusion had passed, Liston laid the inanimate body which he had caught in his arms on the floor, and went for assistance. After various efforts at restoration had been used by the physician who was summoned, but without effect, the body of Ellison was removed to his lodgings, and placed in bed, where it remained for some hours before a reaction of the exhausted vital system took place. Liston, who had become much attached to the young artist for his many excellent qualities, never left his side until his pulses again commenced their feeble play, and then only for a few moments at a time. He was deeply pained to perceive that the fine intellect of Ellison did not reanimate as life again flowed along his veins. That had been overtasked, and was, for the time being, paralyzed.

Day after day went by, and the bodily health of Ellison slowly improved; but his mind continued to wander. Much to the surprise of Liston, in these wanderings he often spoke of one to whom he applied the tenderest name by which man can call a woman, and said that he would soon return to her.

“Is our dear little Ella living yet?” he asked one day, looking earnestly at Liston, his large, bright eyes beaming with affection.

“Who is Ella?” asked Liston.

The question appeared to react upon his state of mind. He became grave and silent for some moments.

“I thought Clara was here,” said he, after awhile, in a more serious voice.

“Who is Clara?”

This question threw him back again into silence, and he lay for more than a minute with his eyes closed. Then he opened them quickly, and glanced around with eager expectation, half rising as he did so from his pillow. A sigh quivered through his white lips as he sunk back, and said, in a sad voice,

“I thought she was here.”

For some time he lay with closed eyes, and his hands clasped across his bosom. Then looking up again, he asked,

“Hasn’t she come yet? It is time she was here.”

Bending toward the door, he listened attentively.

“She must be here soon.”

“Something has delayed her,” said Liston, falling in with the humor of the sick man. “Lie down again and try to sleep. Perhaps she will be here when you awake.”

“Hark!” said Ellison.

Liston bent his ear for a moment or two. Then the sound of feet moving along one of the distant passages was faintly heard.

“She is coming!” exclaimed Ellison, in a voice of exultation.

The footsteps approached rapidly. They were at hand; and then the door flew open and a woman entered.

“My husband!” fell from her lips as she sprang forward and caught Ellison in her arms, who, sobbing like a child, nestled helplessly, but with the gladness of a half unconscious babe, upon her bosom.

Liston gazed on this scene in profound amazement. He expected every moment to see the life-blood again thrown back upon the heart of his sick friend, and his eyes closed once more in dark insensibility. But it was not so. The meeting produced no disastrous shock.

“I have been looking for you to come,” said Ellison, lifting his head from the bosom of his wife, after he was a little composed, and gazing into her face.

A shadow fell upon the countenance of Clara, and she turned her eyes upon Liston with a look of troubled inquiry.

“It is true, as he says,” remarked Liston, perceiving what was in her mind. “He spoke of you, and said you were coming ere I could hear the sound of your approaching footsteps.”

“But I heard them,” said Ellison, with a smile that lit up his whole countenance. “And I knew that you were here.”

It was now plain to Clara that her husband’s mind had lost its balance.

“Has he been sick long?” she asked of Liston.

“His health has not been good for some time,” was the young man’s reply. “He has tied himself down in his studio too long, and worked with too intent a purpose, until he has wasted his body as you see. A few days ago, nature sank exhausted under burdens too heavy for her to bear. But your presence and your care will restore him.”

And Liston was right in his prediction. Ellison soon after sank away into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours. When he awoke, though weak almost as an infant, he was in his right mind.

——

A week subsequent to Clara’s arrival in Venice, whither she had come after a month’s search in Paris, Naples, Florence and Rome, for her husband, she sat by the bed-side of Alfred, now rapidly recovering, while Ella, their beautiful child, over a year old, was sleeping in her arms.

“I know it would have been better, Clara, far better,” said the invalid, replying to a remark which his wife had made. “But the disasters of that western business put me half beside myself. Ah me! how much happier we would have been if your fortune had been like my own—nothing.”

A cloud flitted over the brow of Clara as he made this last remark. She sighed faintly, and was silent.

“I am weak and foolish on this subject,” said he, after a few moments. “But you understand why it is so. The weight of a feather will hurt an inflamed wound.”

Clara looked at her husband half reproachfully, and then changed the subject.

A year longer Ellison remained in Italy, devoting his time to study and practice in the higher schools of art, and then turned his face homeward, taking with him about twenty pictures, half of which were his own compositions, and all of a high order of merit.

There is now, in the city of New York, an artist whose pictures are scarcely dry from the easel ere they meet with purchasers at a liberal price. His portraits are among the finest that are produced, and he is, consequently, never without a sitter. Money flows in to him by thousands, and from the proceedsof his own work, he has surrounded himself with all the elegances of life that a man of taste could desire. That artist is Ellison. Fifteen years have elapsed since the painful events we have described transpired. But success has not entirely obliterated the marks they left behind. To let his mind go back and linger thoughtfully on the past, is but to throw a shadow over his spirit. Often, as he looks into the face of his wife, comes upon him the remembrance that he sought her, at first, less for herself than for the external advantages she would bring him, and that she knows of the mercenary feelings which drew him to her side.

“If she had been poor, like myself,” he often sighs, as he turns away from some memory of the past, “there would have been nothing to dim the sunshine of our happiness; nor, if I had won my way to success by the force of my own talents, ere I asked to lead her to the altar. Alas! that the fine gold of affection should have been dimmed by the base alloy of selfishness!”

That the inflamed spot, fretted into painfulness by the touch of even a feather, still remains, is evident from the fact, that he has settled ten thousand dollars upon his wife, and will not touch a farthing of the income it yields. By this act he keeps alive in his own mind, as well as in that of Clara, the memory of things that should be buried with the mistakes and errors of the past, and thus robs both her and himself of a portion of the happiness that is rightfully their due. On this subject, suffering has made him little less than a monomaniac; and such he will probably remain while he lives. How true is it that our motives give quality to our acts, and mar all the effects that flow from them if they be stained with selfishness. Most true is this of marriage. If a base or mercenary end influence us in entering into this relation, unhappiness must inevitably follow. A reaction, such as that which occurred in the case of Ellison, may not take place; but there will come a reaction of some kind, and that a painful one, as surely as an effect follows its producing cause. Thousands around us fail to secure a true union in marriage, that consummation above all things desired by the heart, and for no other reason than the one here assigned. Of all motives from which we act, let those leading to marriage be freest from alloy. We may err in other things, and escape without a severe penalty; but never in marriage. We cannot do violence to the heart’s best affections without after years of pain and unavailing repentance.

THE SECRET.

I toldmy wife a secret—“And did she keep it?” say you.Ah! therein lies the moral, man,To which give heed, I pray you!She kept it but an hour or two—She then put on her bonnet,And called upon her Cousin Sue,That both might comment on it!Alas! ere half the day was o’er,Most dearly did I rue it!Sue told it to a dozen more,And they to others talked it o’er;I found on coming from my storeThat all the village knew it.

I toldmy wife a secret—

“And did she keep it?” say you.

Ah! therein lies the moral, man,

To which give heed, I pray you!

She kept it but an hour or two—

She then put on her bonnet,

And called upon her Cousin Sue,

That both might comment on it!

Alas! ere half the day was o’er,

Most dearly did I rue it!

Sue told it to a dozen more,

And they to others talked it o’er;

I found on coming from my store

That all the village knew it.

Back to Index Next