mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a _vignette_
manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the
bosom and even the ends of the radiant hair, melted imperceptibly into
the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The
frame was oval, richly, yet fantastically gilded and filagreed. As a
work of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself.
The loveliness of the face surpassed that of the fabulous Houri. But it
could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal
beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved
me. Least of all could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its
half-slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw
at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the _vignetting_ and of
the frame must have instantly dispelled such idea—must have prevented
even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points,
I remained, for some hours perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with
my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied of the true
secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell
of the picture in a perfect _life-likeliness_ of expression, which at
first startling, finally confounded, subdued and appalled me. I could no
longer support the sad meaning smile of the half-parted lips, nor the
too real lustre of the wild eye. With a deep and reverent awe I replaced
the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation
being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed
the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words
which follow:
“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of
glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the
painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride
in his Art: she a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full
of glee: all light and smiles and frolicksome as the young fawn: loving
and cherishing all things: hating only the Art which was her rival:
dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments
which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a
terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to
portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient and sat
meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light
dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter,
took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour and from day to
day. And he was a passionate, and wild and moody man, who became lost in
reveries; so that he _would_ not see that the light which fell so
ghastily in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his
bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on,
uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter, (who had high
renown,) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day
and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more
dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of
its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel and a proof not less
of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he
depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer
to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the
painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his visage
from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And
he _would_ not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were
drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks
had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth
and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as
the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given,
and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood
entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while
yet he gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying
with a loud voice ‘This is indeed _Life_ itself!’ turned himself
suddenly round to his beloved—_who was dead_. The painter then
added—‘But is this indeed Death?’”
* * * * *
THE MINER’S FATE.
FROM THE PORT-FOLIO OF A RAMBLING ARTIST.
A bright fresh May morning smiled upon one of the loveliest landscapes
in nature, and revealed to the eye of a wandering young artist a picture
of such exceeding beauty, that he found it impossible to confine his
attention to his canvas sufficiently long to produce the faintest
semblance of the loveliness which reigned and revelled around him.
“What a grand effect is produced on that magnificent amphitheatre of
hills by the sunrise purpling their rising mist as it ascends and
imperceptibly mingles with the rose-colored clouds—while its base is
wrapped in the cold blue tint which the stronger rays of the sun will
presently disperse. If I could catch the hue of that many-tinted mist,
and throw over it the soft dreamy haze which clothes the atmosphere, I
should more than rival the mighty master, Claude Lorraine—one more
trial; such a scene must inspire the humblest artist.”
He re-arranged a small easel as he spoke, and proceeded to cover his
pallet with the choicest and most exquisite colors; but the glories of
_outre mêr_ and carmine seemed so pale and faded before the
inexpressible radiance of earth and ether, that long before he had
finished laying on the dead coloring of his picture, he threw it aside
in despair.
“I must complete it,” he said, “at some other time when the majesty of
nature may not mock my humble efforts.” He then arose, and re-packing
his paint-box, deposited it safely among the mossy rocks, and sauntered
slowly onward, to enjoy at least, if he could not imitate, the
enchantments of nature. And truly he might well give up his heart to the
passionate love of beauty which pervaded it; for the loveliness of that
quiet valley was well calculated to gratify the intense desires of a
mind thirsting for images of perfection. Not only did the mountain tops
and mist gleam with the golden sunlight, but every flower at his feet,
every blade of grass displayed each its wealth of gem-like dew
glittering with unrivalled colors.
“The plumed insects swift and free,
Like golden boats on a sunny sea,”
filled the scented air, and shed their “music of many murmurings” upon
his path; and he was inclined to fancy that no new feature could add
beauty to the landscape around, when a sudden turn in the winding path
convinced him of his error.
He had turned his back on the semi-circular range of hills, and emerged
into a tract of country much more extensive, though still very broken.
Huge masses of rock salt, covered with crystals whose prismatic forms
lent them a startling brilliancy, gleamed upon his sight, and the green
sweep of land between was diversified by many small cottages built of
the gray rock which abounded throughout the country. The narrow path
bordered with vines and wild roses lured him on, until the sweet accents
of a female voice broke upon his ear, and he found that his path would
lead him to trespass upon the enclosure of a cottage which appeared to
be one of the neatest and best arranged among them. The painter paused,
and his eye, (that morning destined to agreeable surprises,) readily
discovered a group without the door, which immediately called out his
pencil and pocket port-folio. A very bright-eyed child had thrown his
chubby little arms around his father’s neck, and seemed resolved upon
detaining him from his day’s labor; while the young wife, with eyes and
lips scarcely less bright than those of the child, vainly endeavored to
attract the infant with the most enticing toys. At length the father
succeeded in unclasping the dimpled hands, and placing the baby on the
floor; but the child still endeavored to detain him by holding the
skirts of his coat.
“Philip seems determined that you shall not go to-day,” said the young
woman; “perhaps there is a meaning in his warning.”
“If I listened to all your signs and warnings, I should very seldom
leave you,” replied the husband. “I must go and that quickly, in spite
of my persevering little pet.”
“But you will come back very soon?”
“I cannot even promise that,” replied the miner; for the husband was a
laborer in the extensive salt mines, whose crystallizations produce so
beautiful an effect in the distance. “We have a tremendous piece of work
before us to-day, and there is no telling when it will be finished.”
“Would to God it were safely over.”
“Don’t look so pale and frightened, Mary; worse jobs are done every
day—but they will call me sluggard if I loiter here—so good-bye,
good-bye, darlings.”
“Heaven preserve you,” responded the wife; and she turned with feelings
half of dread and half of hope to the cottage door.
“Just such a morning,” muttered an old woman who sat crouching in the
chimney corner—“just such a morning, bright as this,—and a black night
followed the bright day—a black, black night.”
“Now the saints save us!” exclaimed the young woman: “who ever heard
Dame Ursula talking away at such a rate before? As sure as fate
something unusual will happen. What is it you were saying grand-dame?”
she added in a louder tone, approaching the thin, withered old hag who
had crept slowly toward the door-step, and seating herself there,
continued to mutter and mumble half indistinct words.
“Storms follow the sunshine—storms and tempests and thick darkness.”
The anxious wife followed and sat down beside her.
“Is there any evil hanging over us? for mercy sake tell me if you know,”
she asked.
“Evil, did I say Evil! I spoke of the past, not the future—I spoke of
the days of youth and hope and beauty.” Then as her wandering memory
gradually linked together the chain of by-gone associations, her
countenance brightened, and she poured into the ear of her astonished
auditor the narrative of events which had taken place nearly a century
before, and were generally forgotten,—treasured only in the heart of
that desolate, and decrepid old creature.
“Youth and beauty, and love I said, and you marvelled at hearing such
words from my lips; no wonder, for many a year has passed since these
things have been aught to me save idle dreams. But the time has been,
when I too was young—loving and loved—blessing and blessed. My
brother, your grandfather, and myself were left, you know, in early life
as orphans in the hands of strangers; and although we had no claim on
them except that of helplessness, and could only repay their kindness by
our exertions, we had no reason ever to complain of harshness or
ill-treatment among our kind and simple people. I was older than my
brother, and as I grew up to be a tall handsome lass, the young men of
the village strove which could make themselves most agreeable to the
light hearted and beautiful Ursula. I know it is folly in me to talk so
now, and you can scarcely believe it, but eighty years hence, if you
should live so long, your cheek may be wrinkled and your eye bleared
like mine, so that your laughing boy will scarcely credit the tale of
your former beauty.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“And if not,” resumed the crone, “the change may be far more
fearful—but where was I? Oh—a merry romping lass of eighteen, with
blue eyes, fair curling locks and red ripe lips—admired by all the
village—but above all the favored choice of young Albert Wessenbery.
The handsomest, bravest, noblest being! I wish you could have seen him,
Mary, in all his pride of vast strength, and perfection of manly beauty.
Words cannot express the love with which I loved him. A lifelong
loneliness has proved it. Well, as I told you, I was his choice, and
consequently the envy of all my acquaintances, for no one thought of
denying that Albert Wessenbery was the pride of the village. So
powerful, so stately, so devoted to me,—well, well! our wedding day was
fixed, and the bridesmaids appointed. A week before—yes, just seven
days before our wedding was to have taken place, I bade farewell to
Albert for a day only, I believed. Just such a day as this, it was—and
perhaps that is the reason why the soft clear sunshine, and the sweet
sounds in the air have called up all these old memories so freshly. He
pressed me in his arms and bade me farewell till evening. I dreaded his
going out to work that day, for there was dangerous duty to be done; but
he went in spite of my entreaties, and from that hour to this, I have
never seen him return. I remember but dimly what followed. A stunning
shock as if an avalanche had overwhelmed me. Death to him was worse than
death to me. They told me he had perished in the mine. I know not
whether they spoke truly. I have known nothing clearly since that time.
I remember only that the light was removed from my path, and that the
blackness of madness gathered round me for a while. How long this lasted
I know not—when I arose from my bed of sickness, my heart and my flesh
failed me, and I was as useless and decrepid as if years had passed over
my head. Since that time I have struggled on through a long life of
darkness and misery, dragging on a useless and tedious existence.”
“Oh say not useless my good friend; have you not while you had strength,
given to others the happiness which fate denied you?”
“My brother gave me a home in his chimney corner, and here have I lived
more years than I can count, and for what? God knows—perhaps I may yet
live to see Albert return. I cannot fancy him altered as I am. I cannot
help hoping to see him once more as he was of old. Vain as the hope may
seem to you—that hope has been the only happiness I have known since he
left me—the only hope. Of what other use am I in the world? why should
I live? what other use? what other hope?” So speaking and shaking her
palsied head, she relapsed into her former half unconscious state,
occasionally muttering words to which her young companion listened with
strained attention; but she could hear no more, neither did she succeed
in again arousing the old woman from her apathy.
The Artist sauntered idly onward until he reached the mines; here
finding that the reflection of the noon-tide brilliancy from the
crystals was painful to the eyesight, he descended into one of the
deepest excavations, where he found his acquaintance of the morning, and
a fellow labourer at work. The day’s work was a heavy one, for they were
opening a communication between the mines, and in heaving up the massive
rocks there was great danger of being buried alive beneath their
crumbling weight. Such things had often happened.
“Here is a mass which requires more strength than we can furnish,” said
Philip, and he shouted for help. The desired assistance arrived, and
after an hour’s severe labor, the huge rock was heaved upwards. This
removal disclosed a solid stratum of the salt for which they were
toiling; but the attainment of the object of their labor called forth no
expression of pleasure from the beholders, for the attention of every
one was riveted upon a strange and unlooked for apparition. Extended
upon this singular couch, lay the form of a young man, apparently not
more than twenty years of age; his limbs were exquisitely moulded, and
he looked as if but yesterday he had been hushed in the deep sleep of
death. It was evident to the minds of all, that many years must have
elapsed since the being they had thus disinterred, had been overwhelmed
with destruction in attempting to move that massive weight; for many
years had passed since that portion of the mine had been worked upon.
But was his destruction instantaneous? or did he linger on, day after
day, in vain hope for the help which came not? how long had that
crystalized rock been his mausoleum? who was he? where were his kindred?
Here was a wide field for conjecture. Could no one remember that form
which might have passed for a sculptured image of Antinous? But stranger
than all this, the body seemed utterly untouched by the hand of time.
The very pliability of the flesh remained! Destruction had passed
harmlessly by that glorious form, and decomposition had not come near
it. There he lay—he, whose existence none could remember—life-like,
and beautiful—embalmed as it were in the solid rock. The sinewy, and
rounded limbs told of the strength and beauty which had once been
theirs, and the long black hair curled wildly over the clay cold face,
and nerveless shoulders. He was in his ordinary mining dress, and by his
spade and pickaxe beside him, gave evidence of his final and fatal
occupation. The body was removed, and laid upon the thick green sward
for further inspection, and perhaps recognition. The news spread
rapidly, and the inhabitants quickly crowded around. None recollected
him, although some of the oldest among them told stories of such an
accident which had happened when they were little children; but none
could remember the circumstances. After awhile a universal murmur broke
from the crowd, for they beheld their oldest villager, Dame Ursula,
approach with tottering and unsteady steps, leaning on the arm of a
handsome young female. Not the exhumation of the life-like corpse
itself, produced greater sensation among them, than the appearance of
the living spectre—for such the old woman appeared, having never left
her home for more than twenty years.
“Jesu, Maria—the Saints save us,” were echoed around her as the crowd
respectfully made room for her to advance. She passed on slowly, and
with difficulty, until she reached the stiff white figure of the dead
miner. Then throwing herself upon the grass beside him, she passed her
withered long fingers through his hair, and pressed it back from the
pale brow.
“It is he, it is he—Albert Wessenbery,” she murmured; “and it was for
this I have been spared through long years of loneliness, and
wretchedness—long, long years—I knew not why I lived. It was for this,
for this: that I might see him once more, once more in all his unearthly
beauty, in his unmatched perfection: that I might see, and know that
time has not marred, nor decay changed, nor the worm defiled the being I
have idolized for nearly a century. Spared too to rejoice that my own
Albert cannot behold the change which time, and life have wrought in a
form he once loved so well. To him these withered arms and lips are
welcome as if they yet retained all their former loveliness. He will not
reject his early love for her age, and sickness, and unsightlessness. To
him therefore I devote the remainder of my existence. Here will I fulfil
the vows of love and constancy plighted in the spring time of life.”
She bent her head as she spoke and imprinted with bloodless lips a kiss
upon his; her white hair streamed down, and mingled with his raven
tresses, her long skinny fingers warm with life, pressed the cold marble
hand of the dead! Strange union of youth and age—beauty and
deformity—life and death! Seven days afterwards they were buried in the
same grave, the superannuated woman, and her youthful lover. The
constancy of a lifetime was rewarded, for she was permitted to rest her
aged and hoary head, upon the manly, and unaltered breast of him she had
loved so long and so well. Turf and flowers sprung up as greenly and
freely above their grave as if they had been always young, and
beautiful, and happy. Many a garland of young flowers, and the more
lasting wreaths of the amaranth were hung upon that grave; and the names
of Ursula and Albert, rudely sculptured on the grey stone which covered
them, formed their only obituary, save the memory which survives in the
hearts of the villagers.
* * * * *
BIRTH OF FREEDOM.
BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC.
Yes, Freedom! Tyrants date thy splendid birth
With those uprisings in the bloody Past,
When all the lion-hearted of the earth
Unfurl’d their rebel-banners to the blast,
And from their limbs the dungeon-fetter cast;
But thou, Oh, idol of the brave! was’t born,
In full-grown majesty, upon that morn
When all the stars together sang, and forms
Of wondrous beauty, suns of dazzling light
Flamed from the bosom of those primal storms
Which lashed the rivers of chaotic night:
And some would drive thee from our gloomy sod;
Vainly they war with such blasphemous might;
Thy birth-place, Freedom! was the heart of God.
* * * * *
RECOLLECTIONS OF WEST POINT.
BY MISS LESLIE.
PART THE FIRST.
Among the numerous strangers that stop at West Point, in ascending or in
coming down the Hudson, there are comparatively few who allow themselves
sufficient time to become acquainted with even the half that is worthy
of note, in that extraordinary place—giving but one day, or perhaps
only a few hours, to a visit which ought at least to comprise a whole
week. A large proportion of these travellers, after they have hurried
through the rooms of the academy, walked round the camp, witnessed the
parade, heard the band, or perhaps accomplished a hasty survey of the
ruins of Fort Putnam, seem to believe that they are consequently
familiar with all that both nature and art have done for one of the most
beautiful and interesting spots on the American continent.
And beautiful indeed it is, from its romantic situation in the midst of
the highlands, looking directly down on one of the finest rivers in the
world—and from its picturesque combinations of mountain, valley and
plain; woodland, rock, and water—scenery to which no painter has ever
yet done justice. And how intensely interesting are its associations
with the history of our revolutionary contest—when West Point commanded
the passes of the highlands—at once opposing a barrier to the descent
of the enemy from the lake country and to their ascent from the ocean.
Also amid these hills lay the army of Washington, at the time it was so
providentially saved by the discovery of Arnold’s treason.
And now, “when the storm of war is gone,” and the Gibraltar of America
finds no farther occasion for its mountain fortresses, it has become the
nucleus from whence the military science of our country radiates to its
utmost boundaries; the nursery of a body of officers whose cultivated
minds, polished manners, and high tone of moral feeling, have rendered
them deservedly popular with their compatriots—also eliciting a
favourable testimony even from the British tourists.
It is a common and, in most instances, a true remark, that first
impressions are lasting: at least with regard to external objects. My
own first impressions of West Point were received on a lovely summer
evening that succeeded a stormy day. I had left the city of New York
with my brother, at nine o’clock in the morning, in the slow and
unpopular Richmond; the only boat that went up the river on that day,
and the worst of the three steam-vessels which at that time comprised
the establishment of what is now termed the old North River Company.
I need not say that it was during the period of the charter they had
obtained for the exclusive steam-navigation of the Hudson. In those
days, a voyage from New York to Albany frequently consumed twenty-four
hours, and the fare was ten dollars.
I had anticipated the most extatic delight from my first view of the
grand and romantic scenery of this noble river. But very soon after we
left the city a heavy rain came on, and seemed to have set in for the
whole day. I had recently recovered from a long illness, and could not
venture to remain on the wet deck, even under the screen of an umbrella.
The canvass awning was so perforated with holes from the chimney-sparks,
that it afforded about as much shelter as a large sieve. There was no
upper cabin, and I reluctantly compelled myself to quit admiring the
Palisade Rocks and descend to the apartment appropriated to the ladies.
It was very crowded and perfectly close. The berths were all occupied by
females lying down in their clothes, and trying to sleep away the
tedious hours. The numerous children were uncomfortable, fretful, and
troublesome, as most children are when they are “cabin’d, crib’d,
confin’d.” Seats were so scarce (when were they otherwise in a summer
steam-boat) that many of us were glad to place ourselves on the wooden
edges of the lower berths. In this extreme I could not agree with the
old adage that “it is as cheap sitting as standing:” for if cheapness
means convenience or agreeableness, as is generally supposed, I found it
quite as convenient, and rather more agreeable, to stand leaning against
something, than to sit on the perpendicular edge of a board. We had not
even the pleasure of regaling our eyes with the handsome fittings-up
that now when there is no monopoly and great rivalry, are deemed
indispensable to the reputation of an American steam-boat. The old
Richmond was furnished very plainly, alias meanly. Her cabins had common
ingrain carpets of the ugliest possible patterns, pine tables painted
red, and curtains of coarse dark calico. By the by, reader, never go to
a boarding-house that professes a _plain_ table; you will be almost sure
to find it a mean one. Also, never engage a _plain_ cook—you will be
almost sure to find her no cook at all.
We were nearly all day in the boat, and it rained incessantly. It was
very tantalizing on this, my first voyage up the Hudson, to obtain only
an occasional glimpse of its beautiful shores through the small cabin
windows, which windows were always monopolized by nurse-maids, seated on
the transom with their babies; the babies taking no interest in the
scenery, and their nurses still less.