"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
"Will you come to our house, and help Jenny, for my mother is very ill?" said a little girl, in the feeble accents of childhood, whilst she knocked at the door of a cottage. The voice was weak, but it uttered tones, which, though they may sometimes be heard with indifference by the inmates of a palace, never fail to find a ready way to the heart of the humble cottager. "What sound is that I hear?" said the mistress of the lowly dwelling, as the voice of the child roused her from a sound sleep; "was I dreaming? or did I really hear a voice?"
"Will you come to my mother, for Jenny thinks she is dying?" continued the little girl, as she again applied her hand to the door. Convinced now that it was no dream, the benevolent cottager started from her bed, and opening the door, exclaimed in a tone of surprise, "Why, Sally, is that you?—Here, all by yourself, in the very dead of night!"
"My mother is so ill that Jenny could not leave her,and she had nobody else to send to ask you to come and help her."
"Come John, get up directly!" said the woman, rousing her husband, who under the influence of a previous day of hard labour, had slept too soundly to hear what passed. "Get up! for you will very likely have to go for the doctor. And come in, Sally dear, till I get something on me, and I will go with you in a minute."
Very little preparation was necessary, and in a few minutes the kind hearted woman hastened to the house of sickness, accompanied by the little girl, and followed by her husband, who though no less willing, was much less able to throw off the lethargic influence of sleep, and trudged after the nimble feet of his wife as if scarcely conscious whither he was going. As the distance was very short, he had no time to get fully awake, before the little Sally opened the door of her mother's house and ushered himself and his wife in; but on entering, a sight presented itself to their view that instantly roused every feeling of the soul to pity and commiseration. On a humble bed, in the corner of a very humble apartment, lay stretched the form of her to whose assistance they had been summoned; not, however, either writhing with pain or burning with fever, but cold, stiff, and lifeless; whilst a bowl stood near, which told at once, by its contents, that the rupture of a blood vessel had produced the sad catastrophe. By the side of the bed knelt her daughter, agirl about sixteen, who, "struck with sad anguish at the stern decree," seemed to retain little more of life than the corpse, the hand of which she grasped between hers, whilst her eyes were riveted on the motionless face, with an expression of the most heartrending agony. Grief wears a variety of forms, according to the nature of the mind of which it takes possession; but it assumes no appearance that imparts so immediate a sense of its intensity to the heart of the spectator, as that silent and speechless sorrow that finds no relief from utterance. In vain did the benevolent neighbours endeavour to rouse the poor girl from her trance of wo; the stroke had been so sudden, so unlooked-for, and was so appalling in its nature, that poor Jenny, though she had been long familiar with adversity, seemed ready to sink under it, without a single effort to resist its overpowering influence.
"Jenny! dear Jenny! don't take on this way!" said the humane neighbour, whilst her husband raised the almost insensible girl from her kneeling posture by the bed-side, and placed her on a chair. The little Sally imagining, from the stillness that prevailed, that her mother had fallen asleep, had kept at a distance from the bed-side, lest she should by any means disturb her; but now beginning to wonder why her sister should thus be the chief object of anxiety, she had crept softly forward to investigate the cause, and set her eyes, for the first time in her life, on the features of death. The sudden cry which she gave, was thefirst sound that reached the heart of the grief-stricken Jenny; and as the weeping child ran toward her, she opened her arms, and clasping her to her bosom, wept over her in all the luxury of sorrow. Her compassionate neighbours knew enough of the human heart, to judge it best to leave her to herself; and, therefore, summoning some other of their friends to their assistance, they busied themselves about the various offices for the dead, and left poor Jenny to the undisturbed indulgence of her wo. But Jenny's grief was too intense to allow her long the relief of tears, and she sat, almost motionless, clasping the little Sally in her arms, who had soon wept herself to sleep, and waited till she was permitted again to throw herself by the side of her lifeless parent, and watch over the remains of what she had so fondly loved. This indulgence was all that she desired, and all of which she was capable of partaking; and she sat watching the body almost without either speaking, or moving, till the moment arrived when it was to be deposited in its last silent mansion. Then it was, that the poor girl felt that she had indeed lost her beloved parent for ever. Whilst the lineaments still remained before her view, on which she had so long delighted to gaze, even though they were cold and motionless, she felt as though she had still something to rest upon; but when these too were taken away, when the very shell which the soul of affection had once inhabited, was removed from a worldin which she herself was still to remain, she, for the first time, became sensible of that total destitution of soul that is felt after the loss of those we love. Happily, however, for poor Jenny, she was forbidden, by the calls of imperative necessity, to indulge in unavailing sorrow; and the exertions that her forlorn situation demanded, proved the most effectual balm to her wounded bosom; and gradually, a meek submission to the will of Him to whom she had been taught from her earliest infancy to bow in humble confidence, superseded that bitter anguish which had at first swelled her heart almost to bursting.
The parent, whom Jenny so deeply mourned, had been left a widow some months before the little Sally was born. She had two children then living; Jenny, who was at that time about nine years old, and a boy, five years her senior. The mother had, before her marriage, been an upper servant in a genteel and respectable family, and had acquired, in consequence, a degree of cultivation superior to the situation in which her marriage afterwards placed her. The chief ambition of her heart was to keep her children under her own eye, and to train their infant minds to religion and virtue. But William, her boy, who was fourteen at the time of his father's death, soon began to be anxious to do something for himself; and, as the surest and shortest means of attaining that desirable end, he had fixed his mind upon the sea. In vain did his mother remind him that the salt wavehad been the grave of his father, or endeavour to impress upon his mind the many anxious days and sleepless nights he would thus impose upon her; he saw no other means half so likely to enable him, in the course of a few years, to provide for her and his sisters, and to relieve her delicate frame from the hardship, which it was so ill calculated to bear, of labouring for their subsistence. "Besides, mother," remonstrated he, "I have no other chance of seeing the world, but by being a sailor, and I could never be happy without seeing some of the strange countries that my father used to tell me about. And you know, too," continued the generous boy, looking as he spoke, at his elder sister, to whom he was exceedingly attached, "by the time that I am out of my apprenticeship, Jenny will be almost grown up, and with the wages I can then earn, and your good management, we shall be able to give her some good schooling, and keep her at home with you; for she is too pretty and too delicate to go to service." Jenny was indeed beautiful, even at that early age, and every year, as it added to her height, increased also the grace and loveliness of her form. Her features were regular, her complexion not only fair but almost transparent, while her bright auburn locks hung in luxuriance about her face and shoulders. But it was not in the symmetry of feature or the grace of form, that Jenny's beauty was centered. It was the inward harmony which presided over all,and gave to her full blue eyes an expression of the most touching sensibility, that made her an object so delightful to look upon: and her mother felt, as she gazed upon her, that she must perform her own duties ill indeed, if, even without any higher advantages of education than she could herself give her, the lovely bud, as it expanded into maturity, did not become a flower worthy of being transplanted into the most highly cultivated garden.
William went to sea, and his mother had all the satisfaction that a mother's heart can enjoy, of hearing his master express, at every return of the vessel, the highest approbation of his conduct. Thus supported and comforted by her children, she laboured incessantly but cheerfully for her own and their support, at first as a seamstress; but this sedentary occupation being unfavourable to her constitution, she afterward rented a small cottage to which was attached a garden of considerable extent, which Jenny and she managed to cultivate themselves, with the aid of very little hired assistance; and, from the sale of the produce, she contrived to make a scanty but respectable livelihood. Time thus rolled on, Jenny had completed her thirteenth year, and her William was within a few weeks of being out of his time. But alas! William was away, and many weeks, nay months, had passed over without his having been heard of. Again and again, had she gone to the owners to inquire after him, but in vain; no tidingshad been received of the vessel since she had left the port at which she had taken in her lading, and had sailed homeward bound; and though the usual length of the passage was that of two or three weeks at furthest, above thrice that number had elapsed without any tidings of her having been received.
The poor widow had, on the evening previous to her death, again been at the owner's on the mournful errand of inquiring after her lost boy, and had again returned disappointed and dejected. She had, on her way thither, been overtaken by a heavy shower of rain, which had wet her clothes quite through. She had paid no attention, however, to the circumstance; for her mind was engrossed with the thought of her child, and though Jenny, on her return home, used every means in her power to prevent her taking harm from it, a cough, to which she had always been subject, and which at that time was worse than usual, soon showed how much injury she had received. In a violent paroxysm of coughing, she had ruptured the blood-vessel that put so sudden a period to her existence, and left poor Jenny alone and destitute in the world,—alone except the little helpless being, whose dependence upon her seemed only to make her situation still more deplorable. Jenny's mind, however, was one of those which, though tuned to every gentle feeling, yet possessed a native strength which rose in proportion to thepressure of misfortune; so that, as she looked upon little Sally, and considered that she was now, in all probability, her only earthly protector, she felt a tenderness almost parental rise within her, and she determined to resist every inclination to selfish indulgence of her feelings, and exert every energy for the support of her little orphan sister,—the posthumous heir of poverty and sorrow. But let not those who are surrounded by plenty, even though mourning the loss of some beloved relative, imagine that they know the difficulties of the task that poor Jenny had to perform; nor yet those who though pressed by the hard gripe of poverty, have yet some remaining friends from whom they have a right to claim the tender balm of sympathy; for of these comforts poor Jenny was equally destitute, and she found herself standing alone in the wide world, poor, friendless, and forlorn; deprived of "every stay save innocence and Heaven." It is true, some faint hope still played about her heart, that her beloved brother—her kind, her affectionate William, might yet be restored to her; but every day, as it passed over her head, made that hope more faint, till, like the hues of its own bow, which gradually fade into ether, it died away by degrees in her bosom; and at length scarce a tint remained to give its colouring to the mental horizon. Still, however, she bore up and struggled against the despondency that threatened to lay hold of her mind; and even though grim wantseemed ready to stare her in the face, her steadfast spirit, relying upon the goodness of that superintending Power, that is ever ready to be a father to the fatherless, looked up to heaven with a confident hope that she would not be forgotten. "Will He," she would say, as she watched the fruit ripen, or the seed germinate, "will He who takes care of all these things and gives them the nourishment which they require, turn a deaf ear to the cry of his orphan children? It cannot be! That little bird," she continued, "is pouring forth its soul in thankfulness and joy, though it has no stores laid up for to-morrow, and I too will trust to the same protecting Power." But from what source to-morrow's fare was to be derived, poor Jenny could form but little idea. Autumn was now far advanced, and the produce of their garden had become very scanty, whilst the expenses attendant on her mother's funeral had entirely exhausted their small store of money; so that when the little Sally complained of hunger, and begged that she would give her something to eat, she put the last morsel of bread into her hands, totally at a loss to conjecture whence the money was to be derived that was to purchase more. "Why will you not eat any yourself, Jenny?" said the child, as she eagerly devoured the dry morsel. "I am sure you must be hungry, for I have not seen you eat any thing to-day." "I do not want to eat," replied Jenny, forcing herself to speak in a cheerful tone, though shefelt at the same moment that the coarsest food would be to her a most delicious repast. "Is it because there is no more in the house?" asked Sally, whose mind, for the first time, received the idea of their scanty provision. Jenny was silent. "There is more bread here than I want," said the child, breaking, as she spoke, the piece of bread that she had before declared was not half so much as she could eat. "Take this piece, Jenny, I don't want it, and I am sure you will like it after you have tasted it."
Jenny had watched, with a dry eye, her little sister devouring their last morsel of food, whilst she herself was suffering under the most importunate demands of hunger; but this tender sympathy in the child, and her willingness to give up a part of what she so much needed herself, brought a flood of tears to her eyes. "He, who feeds the young ravens when they cry cannot let such sweetness and innocence suffer for want of food," said she inwardly, as clasping the child in her arms, she bathed her cheeks with her tears. "Don't cry, Jenny," said the affectionate little girl, as she wiped the tears from her sister's eyes with her little apron. "Don't cry. Indeed I don't want any more just now, and I dare say you will get another loaf before I am hungry again. And who-knows but William may come back, and then we shall have every thing that we want? You have not been at the owner's lately, Jenny, to ask about the ship," continued the child, anxious to divert her sister's mindfrom the sad subject of her reflections. "Why don't you go, Jenny?"
"I am afraid there is little use in it," answered her sister in a tone of despondency.
"But try, Jenny, just try once more, and perhaps good news may come when you are not expecting it."
"Well, we will go now," returned Jenny; "and," added she, "there are a few plums on the old tree that we will take with us, though they are not half ripe yet; and perhaps we may get somebody to give us as much for them as will get bread enough to keep us from starving at least one day longer." A little basket was soon filled with the plums, and they set out, once more cheered by that hope which seldom totally forsakes the bosom of youth and innocence: but, on arriving at the owner's, Jenny was surprised to find all in a state of confusion. The servant that came to the door was evidently much agitated, and on Jenny's making her accustomed inquiry if any thing had yet been heard of the ship, she was told by the girl that a letter had, a very short time before, been received by her mistress, informing her that some wrecks of the vessel had been cast ashore, and some of the sailors' chests, among which was one bearing the name of William Anderson; and that there was every reason to believe that all the crew were lost. Here then was a fatal blow to all the fond hopes that Jenny had so anxiously cherished;and her affectionate brother, on whom she had relied for support and consolation in the hour of affliction, had himself found a premature and watery grave. The servant's sympathy was too powerfully excited for the distress of her mistress, whose husband had filled the double station of master and owner, to leave much to bestow upon poor Jenny; so that, after giving her all the information in her power, she turned from the door, leaving the two orphan sisters to themselves to mourn over their share of this heavy calamity. Jenny turned her steps homeward, with a heart bowed down with affliction, and was only made conscious of where she was and whither she was going, by the questions that Sally occasionally put to her. "Look at that black cloud, Jenny," said the child, "I never saw such a cloud before. Do you think we can get home before the rain comes on?" Jenny looked up and saw that the sky had indeed a most portentous aspect; but the gloom that surrounded her only seemed to be in unison with the state of her mind, and she almost felt rejoiced that nature did not wear the appearance of gladness, whilst she felt that all was darkness within. "Isn't that thunder?" asked Sally, as a deep and distant murmur rolled round the horizon. "And there is lightning, and there is another flash," continued the child; "Oh! I wish we were at home." Jenny saw the lightning and heard the thunder, but she heard and saw almost without being consciousthat she did either; for her mind was absorbed in the idea of her beloved brother having been exposed to a storm, such as that which was approaching, accompanied with the additional horrors of a tempestuous ocean. A violent gust of wind now swept past them, and the thunder which, only a moment before, had rolled at a distance, burst over their heads with a noise which seemed to shake the very ground on which they stood; whilst the clouds brooded around in almost midnight darkness, or only parted to emit flashes of lightning, that, for the instant, illumined every object.
"Oh! Jenny, what must we do?" cried the little Sally, shrinking with fear, and putting her hands to her ears to shut out the noise of the thunder. Jenny put her arm round the neck of the child, and pressed her tenderly toward her, as, looking up at the forked shafts which flew across the skies, she inwardly breathed the prayer that he who rolls the thunderbolt and sends the lightning forth, if it was his pleasure that they should either of them fall beneath the stroke, would in his mercy let them sink together; and not leave one remaining, the helpless or wretched survivor of the other.
Jenny perhaps never looked more beautiful or interesting than she did at that moment, as she stood turning her back to a storm which she no longer felt the power to resist, her arm passed with an almostmaternal tenderness round the neck of her orphan sister, who seemed to rest against her as if assured that she was under the care of a protecting angel; and her fine eyes raised to heaven with a mingled expression of steadfast faith and humble submission. "My mother! my dear William!" she faintly uttered, "perhaps these shafts of lightning are sent as the messengers of our re-union." As she said this, a voice seemed to be borne along on the wind, and she almost fancied that she heard her own name pronounced. "It is a wild thought," she continued internally, "but I could almost imagine that William's voice is in the wind, and that he is calling me to join him and our blessed mother in the regions above." Again the voice sounded in her ear, and again, and again—it grew louder and more distinct—what could it mean? Was she already in the region of spirits? or were those angelic beings really permitted, as has sometimes been imagined, to revisit this world and hover over those whom they had loved on earth? As she asked herself the question, she turned round, but what words can express her feelings when, on doing so, she beheld, hastening toward her with all the speed that the violence of the storm would permit, the beloved brother whom she had believed to be the inmate of a watery grave! Her mind had been strung to too high a degree of agony, and she was too much exhausted from the want of food, tobear this sudden revulsion of feeling without sinking under it. She uttered a scream, and made an attempt to rush forward, but her limbs became powerless, a film came over her eyes, and she would have sunk on the ground, had not William reached her in time to receive her in his arms. So deep was the swoon into which she had fallen, that there was time for her to be conveyed to a house that was at no very great distance, before her consciousness again returned to her. When it did, she started up, and looked eagerly around, as if to assure herself that the object she had seen had not been a mere vision of the imagination; but she was soon convinced of the happy reality, for her eye immediately rested on her beloved William as he stood trying to still the cries of the little Sally, who could not be convinced that the insensible state in which Jenny lay was not equally hopeless as that which she had first witnessed at the time of her mother's death.
A copious flood of tears now came to Jenny's relief, which she was permitted to indulge for a considerable time without interruption, and then her brother led her gradually on to speak of their mother, and describe the particulars of a death of which little Sally had already informed him; after which, he proceeded to satisfy her curiosity respecting himself. It appeared that a long continuation of high and contrary winds had kept the vessel buffeting about theocean for many weeks, till at length a storm, too powerful to be resisted, had driven her on the coast, where she soon became a total wreck. Happily for William, however, he had been so fortunate as not only to save his own life, but that of his captain also, who had become so completely benumbed with cold and long exposure to the storm, as to be totally incapable of assisting himself, and must have been an unresisting prey to the angry waves, had not the generous youth determined to try to save him, even at the most imminent hazard of his own life. After many difficulties and dangers, he succeeded in gaining a footing on shore for both his captain and himself, but it was a considerable time before the former was able to proceed homeward; but when he was, they hastened on in the hope of preceding the news of their misfortunes. The letter, however, giving an account of the portions of the wreck which had been washed on shore, on a part of the coast at some distance from that on which they had landed, had arrived a short time before them; indeed, they had reached the captain's house only a very few minutes after Jenny and her little sister had left it, and William had lost no time in hastening after them. "We have weathered a heavy gale," said he, after he had given his sisters this account, "but it is all over now; and what is better, our captain declares he will never go to sea again, but will give me the command of the new vesselwhich he is going to have built. He says that I saved his life, and he is determined to prove a father to me in return."
"Oh! my mother," cried Jenny, clasping her hands and raising her eyes in thankfulness to Heaven, "why are you not here to enjoy this happy moment!"
"And why should you not, my dear girl," said the lady into whose house Jenny had been carried, and who had listened with great interest to the conversation between the brother and sister; "why should you not believe not only that she sympathizes in your happiness, but that her views of the great scheme of Providence are now so enlarged, as to render her capable of perceiving that, what we here call evils, are as mere motes in the balance, when put in competition with the great sum of happiness which awaits the virtuous hereafter? Upon the benevolent plan on which all creation is formed, the petty distinctions of rich and poor, high and low, on which we are apt to place so much importance, will soon be lost in the grand and comprehensive distinctions of virtue and vice; to which standard alone, all will be brought, and which may at once place the humblest peasant above the proudest monarch."
"Yes! yes! Jenny," said the young sailor, "we know that whatever storms may beset us, we still have a never-failing Friend, always at hand, who willsteer us to a safe harbour at last. So come, my sweet lilly and my pretty rose-bud," added he, taking a hand of each of his sisters, "cheer up, my girls! for, though the winds still blow and the skies frown, by the blasts of poverty, at least, you shall never more be assailed, as long as your brother's arm has power to protect you."
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
The following extraordinary story is declared by the authoress, Mademoiselle Vanhove, to be strictly true in its leading incidents.
Madame Dorival was the widow of a distinguished French officer, who had died in the service of his country. Finding it difficult, without the closest economy, to support her family genteelly on the pension allowed her by government, and being anxious to secure an independence for her children in case of her death, she was induced to open a boarding-school in the vicinity of Paris. The assistance of her two highly accomplished daughters, Lucilla and Julia, made the employment of female teachers unnecessary; but she engaged the best masters for music, dancing, drawing and painting, and the fashionable foreign languages. Her establishment was conducted on a most liberal scale, and each of the twenty young ladies who became her pupils had a separate apartment.
Among these young ladies, was Josephine Vericour, who took lessons in miniature painting, with the view of exercising that branch of the art as a profession;the circumstances of her family being such that it was necessary to educate her, in the prospect of turning her talents to a profitable account.
Her imagination being deeply impressed with this object, she thought of it nearly all day, and dreamed of it at night. That she had much natural talent for drawing, was unquestionable; but she was only fifteen, she was not a prodigy, and in every thing she had as yet produced was to be found a due portion of errors and defects. With an ardent ambition to excel, Josephine was the victim of a painful and unconquerable timidity, and an entire want of confidence in herself. She had attempted likenesses of all her school-mates, one after another, and was disheartened and discouraged because none of them were perfect, and was overwhelmed with mortification when she heard them criticised. The remarks of the gentleman who instructed her, though very judicious, were often so severe, that she was frequently almost tempted to throw away her pencil in despair, and she never painted worse than when under the eye of her master.
One morning in the garden, she was struck with the graceful and picturesque attitude in which two of her companions had unconsciously thrown themselves, one of them, having put her arm round the waist of the other, was pointing out to her notice a beautiful butterfly that had just settled on a rose. Josephine begged of the girls to remain in that position whileshe sketched them on the blank leaf of a book. Afterwards she made a separate drawing of each of their faces, and then transferred the whole to a large sheet of ivory, intending to make a picture of it in the miniature style. But she determined to work at it in her own chamber, at leisure hours, and not to allow it to be seen till it was entirely finished. In six weeks there was to be a private examination, at which premiums were to be awarded to those who excelled in the different branches taught at Madame Dorival's school. Seven of the young ladies were taking lessons in miniature-painting, all of whom, in the eyes of the diffident Josephine, possessed far more talent than herself. Still, she knew that industry, application, and an ardent desire to succeed, had often effected wonders; and she was extremely anxious to gratify her parents by obtaining the prize, if possible.
In the retirement of her own room she painted with unremitting solicitude, but, asshethought, with very indifferent success; and one afternoon, more dissatisfied than usual with the result of her work, she hastily took the ivory from her little easel, and put it into the drawer of her colour-box, which she consigned to its usual place in the drawer of her table.
Next morning, what was the surprise of Josephine, to find her picture standing against the easel on the table, and much farther advanced than when she had quitted it the preceding evening, and the faults which had then discouraged her, entirely rectified. Shetried to recollect if she had really put away the picture, and her memory recalled every circumstance of her shutting it up in the drawer. But she had no recollection of having previously corrected any of the errors; indeed, she knew that she had not, and the only way in which she could attempt to solve the mystery, was to suppose that some one, with the intention of exciting a laugh at her expense, had come into her room during the night, taken out the picture, and re-touched it.
She mentioned it to no one; but the next night, to guard against a recurrence of the same trick, she arranged every thing in the neatest order, locked up her picture in the secret drawer at the bottom of her colour-box, and placed it under her bolster.
But her astonishment was redoubled, when awaking at an early hour the next morning, she put her hand under the bolster to feel for her box and found it gone! She ran to the table, and saw there the colour-box lying beside the picture, which, as before, was leaning against the easel, and evidently much improved. She thought that it now began to look beautifully, and she could not withdraw her delighted eyes from contemplating it.
Still she felt persuaded that it was all a trick, for which she should pay dearly when an explanation took place. She was afraid to touch it again, lest her own inferior pencil should destroy some of its beauties; though at the same time she remarked afew trifling defects, which she had not been conscious of when painting at it the day before. But rather than run the risk of spoiling the whole, she preferred leaving these little imperfections as they were. Sometimes she thought of showing it to her governess and to her master; but the time of the examination approached, and the temptation of keeping the secret was very great.
However, she could not resolve to paint at the picture that day herself. Before she went to bed, she took the precaution of placing a chair against her door, which had the bolt on the outside only, the young ladies not being permitted to fasten themselves up in their rooms.
She lay awake for a long time listening, but heard not the slightest sound, and after a while she fell into a profound sleep. When she awoke in the morning, the door was still closed, and the chair standing just as she had placed it; the picture was again on the easel; some mysterious hand had again been engaged on it, and all the faults had disappeared, or been altered into beauties.
Josephine stood motionless with amazement. When her bewildered thoughts settled themselves into a distinct form, regret was her predominant feeling. "What shall I do?" said she to herself. "I fear this mystery if I allow it to go on, will end in something very vexatious; and yet it may be only from motives of kindness that some unknown person stealsinto my room at night, and works at my picture with a skill far surpassing my own. Since I did not mention it at first, were I now to relate this strange story, I should lose my character for veracity, as no one, I am sure, would believe me."
She painted no more at the picture, but put it away as usual. That night she placed her washing-stand against the door, laying her soap on the edge, so that if moved, it would fall, and having gone to bed very sleepy, she soon closed her eyes in her usual deep slumber. In the morning, the washing-stand was still against the door, the soap had not fallen, the picture was once more on the easel, and—it was finished!
At the breakfast-table she stole inquiring glances at the countenances of her school-mates, but none of them looked particularly ather, and none of them averted their eyes from her gaze. All seemed to think only of the examination.
When she returned to her room, she drest herself for the occasion, and wrapping her picture in her pocket-handkerchief, she joined her companions, who walked in procession to the principal school-room, according to their rank in the class. All the instructors were assembled. After being examined in several other branches, the drawings and miniature paintings were produced. When it came to the turn of Josephine, she blushed as she presented her beautiful picture.
Every one was astonished; it was so far superiorto any thing she had done before, particularly the finishing. The young ladies from whom she had sketched the figures, being present, every one was struck with the fidelity of the likenesses, painted, as they were, chiefly from memory; and great praise was given, not only to the grace of the attitudes, but to the easy and natural folds of the drapery, and the clearness and beauty of the colouring. There was also the novelty of two figures on the same ivory.
The superiority of this little picture was so manifest, that there was no hesitation in awarding the first prize, which was a small silver palette, to Josephine Vericour. But to the surprise of every one, Josephine showed no indication of joy at this signal triumph. She looked round on all her companions, seeking to discover the one who had painted the best part of her picture for her in the night while she slept. She fixed her eyes steadfastly on Julia, the youngest daughter of Madame Dorival, who possessed in a high degree the charming talent of miniature painting.
Josephine, who had heard Julia commending her picture, said to her, "Miss Julia, you may well admire your own work. I have not merited the prize, and I will not accept of praises which belong only to you, to your skill in miniature painting, and to the kindness of your heart."
Julia protested that this language was unintelligible to her, and begged Josephine to explain herself. Shedid so, and the enigma seemed still more incomprehensible. Julia positively denied ever having seen the picture before Josephine produced it at the examination. In vain did Josephine detail all the circumstances of its mysterious progress. Her statement could not be reconciled to the rules of possibility, and they began to think that her mind was affected by intense application to her picture. The prize, however, was decreed to her, in spite of her reluctance to accept it; and when the examination was over, the young ladies got together in groups, and talked with much feeling of the symptoms of mental derangement which had manifested themselves in the unfortunate Josephine.
For a few weeks after the examination, Josephine allowed her paint-box to remain with those of her companions in one of the school-room closets, and painted only under the direction of her master, and during the time of her regular lessons; but though there were marks of daily improvement, the miniatures she now attempted were inferior to the mysterious picture.
Being anxious to try again how she could succeed in the solitude of her own apartment, she there commenced a miniature of herself, which, if successful, she intended as a present to her mother. By the assistance of the large looking-glass that hung over the table, she sketched the outline of her features with great correctness, and after she had put in the deadcolouring, (as the first tints are called,) she put away her work for that day, and went to Julia, whom she told of the new picture that she had just begun, and of her anxiety to know whether her nocturnal visiter would again assist her in completing it.
"Dear Miss Julia," said poor Josephine, "let me entreat you to have compassion and tell me the whole truth. If you have any private reasons for not wishing it to be generally known, I solemnly promise to disclose it to no one. Tell me how you always contrived to enter my chamber in the night without disturbing my sleep, and how you have been able to paint so well by candlelight?"
"Miss Vericour," said Julia, "you surprise me extremely by seeming to persist in the strange belief that I am the unknown person who painted in secret on your picture. This mystery must be solved; and if you find it so difficult to believe my word, you must assist me in discovering the truth. Place nothing to-night against your door; do not even latch it. Put away your painting apparatus as usual, and go to bed, and to sleep if you can. I have thought of a way of detecting the intruder, who, I suppose, must of course be one of the young ladies. When she is discovered, she shall be reprimanded, and made to give up her part in this strange drama, so that your perplexity will be at an end.
Josephine acquiesced with joy, and minutely followed the directions of Julia. All the young ladieswent to bed at nine o'clock, but on this night it was long after ten before Josephine could compose herself to sleep. When every one in the house had gone to bed and all was quiet, Julia Dorival placed a taper in a small dark lantern, and proceeded with it to the passage into which Josephine's chamber opened. There, seating herself on a chair outside of the door, she remained patiently watching for more than an hour. No one appeared; the clock struck twelve, and Julia began to grow tired. She was almost on the point of giving up the adventure, when her ear was attracted by a slight noise in Josephine's room.
Julia softly pushed open the door, and by the light of her lantern, she saw Josephine dress herself in her morning-gown, walk directly to her table, arrange her painting materials, select her colours, seat herself before the glass, and begin to paint at her own miniature. But what was most astonishing, she worked without any light, which Julia did not at first remark, having her own lantern beside her in the passage. She entered the chamber as softly as possible, and placing herself behind Josephine's chair, she looked at her as she painted, and was astonished at the ease and skill with which she guided her pencil, asleep and in darkness.
Julia Dorival was twenty years old, and with a large fund of general information, she was not, of course, ignorant of the extraordinary phenomenon ofsomnambulism, and of the most remarkable and best authenticated anecdotes of sleep-walkers. But among all that she had heard and read on the subject, she recollected none more surprising than the case now before her. She knew, also, that persons under the influence of this singular habit should never be suddenly awakened, as the shock and surprise have been known to cause in them convulsions or delirium. She therefore carefully avoided disturbing Josephine, and gliding quietly out of the room, she looked at her for some time from the passage, and then gently closing the door, she left her to herself and retired to her own apartment.
Next morning, Julia excited great surprise in her mother and sister, by informing them of what she had seen. They agreed to witness together that night this interesting spectacle, and of course, not to mention a word on the subject to Josephine, who, when she innocently inquired of Julia the result of her watching, was answered that she should know all to-morrow.
They were much affected at the idea that this young girl's earnest and praise-worthy desire to excel in the art which was to be her future profession, should have so wrought upon her mind, even in the hours of repose, as almost to achieve a miracle, and to enable her to prosecute employment with more ardour, and even with more success, in darkness andin sleep, than in the light of day, and with all her faculties awake.
At midnight, the three ladies repaired with their lantern to the chamber door of Josephine. The sleep-walker was putting on her gown. They saw her seat herself at the table and begin to paint. They approached close behind her without the smallest noise, venturing to bring into the room their lantern; of its dim light, Josephine was entirely unconscious. They saw her mix her colours with great judgment, and lay on the touches of her pencil with the utmost delicacy and precision. Her eyes were open, but she saw not with them; though she frequently raised her head as if looking in the glass.
Somnambulists see nothing but the object on which their attention is decidedly fixed; yet their perceptions of this object are ascertained to be much clearer and more vivid than when awake. If addressed, they will generally answer coherently, and as if they understood and heard; and it is possible to hold a very rational dialogue with a sleep-walker. But when awake, they have no recollection of any thing that has passed during the time of somnambulism.
Julia ventured to speak to Josephine in a low voice. "Well," said she, "my dear Josephine, you know now who it is that paints in the night at your pictures. You know that it is yourself. Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Does my presence disturb you?"
"No, Miss Julia."
"But to-morrow, Josephine, you will not believe what I shall tell you."
"Then it will be because I do not remember it."
"Will you write on this piece of paper something that I wish to dictate to you?"
"Most willingly."
Josephine then took up a lead pencil, and wrote these words as Julia prompted her:—
"Midnight.—Talking with Miss Julia Dorival, and painting at a miniature of myself.
Josephine Vericour."
Julia took the paper, and prepared to retire, cautioning the young artist not to fatigue herself by painting too long.
"Do not fear," replied Josephine, "I always return to bed as soon as I begin to feel weary."
The three ladies left the room on tip-toe, as they had entered it, their minds wholly engrossed with admiration at the phenomenon they had just witnessed. Next morning, Julia had some trouble in convincing Josephine of the fact, but the certificate in her own writing was an undeniable evidence. As there is something strange and awful, and frequently dangerous, in the habit of somnambulism, no one wishes to possess it; and Josephine was anxious to get rid of it as soon as possible, eventhough it enabled her to paint better than when awake.
She would not trust her painting apparatus in her chamber at night, and she dismissed all thought of her miniature from her mind as soon as she went to bed; and was consequently enabled to rest there till morning as tranquilly as any of her school-mates, all of whom were much amazed when they heard the singular explanation of the Mysterious Picture.
This explanation once given, Madame Dorival prohibited its becoming a subject of conversation. Josephine made vigorous efforts to conquer her timidity in presence of her master, and in a short time she was able to paint as well under his inspection as she had done when alone and asleep in the gloom of midnight.
ELIZA LESLIE.