CHAPTER V.

A SMALL, but most comfortably-furnished parlour of a new,

respectable-looking dwelling, in one of the best streets of Liverpool,

is the scene to which we must conduct our readers about two years after

the conclusion of our last chapter. The furniture all looked new, except

a kind of antique silver lamp, which stood on an oaken bracket opposite

the window. It was a room thrown out from the usual back of the house,

opening by a large French window and one or two steps into a small but

beautifully laid-out flower garden, divided by a passage and another

parlour from the handsome shop which opened on the street. It was a

silversmith and watchmaker’s, with the words “Perez Brothers,” in large

but not showy characters, over the door. The shop seemed much

frequented, there was a constant ingress and egress of respectable

people; but there was no bustle, nothing going wrong, all seemed

quietness and regularity; orders received and questions answered, and

often articles of particularly skilful workmanship displayed with that

gentle courtesy and good feeling which can spring but from the heart.

But we are forgetting—it is the parlour and not the shop with which we

have to do. The room and its furniture may be strangers to us—perhaps

one of the inmates—but not the other. The still infirm and aged, but the

thrice-blessed, thrice-happy mother was still spared to bless God for

the prosperity, the well-doing, and the unchanging faith and piety of

her beloved children. Simeon’s wish was fulfilled—his mother was

restored to her former station, nay, raised higher in the scale of

society than she had ever been; but meek in prosperity as faithful in

adversity, there was no change in that widowed heart, save, if possible,

yet deeper love and gratitude to God. And a beautiful picture might that

gentle face have made, bending down with such a smile of caressing love

on the lovely infant of nearly three years, who had clambered on her

knee, and was folding its little round arms about her neck. It was a

touching contrast of age and infancy, for Rachel looked much older than

she really was, but there was nothing sad in it. The unusual loveliness

of the child cannot be passed unnoticed: the snowy skin, the rich golden

curls, just touched with that chesnut which takes away all insipidity

from fairness, might have proclaimed her not a child of Israel; but then

there was the large, lustrous black eye and its long fringe, the

subdued, soul-speaking beauty of the other features—that was Israel’s,

and Israel’s alone! Full of life and joyousness, her infant prattle

amused her grandmother, till at the closing, about six in the evening,

her son Simeon joined her. We should perhaps have said that an elderly

Jewess, remarkably clean and tidy in her person, had very often entered

the parlour to see, she said, if the dear widow were comfortable or

wanted anything, or little Jeanie were troublesome, etc. It was old

Esther, who fulfilling all sorts of offices in the family, acting

companion and nurse to the widow and Jeanie, cleaning silver—in which

she was very expert—seeing to the cooking of the dinner, and taking care

of the lad’s clothes, delighted herself, and more than satisfied those

with whom she lived.

To satisfy our readers’ curiosity, as to how this great change in the

widow’s condition had been brought about, we will briefly narrate its

origin. When Reuben’s year of probation was over, and he felt he was a

Jew in heart and soul and reason, as well as name, he returned to

Liverpool, to delight his mother with the change. He was met with love

and with rejoicing, no reference was made to the past, and between

himself and Simeon not a shadow of estrangement remained. The latter had

at first hung back, feeling self-reproached that he had wronged his

brother; but Reuben’s truly noble nature conquered these feelings, and

soon after bound him to him with the ties of gratitude as well as love.

Simeon’s talent for modelling in silver was now as marked as his dislike

to that trade, which despite of disinclination, he had perseveringly

followed. Reuben, on the contrary, retained all his father’s

instructions in watch-making, and had determined, when he returned to

Liverpool, to set up that business which, from the excellent capital he

had amassed and laid by, was not difficult to accomplish. He had

determined on this plan, feeling as if he thus tacitly acknowledged and

followed his lamented father’s wishes, and atoned to him, even in death,

for former disregard. He, of course, wished to associate Simeon in the

business; but as the young man’s desires and talents seemed pointed

otherwise, he placed him for a year with a first-rate silversmith in

London. Morris, Simeon’s late master, had given up business, and this in

itself was a capital opening for Reuben. He made use of it, and

flourished. In less than eighteen months after his return to Liverpool,

“Perez Brothers” opened their new shop as silversmiths and watchmakers,

and from the careful, economical, and strictly honourable way in which

the business was carried on—the name, too, with the associations of the

honest hard-working man of whom these were the sons, adding golden

weight—a very few months trial proved that industry, economy, and

honesty must carry their own reward.

But why was the widow alone? Was not Reuben married, and should not

Sarah have been with her? Gentle reader, Reuben is not yet married; he

has now gone to fetch his Sarah, for the term of probation for both is

over. The morrow is the thirteenth birthday of the twins; and the widow

is expecting the return of Reuben and Sarah and Ruth, as she sits with

her darling Jeanie in her little parlour, the evening we meet her again.

Levison’s innocence and his sudden death had, of course, been made

public, not only in an official way, but through the eagerness of Reuben

that not a shadow of shame should ever approach his Sarah. When the

first month of mourning had expired, Sarah returned to her situation;

her mistress quite forgetting former anger, and ready to declare Sarah

had only done just as she ought towards her poor innocent father; that

she was a pattern of Jewish daughters, and poured forth a volume of

praises, all in the joy of getting her back.

Reuben had been anxious for their marriage as soon as he had completed

two years from poor Jeanie Wilson’s early death. Sarah fully sympathised

in his feelings towards Jeanie, and they would often talk of her as a

being dear to and cherished by them both. When the two years were

completed, the marriage was still delayed, Mrs. Corea entreating Sarah

to remain with her till she went on the Continent with her daughters,

which she intended to do in about six or eight months. She had been too

indulgent a mistress, and Miss Leon too sincere a friend, for Sarah to

hesitate a moment in postponing her own happiness. Besides, the delay,

though Reuben did not like it, might be beneficial to him in allowing

him time to get settled in his business. Before the period elapsed,

Sarah and Reuben too were rejoiced that she was still in London, for

Ruth needed her; the wherefore we shall find presently.

“Are they not late, mother?” inquired Simeon, as he joined his mother in

her own parlour. “Troublesome loiterers! I wish they would arrive—I want

my tea.”

“And is that all you want, Simeon?” said the widow, smiling; “because

that may easily be satisfied.”

“No, no; not quite so voracious as that comes to. I want the loiterers

themselves, though I have seen them later than you have, you know. You

won’t find Sarah a whit altered; she is just the gentle yet energetic

creature she always was, only more animated, more happy, I think. Then

Ruth, darling Ruth—oh, how much I owe to her! I never shall forget her

reminding me of my promise to my poor father—her compelling me as it

were, to love my brother; and now what is not that brother to me?

Mother, is it not strange how completely prejudice has gone?”

“No, my dear son; your heart was too truly and faithfully pious, too

desirous really to love its God, for prejudice long to obtain the

ascendant. It comes sometimes in very early youth, when we are apt to

think we alone are quite right, but, unless encouraged, cannot long

stand the light of strengthening reason and real spiritual love.”

“But does it not seem strange, mother, that I alone of my family, should

have been the one selected to receive such extreme kindness from a

Christian—one of those whom, in former days, I was more prejudiced

against than I dared acknowledge? I was very ill on my way home from

London, and as you know, Mr. Morton had me conveyed to his house,

instead of leaving me to the care of heartless strangers at the public

inn—had a physician to attend me, nursed me as his own son—would read

and talk to me, even after he knew I was a Jew, on the _spirit_ of

religion, which we both felt. Never shall I forget the impressive tone

and manner with which he said, when parting with me, ‘Young man, never

forget this important truth—_that heart alone in sincerity loves God,

who can see, in every pious man, a brother, despite of difference of

creed. That difference lies between man and his God: to do good and love

one another is man’s duty unto man_, and can, under no circumstances and

in no places, be evaded. Learn this lesson, and all the kindness I have

shown you is amply rewarded.’ Is it not strange this should have

occurred to me?”

“I do not think it strange, my dear son,” replied Mrs. Perez

affectionately, though seriously. “I believe so firmly that God’s eye is

ever on us, that He so loves us, that He guides every event of our lives

as will be most for our eternal good. He saw you sought to love and

serve Him—that the very prejudice borne towards others had its origin in

the ardent love you bore your faith, and His infinite mercy permitted

you to receive kindness from a Gentile and a stranger, that this one

dark cloud should be removed, and your love for Him be increased in the

love you bear your fellow-creatures.”

“May I believe this, mother? It would be such a comfort, such a

redoubled excitement to love and worship,” answered Simeon, fixing his

large dark eyes beseechingly on his mother’s face. “But can I do so

without profaneness, without robbing our gracious God of the sanctity

which is so imperatively His due?”

“Surely you may, my dear boy. We have the whole word of God to prove and

tell us that we are each individually and peculiarly His care—that he

demands the _heart_; for dearer even than a mother’s love for her infant

child is His love towards us. How may we give Him our heart, if we never

think of Him but as a being too inexpressibly awful to approach? How

feel the thanksgiving and gratitude He loves to receive, if we do not

perceive His guiding hand, even in the simplest events of our individual

lives? How seek Him in sorrow, if we do not think He has power and will

to hear and to relieve?—in daily prayer, if we were not each of us

especially His own? My boy, if the hairs of our head are numbered, can

we doubt the events of our life are guided as will be but for our

eternal good, and draw us closer to our God? Think but of one dear to us

both: did it not seem, to our imperfect wisdom, that Reuben’s marriage

must for ever have divided him from his nation? Yet that very

circumstance brought him back. Our Father in mercy permitted him to

follow his own will, to be prosperous, to lose even the hated badge of

Israel, that his own heart might be his judge. Affliction also, sent

from that same gracious hand, deepened the peculiar feelings which

becoming a parent had already excited. Then the year of research put the

final seal on his return to us. His mind could never have believed

without calm, unimpassioned, steady examination. He has examined not

alone his own faith. Mr. Vaughan, from being the explainer, was forced

to become the defender of his own creed. He drew back, avowing, with a

candour and charity which proved how truly of God was the _spirit_ of

religion within him, spite of the mistaken faith, that Reuben never

could become a convert. And we know what true friends they are,

notwithstanding Mr. Vaughan’s disappointment. They have strengthened

themselves in their own peculiar doctrines, without in the least shaking

each other’s.”

“Yes, yes; you are quite right, mother dear, as you always are,” replied

Simeon, putting his arm round her, and affectionately kissing her. “What

a blessing it has been for me to have such a mother. Why, how now,

master Joseph, what has happened? have you lost your wits?”

“If I have, it is for very joy!” exclaimed the boy, springing into the

parlour, flinging his cap up to the ceiling, and so stifling his mother

with kisses, as obliged her to call for mercy. “Mother, mother, how can

I tell you the good news? I must scamper about before I can give them

vent.”

“Not another jump, not another step, till you have told us,” exclaimed

Simeon, laughing heartily at the boy’s grotesque movements, and catching

him midway in a jump that would not have disgraced a harlequin. “Now

what is it, you overgrown baby? Are you not ashamed not to meet joy like

a man?”

“No baby ever felt such joy, Simeon; and though I am a man to-morrow, I

am not ashamed to act the madcap to-night. Mother, have I not told you

the notice Mr. Morales has always taken of me, and the books he has lent

me? Well, my master must have said such kind things of me; for what,

what do you think he has offered?—that is, if you will consent; and I

know, oh, I know you love me too well to refuse. He will call on you

himself to-morrow about it.”

“About what?” reiterated Simeon. “My good fellow, it is of no use his

calling. You are gone distracted, mad, fit for nothing!”

“What does he offer, my love?” anxiously rejoined the widow.

“To take me home with him, as companion and friend to his own son, a boy

just about my age—and such a fellow! He has often come to talk with me

about the books we have both read. And Mr. Morales said I shall learn

all that Conrad does. That I shall go abroad with them, and receive such

an education, that years to come, if I still wish it, I may be fitted to

be, what of all others I long to be, the _Hazan_ of our people. Hebrew,

the Bible and the Talmud, and Latin, and Greek, and everything that can

help me for such an office; besides the lighter literature and studies,

which will make me an enlightened friend for his son. Oh, mother!

Simeon! is it not enough to make me lose my wits? But I must not though,

for I shall want them more than ever. You do not speak, my own dear

mother; but you will not, oh, I know you will not refuse.”

“Refuse!” repeated the grateful widow, whose voice returned. “No, no; I

would deserve to lose all the friends and blessings my God has given me,

could I be so selfish to refuse, because for a few years, my beloved

child, I must part with you. I do not fear for you; you will never

forget to love your mother, or to remember and obey her precepts!”

“Give you joy, brother mine! though, by my honour, I had better not wish

you any more joy, for this has well-nigh done for you,” laughingly

rejoined Simeon; for he saw that both Joseph and his mother’s eyes were

wet with grateful tears, and he did not wish emotion to become pain.

“Yes, one more joy, but one: it is almost sinful to wish more, when so

much has been granted me,” replied Joseph, almost sorrowfully. “Would

that Ruth, my own Ruth, could but _look on_ me once more; could but have

sight restored, that I might think of her as happy, independent, not

needing me to supply her sight. Oh, I should not have one wish

remaining; but sometimes I think, afflicted as she is, and bound so

closely as we are, I ought not to leave her.”

“Then don’t think any more silliness, my boy. Reuben and your humble

servant are much obliged to you for imagining, because we do not happen

to be her twin brothers, we cannot be to her what you are—out on your

conceit! Make haste, and be a _Hazan_, and give her a home, and then you

shall have her all to yourself; till then we will take care of her!”

Joseph’s laughing reply was checked by the entrance of Leah, attended by

a young man of very prepossessing appearance. It was Maurice Carvalho,

the son and heir of a thriving bookseller and fancy stationer, of

Liverpool, noted for a devoted attendance on the pretty young milliner.

“Not arrived yet! why, I feared they would have been here before me, and

thought me so unkind,” said Leah, after affectionately greeting her

mother. “Are we not late?”

“Dreadfully!” replied Simeon, mischievously. “Mrs. Valentine said you

were at liberty after five; what have you been doing with yourselves?”

“Taking a walk, and went further than we thought,” said Maurice, with

affected carelessness, while Leah turned away with a blush.

“A walk! whew,” and Simon gave a prolonged whistle; “were you not cold?”

“Cold, you stupid fellow! why it is scarce autumn yet—the evenings are

delightful.”

“Particularly when the subject of conversation is of a remarkably summer

warmth; with doves billing and cooing in the trees, and nightingales

singing to the rose—there, am I not poetical? Leah, my girl, you used to

like poetry; you ought to like it better now.”

“Better—why?”

“Oh, because—because poetry and love are twin brothers, you know!”

“Simeon!” remonstrated Leah; but the pleased expression of young

Carvalho’s face and the satisfaction beaming on the widow’s betrayed at

once that the bachelor was quite at liberty to talk and amuse himself at

their expense; their love was acknowledged to each other, and hallowed

by a parent’s blessing and consent.

Joseph had scarcely had time to tell his joyful tale to his sister,

before a loud shout from Simeon, who had gone to the front to watch,

proclaimed the anxiously-desired arrivals. Joseph and Maurice darted

out, and in less than a minute Reuben and Sarah entered the parlour.

“Mother, dearest mother, she is here—never, never, with God’s blessing,

to leave us again!” exclaimed Reuben, as Sarah threw herself alternately

in the arms of the widow and Leah, and then again sought the embrace of

the former, to hide the gushing tears of joy and feeling on her bosom,

without the power of uttering a single word.

“My child, my own darling child! oh, what a blessing it is to look on

your dear face again! Still my own Sarah, spite of all the cares and

trials you have borne since we parted!” exclaimed the widow, fondly

putting back the braids of beautiful hair, to look intently on that

sweet gentle face.

“And your blessing, mother, dearest mother; oh, say as you have so often

told me, you could wish and ask no dearer, better wife for your Reuben;

and such blessing may give my Sarah voice!” He threw his arm round her

as he spoke, and both bent reverently before the widow, whose voice

trembled audibly as she gave the desired blessing, and told how she had

prayed and yearned that this might be, and Sarah’s voice returned, with

a tone so glad, so bird-like in its joy, it needed but few words.

“My Ruth, where is my Ruth? and where are Joseph and Simeon gone?” asked

the widow, when one joy was sufficiently relieved to permit her thinking

of another.

“She will be here almost directly, mother. She was rather tired with the

journey, and so I persuaded her to rest quiet at the inn close by, till

I sent Simeon and Joseph with a coach for her and our luggage; they will

not be long before they return. But tell me, where is my Jeanie? not in

bed I hope, though we are late?”

“No; Esther took her away about half an hour ago, to amuse and keep her

awake—not very difficult to do, as she is as lively as ever.” Reuben was

off in a moment.

“And Esther, dear Reuben, bid her come and see me,” rejoined Sarah; and

then clasping her aunt’s hand, “oh, my dear aunt, what have I not felt,

since we last met, that I owe you! I thought I was grateful, felt it to

the full before; but not till I was tried, not till I learned the value

of strong principles, steady conduct, and firm control, did I know all

you had done for me. My God, indeed, was with me throughout; but this

would not have been, had not your care and your affection taught me how

to seek and love Him. Oh, will a life of devotion to our Reuben, and to

you, and to his offspring, in part repay your kindness, dearest aunt?”

The widow’s answer we leave our readers to imagine; fearing they should

accuse us of again becoming sentimental. Old Esther speedily made her

appearance, and her greeting was second only in affection to the widow’s

own.

“Father, dear father, come home, come home!” was the next sweet lisping

voice that met the delighted ears of Sarah, and in another moment Reuben

appeared with the child in his arms, her little rosy fingers twisted in

his hair, and her round soft cheek resting against his.

“This is my poor motherless babe, for whom I have bespoken your love,

your protection, your guiding hand, my Sarah,” he whispered, in a low,

earnest voice. “Will you love her for my sake?”

“And for her own and for her mother’s; do not doubt me, Reuben. If she

is yours, is she not, then, mine?” she answered, in the same voice. The

child looked at her as if half inclined to spring into the caressing,

extended arms, but then, with sudden shyness, hid her face on her

father’s shoulder.

“Jeanie, darling, what was the word I taught you to say? Look at her and

say it, and kiss her as you do me.”

The child still hesitated; but then, as if emboldened by Sarah’s sweet

voice calling her name, she looked full in her face and lisped out

“Mother,” held up her little face to kiss her, and was quite contented

to be transferred from Reuben’s arms to those of Sarah.

“Ruth, Ruth—I think I hear her coming?” joyfully exclaimed Leah, a few

minutes afterwards.

“Go to her then, dear—detain her one minute,” hastily whispered Reuben,

in a tone and manner that made his sister start. “Do not ask me why

now—you will know the moment you see her—only go. I must prepare my

mother. I did not think she would have been here so soon.”

Leah obeyed him, her heart beating, she did not know why, and Reuben

turned to his mother. Sarah had given little Jeanie to Esther’s care,

and was kneeling by her as if to intercept her starting up.

“What is it—what is it? Why do you keep my child from me? why send her

brothers and sisters to her, instead of letting her come to me? Reuben,

Sarah! what new affliction has befallen my angel child?”

“Affliction? None, none!” repeated Sarah and Reuben together. “It is

joy, dearest aunt, all joy. Oh, bear but joy as you have borne sorrow,

and all will be well.”

“Joy?” she repeated, almost wildly; “what greater joy can there be than

to have my children all once again around me? I have heard my Ruth has

been ill, but that she was quite well, quite strong again, and have

blessed God for that great mercy.”

“But there may be more, my mother, yet more for which to bless Him. Oh,

are not all things possible with Him? He who in His wisdom once deprived

of sight, can He not restore it?”

“Reuben, Sarah! what can you mean? My child, my Ruth!” but voice and

almost power failed, for such a trembling seized her limbs that Reuben

was compelled to support her as she sat. It was but for a moment, for

the next a light figure had bounded into the room, followed by Simeon

and Joseph, Maurice and Leah.

“Mother! mother! mother! They need not tell me where you are. You need

not come to your poor blind Ruth. I can see your dear face—see it once

again.”

The widow had sprung up from her chair; but ere she had made one step

forward her child was in her arms—was fixing those long-closed eyes upon

her face as if they would take in every feature with one delighted gaze.

One look was sufficient. A deadly faintness, from over-excited feelings,

passed over the widow’s heart; but as she felt Ruth’s passionate kisses

on her lips and cheeks, life returned in a wild burst of thanksgiving,

and the widow folded her child closer and yet closer to her heart, and,

overpowered by joy as she had never been by sorrow, “she lifted up her

voice and wept.”

* * * * *

Reader, our task is done—for need we say it was the benevolent exertion

of Miss Leon, under a merciful Providence, which procured the last most

unlooked-for blessing to the widow and her family. She had remarked

there was a slight change in the appearance of the child’s eyes, had

taken her without delay to the most eminent oculist of the day, and

received his opinion that sight might be restored. The rest, to a

character such as hers, was easy; and thus twice was she the means of

materially brightening the happiness of the Perez family; for, though we

had not space in our last chapter to dilate on it, it had been actually

through her means the innocence of Levison had been discovered, though

she herself was at the time scarcely conscious how. She had mentioned it

to everybody she thought likely to be useful in discovering it, had been

laughed at for her folly in believing such a tale, warned against taking

up the guilt or innocence of such a person’s character, and, in short,

almost every one dissuaded her from mentioning the subject; it really

would do her harm. But she had persevered against even her own hope of

effecting good, and was, as we have seen, successful.

Before we quite say farewell, we would ask our readers if we have indeed

been happy enough in this simple narration to make one solemn and most

important truth clear as our own heart would wish—that, however dark may

be our horizon, however our prayers and trust may for a while seem

unheeded, our eager wishes denied us, our dearest feelings the mere

means of woe, yet there is an answering and pitying God above us still,

who, when He bids us “commit our ways unto Him, and trust also in Him,”

has not alone the power, but the will, the loving-kindness, the infinite

mercy, to “bring it to pass.” My friends, that God is still our God; and

though the events of our simple tale may have no origin in real life, is

there one amongst us who can look back upon his life, and prayers, and

thoughts, and yet say that overruling Providence is but fiction, for we

feel it, know it not? Oh, if so, it is his own heart, not the love and

word of his God, at fault. All may not be blessed so visibly as the

widow and her family, but all who wait on and trust in the Lord will

have their reward, if not on earth, yet dearer, more gloriously in

heaven.

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_The Stone-Cutter’s Boy of Possagno._

A SKETCH FROM HIS LIFE.

I.

IT was evening in Venice. The queen of the Adriatic, her marble palaces

and princely halls, her stately bridges and her dreary prisons, lay

sleeping in gorgeous beauty, flushed by the glowing splendour of the

setting sun, lingering as loth to fade away and be lost in the more

sombre hues of twilight, which, rising, from the east, was softly and

balmily stealing over the expanse of heaven, bearing silence, and

repose, and quiet loveliness on her meekly pensive brow. It was an hour

of deep calm—the pause of life and nature, when the business of the day

was done, the gay festivities of night not yet begun. Now and then the

sound of a guitar, or the thrill of melody from music-gushing voices,

echoed from the water; or whispered accents, in the passioned tones of

Italy, betraying some tale of happy love; and then, again, might be

traced a muffled figure, with shadowed brow and stern-closed lip,

holding himself aloof, as if his world were contained in the mighty

passions, the deep secrets of his own heart; and thus, from hate, or

guile, or scorn, contemning all his fellows. And then would come by,

with measured oar and evening hymn, the fisher’s humble skiff; and then,

in strange contrast, the decorated bark of patrician pride, with noble

freight and liveried attendants. Presently, light after light gleamed up

from palace, and hall, and bridge, rivalling the stars of heaven,

spangling earth and water. Sunset faded into twilight; and twilight,

resting a brief interval on the bosom of night, gave up to her the care

of earth, and disappeared. But not with the marble palaces and their

princely honours—not with the midnight intrigue, the lover’s meeting—not

with the pirate of the seas, the brigand of the land; all of which seem

springing up, more vivid than memory, more tangible than fancy, in that

one magic word, Venice—not with these have we to treat.

In a small, rudely-furnished apartment, scattered round with implements

of sculpture, half-finished models in clay and stone, sketches, both in

chalk and colouring, and some few volumes of miscellaneous lore, sat

one, a boy in years, but bearing on his brow and in his eye somewhat

far—oh! far beyond his age. Clothed as he was in the simplest, most

homely attire, his peculiarly graceful and well-proportioned figure

marked him noble; his intelligent, nay more, his soul-breathing

features, the light of MIND illumining his full, dark eye, and resting

on the broad, high forehead, even the beautiful hair of glossy black,

curling so carelessly round the peculiarly well-shaped head:—could these

characteristics belong to the stone-cutter’s boy of Possagno, whose

first twelve years had been passed in the mud-walled cabin of his poor

and hard-working grandfather? It was even so; but the lowliness of birth

was, even at this early period of his life, lost in the nobility of

Genius. Her voice had breathed its thrilling whisper within him; and he

heard, but as yet understood it not—was unconscious of the deep

meanings, the glorious prophecy, the mighty shadows of an unborn future,

of which those thrilling whispers spoke. He only knew there was a spirit

within him, urging, impelling, he scarce knew what: and longing for the

Infinite which pressed so heavily upon him, that he felt, to use his own

impressive words, “He could have started on foot with a velocity to

outstrip the wind, but without knowing whither to direct his steps; and

when activity could no longer be supported, he would have desired to lie

down and die.” He would hurry to the haunts of Nature—the wildest, most

boundless scenes, gazing on the distant mountain, the rushing torrent,

the dark, mysterious forest; and then up to the gorgeous masses of

cloud, sailing over the transparent heaven of his own bright land, watch

intently each light, each shade, each fleeting change, longing to soar

to them, to penetrate the mysteries of Nature. At such moments he was

happy; for the sense of Infinity seemed taken from his own overcharged

heart to be impressed on Nature, to linger around, below, above him, to

breathe its tale aloud, from the voice of the torrent to the glistening

star reflected in its depths—from the radiant star to the lowly flower,

trembling beneath its burning gaze; and the voice was less painfully

oppressive then than when it came, in the still, the lonely hour, to the

deep recesses of his own young heart. And from these scenes he would

turn again to the work of his own hand; and despondency and darkness, at

times, clouded up his spirit, for they gave not back the impress of the

beauty, the infinity, with which his soul was filled. He knew not the

wherefore of this deep-seated joy and woe; and had there been one to

whisper it did but prophesy immortal fame, the boy would have smiled in

disbelief.

But on this fair eve neither the hurrying impulse nor desponding sadness

was upon him. The boy sat beside the open casement, looking forth on the

gradual approach of night and her starry train, on the still waters

slumbering beneath, or flashing in passing light from illuminated

skiffs; but his thoughts were not on these. An open volume lay upon his

knee, which had so absorbed alike heart, mind, and fancy, that darkness

had stolen around him unconsciously; and when compelled to cease

reading, there was a charm in the thoughts created, too entrancing, too

irresistible, to permit their interruption, even by a movement.

“Why, Antonio, lad, what holds thee so tranced, even thine own Guiseppe

stands beside thee, rudely and inhospitably unnoticed? Shame on thee!

The Falieri had not welcomed Tonin thus.”

With a start of joyful surprise, the boy turned to grasp the extended

hands of his noble friend, to welcome him again and again, and then to

ask and answer so many questions interesting to none but themselves,

that some time passed ere Guiseppe Falieri found leisure to ask what had

so engrossed his friend when he entered.

“Up in the skies again, Tonin, lad—riding on a star, or reposing on a

cloud—yonder one, perchance, so exquisitely silvered by the moon?”

“No, Guiseppe mio, I was more on earth than in heaven that moment.”

“Thou on earth! and with such a sky, such a moon, above us! Marvellous!

Ah, a book!” And, attracted by Antonio’s smile to the volume, he took it

up, and read by the clear moonlight, “‘Life of Dante.’ Only his life!

Nay, had it been his Divina Commedia, his soul-thrilling poesy, I could

better have forgiven thy neglect.”

“Yet, perchance, had his life no Beatrice, Guiseppe, Italy had had no

poet.”

“It was Beatrice, then, that so enchanted thee! Come, that’s some

comfort for my pride. I give thee permission to neglect me for her.

Yet,” he added, after a brief pause, “how know we it was not all

illusion—a vision of the poet—a fancy—a beautiful creation? I have often

thought it too shadowy, too much of the ideal, for dull, dark reality.”

“Illusion or reality, oh! it was blessed for Italy, thrice-blessed for

the poet!” answered Antonio, with such unaffected fervour, that it

extended to his companion. “Without Beatrice, what had Dante been? A

poet, perchance, but wanting the glow, the life, the thrilling beauty,

now gushing so eloquently from every line. Beauty, and such as hers,

ethereal from first to last, till nought but his own heart and heaven

retained her. Oh, Guiseppe, the glance of her eye, the touch of her

hand, was all-sufficient to ignite the electric lamp of genius, which,

without such influence, perchance, had been buried in its own

smouldering gloom, and never flung its rays upon a world.”

“Thinkest thou, then, Tonin, that the influence of beauty could, indeed,

be so experienced, by one who, though so mighty in intellect, was still

only a boy in years?”

“Do I think so, Guiseppe?—yes, oh yes! It filled up all the yearning

void so dark before; it threw a sunshine and a glory over all of life

and earth; it gave a semblance and a shape to all the glowing images of

mind; and as the countless rays down-gushing from one sun, it poured

into the poet’s breast infinity from one!”

Guiseppe Falieri looked on the enthusiast, feeling far more than Antonio

himself the glorious gifts that boyish heart enshrined; and loved, aye,

reverenced him—him, the peasant boy, though he himself was noble, the

younger son of an illustrious Venetian house. But what, he felt, was

rank of birth compared to rank of intellect? and with that peasant boy

the youthful noble remained for hours, only leaving that lowly room to

wander forth with him, as their souls had freer, more delicious

communion, under the blue vaults of heaven than in confining walls. To

enjoy the society of his humble friend in their brief visits to Venice,

Guiseppe Falieri ever relinquished the more exciting pleasures of the

boon companions of his rank and station; and ere the mantle of age

descended upon him, how did he glory in the penetration of his boyhood!

II.

It was morn in Venice: her seventy islets were lighted up with a flood

of sunshine of transparent brilliance known only to fair Italy, but

falling with soft and mellowed rays within the gallery of the proud

Farsetti Palace. Thrown open to the youth of both sexes studying the

fine arts, private munificence had gathered together the most perfect

specimens of ancient and modern art—all that could forward the eager

student in his darling pursuit, ensuring priceless advantages even to

the poorest and the humblest, fostering in every individual breast the

gift peculiarly his own. Oh, truly is that country where such things are

the nurse of Genius! Truly may her children decorate her with the fruits

of those resplendent gifts with which Heaven has endowed them! Truly may

her poets breathe forth lays to mark her as themselves—immortal! Italy,

beautiful Italy, how does the heart burn, the spirit love, when we write

of thee!

To this gallery the young Antonio was a constant visitor, and he was so

persevering in his studies as to attract the attention and rivet the

friendship of its noble owner, at whose order he executed the first

specimen of that sculpture which was to enrol his lowly name amid the

mighty spirits of his native land, and bear to distant shores the echoes

of his fame. Morning after morning found him in the Farsetti gallery,

engaged either in drawing, modelling, or painting from antique casts, or

from those modern ones to which the possessors of the establishment

directed his notice. No difficulty could deter, no more tempting model

could allure. Severely, faithfully true to the path marked out, every

other student shrunk from competition with him, as pigmies from a giant.

Wrapt as Antonio ever was in his task, however severe or little

interesting, generally so absorbed as to be unconscious of all outward

things, it was strange that a voice had power to rouse him from such

preoccupation, and bid him, half-unconsciously yet inquiringly, look

round. Soft, low, silvery, it thrilled to the boy’s soul, as a voice

that had haunted his dreams, and was yet to reality unknown. And the

being from whom it came? Had he ever seen one like to her, or was it the

mere embodying of all those visions of beauty, which, sleeping or

waking, haunted his soul? He knew not. He only knew he sat entranced,

breathless, awestruck, as though some angelic being had stood before

him, demanding adoration. Young, very young, she seemed yet older than

himself; and pale, but oh! so exquisitely lovely—with all of heaven,

nought of earth! E’en the deep feeling resting on that full bright lip;

the dark, lustrous, deep-souled eye; the rich, the glorious intellect

sitting throned upon that beauteous brow; the smile flitting round that

chiselled mouth, as an emanation from the soul; nay, every movement of

the sylph-like form, too light, too spirit-like, for coarser earth—all

whispered to the boy’s full heart with power, eloquence, unfelt though

often dreamed before. And matter of astonishment it was to him, that the

other students so calmly continued their labours, content with one

glance of admiration on the stranger.

Leaning on the arm of a friend or attendant, she advanced up the

gallery, and took her seat as one of the students. The model was

selected, her drawing materials arranged, and silently she pursued her

task.

Little more did Antonio do that day; for the strange, tumultuous

emotions of his bosom seemed from that time to paralyse his hand. He

worked on, indeed, mechanically till the hour of closing, and then, oh!

how grateful was the fresh breeze of heaven, the free, active movement

of a rapid walk. Yet even then—strange incongruity of feeling—he yearned

for the morrow to find himself anew by her side; and then a trembling

was upon him, that it was all illusion, all a sweet, bright vision,

which would fade as it had come.

[Illustration]

But such it was not. The hours of study came and passed, and each

morning found that frail, ethereal being in the Farsetti gallery,

attended on her entrance and departure, but left to pursue her studies,

as was the custom, alone; and, irresistibly, the young sculptor chose

those casts which drew him closer to her side, that even as he worked he

might glance on that surpassing beauty, might watch each graceful

movement; and this was happiness, inexpressible happiness, although he

knew not wherefore. He could not speak it, even to his dearest friend.

He felt it all too sacred, too deeply shrined for voice, as if the first

breath that gave it utterance would bid it fly for ever. He shrunk

deeper and deeper within himself; not moodily, not sadly, but only

sensible that “with such a being he should be for ever happy;” for even

her silent presence shed a glow around him, fading not even when she was

no longer near. He was feeling what his own lips had so vividly

described as Beauty’s influence on Dante; but the guileless,

unsophisticated boy knew not that such it was.

Silently he felt, and silently he worked; for those new, strange, yet

delicious feelings weakened not his mighty powers; nay, new light

suffused them, even to his own impartial, often desponding eye. Once she

stood by his side, leaning on the arm of her attendant. He felt the

glance of those lovely eyes was fixed admiringly on the work of _his_

hand; and that hand trembled for the first time. Her voice reached his

ear in its sweet music, and though it simply praised his work as “_assai

bello_,” it lingered on his heart as a never-forgotten melody, thrilling

through the deeper, louder, mightier voice of Fame, of monarchs’ praise,

of world’s applause, as an angel’s whispering amidst the crashing storm.

He only bowed his head in low acknowledgment, in voiceless answer. He

could not summon strength to breathe one word, or meet that gentle

glance; but, oh! the deep, full, gushing joy which was upon him from

that hour, inspiring more air of beauty in his labours, for her eye

might rest on them again.

Days, weeks, thus passed, and still, as by magnetic influence, those

youthful students were ever side by side; but ere the second moon had

wholly waned, Antonio sat alone; that lovely one had vanished from her

usual haunt, and mournfully, darkly, the hours, once so joyous,

passed—for the sunlight had departed from them.

Day after day, hope returned to the boy’s heart, but not its beauteous

object to his eye, and heavily this silent adoration lay upon his soul.

Another and another day, and still she came not; a week, another, and

how might he inquire her fate, when, even could he speak that yearning

sorrow, he had no trace—no clue to her identity? She had come with

nought but her own loveliness to steal upon his heart, and he could not

violate the sanctuary her image filled by one word of question. He

shrunk from every eye, as if he feared his treasure were discovered, and

the notice of his fellows would sully its ethereal purity by mingling it

with earth.

Still he laboured indefatigably as before; for her voice was sounding in

the still depths of his own soul, and perhaps it might sound again—her

praise might hallow the work, even of his impotent hand, and mark it

blessed?

A ray of sunshine had fallen upon the work of the young sculptor, giving

it that peculiar light and shadow which it had worn that

never-to-be-forgotten day, when his eye first marked the loveliness his

soul had visioned. Such as the ray had reached him from its fount,

flashed back every feeling, every pulsation of that hour, till, in its

magic, the very form of the beloved, the worshipped one, stood, or

seemed to stand, before him, tangible, palpable as life, save that the

smile, the shadowy form, were as if all of earth had gone. Breathless,

pale, motionless, Antonio’s trembling hand refused to guide the

pencil—his fixed and starting eye to move, lest all should fade away,

and leave him desolate. A noise among the students aroused him, and with

a sudden start and heavy sigh he awoke to consciousness. It was but

vacancy on which he gazed, or his spirit held commune with beings not

seen of earth.

Another week, and Antonio looked on the faithful attendant of his

spirit’s idol; but she was alone, and pale and sad, and robed in all the

sable draperies of woe. His heart throbbed, his voice failed, a sickness

as of death crept over him; yet, as she passed to seek and remove the

portfolio of the missing one, he struggled to subdue that inward

trembling, and speak, but only a few brief, faltering accents came.

“The Signora—her friend—was she well?—had she quitted Venice?”

A burst of agonizing tears answered him, and then the mournful

confirmation: “The Signora Julia had gone to that heaven whose child she

was; earth would see her sweet face, list her glad laugh, feel her light

step, no more.” And the mourner passed on: and Antonio leaned his head

upon his hands, as if some invisible stroke had crushed him. Gone! and

for ever! Oh, the unutterable agony to the young, the loving, contained

in those brief words!

And never more did the young sculptor hear that name. Never did he know

the birth, the rank, the story of her who so like a spirit had crossed

his path! Men knew not, dreamed not, the tide of feeling on that young

boy’s soul. Now in him were working the silent influences of beauty, of

hopeless love. They saw him engaged each day, studying his art,

laboriously working under his master, Ferrari, on some still, cold,

soulless statues, still to be seen in the Villa of Trepoli; and how

could they imagine the glowing visions of beauty, of poetry, at work

within? No! It was in after years, when such forms of unrivalled

loveliness, of immortal beauty, sprung in almost breathing life beneath

the magic chisel of ANTONIO CANOVA, that the vision of early boyhood

might be traced; and even now, in the perfection to which his art

attained, man may behold the realization of those vague yet impelling

yearnings after Beauty, Infinity, all that Genius craves, which had

started into life and being from the lovely vision of his first and only

love.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Amête and Yaféh_.[1]

AN ALLEGORY.

FAR in the illimitable space, seeming to earth as one of those bright

yet tiny stars, which even the most powerful telescope will not increase

in size, so immeasurable is the distance between them and us, two

Spirits sate enthroned, each intrusted with an attribute of the Creator,

with which to renew His image in man and vivify the earth. Their work

was one, each so aiding each that, though in outward form distinct,

their inward being was the same. The one, known in the language of

heaven as Amête—and who, were there measurement of Time in the children

of Eternity, might seem the elder—was in aspect grave, almost stern, but

those who could steadily gaze upon him, and receive his image within

their hearts (and man did so a thousand and a thousand times, though the

Spirit’s visible form was unrevealed), loved him, with such deep,

earnest love, as to forget the seeming sternness in the deep calm and

still security his recognition ever brought. A coronet of light circled

his brow, his wings were of living sapphire, and in his hand he held a

transparent spear. Wherever he moved, darkness and mist fled from before

him; and error sunk annihilated, before one touch of that crystal lance.

Change and mutability touched him not; coeval with Creation, he endured

to Everlasting—ever presenting the same exquisite aspect, producing on

earth the same effect, and through every age aiding to mould man for

Immortality. Distinct from his companion, yet the same; reflecting his

every changeful hue of loveliness, yet retaining undisturbed his own.

Not such was the outward appearance of Yaféh. Less majestic, less grave,

Earth and Heaven ever hailed him with rejoicing. The latter, indeed,

knew him not apart from Amête; and the former, in her darkness,

sometimes greeted his semblance, not himself. Robed in light, drawn not

from the ethereal fount which circled Amête, but from those dazzling

iris-coloured rays, the reflection of which we sometimes catch when the

sun shines upon a prism, the various changes of his exquisite loveliness

were impossible to be defined. But it was only when in close unity with

Amête he was seen to full perfection, and his glittering garb endowed

with vitality and glory; apart those iris rays shone forth resplendent

and most dazzling, but without the light glistening on the brow of his

companion were too soon merged in gloom.

But this Yaféh himself knew not, and in his young ambition besought

permission to work alone. His revealed form was more visible on earth

than that of Amête. As he looked down, and around, and above him, the

attribute of which he was the guardian seemed so powerfully and palpably

impressed, that he could not trace the invisible workings of his

companion, and in his presumption he deemed it all his own, and chafed

and spurned the bond which, since their creation, had entwined and

marked them one. Mournfully and earnestly Amête conjured him to check

the impious prayer; that which the All-Wise had assigned them was surely

best and safest. But Yaféh would not heed, and ceased not his murmuring

supplication till it was granted. With the work already done, the work

of Creation, he might not interfere; but the archangelic minister bade

him “Go down to earth, and in the workshop of man, be his creation of

hand or brain, display thy power; thou art free to work alone,” and with

a glad burst of triumphant song, and the brilliant velocity of a fallen

star, the Spirit darted down to earth.

“Follow him not!” commanded the archangel, answering Amête’s imploring

gaze; “once convinced of his nothingness alone, he will never leave thee

more. That lesson learned, thou mayest rejoin him; meanwhile, look down

upon his course,” and sorrowingly Amête obeyed.

He beheld him, arrayed in even more than his wonted loveliness, enter

the several habitations of man; his invisible but felt presence greeted

with wild joy, and his inspirings followed in the new creative genius of

all whom he touched. In the lowly homes of the mechanic and the artizan

he lingered, and their work grew beneath their hand; and at first it

seemed most lovely, but still something was wanting, and they toiled and

toiled to find it, but in vain; and despair and ruin usurped the place

of glad rejoicing.

“They are of too low a grade, too dull a mind,” murmured the Spirit, and

he flew to the easel of the painter; the workshop of the sculptor; and

new conceptions of loveliness floated so vividly in their minds, that

day and night unceasingly they toiled to give them embodied form, and

sweet dreams of fame mingled with their creation, till life itself

seemed brighter than before. And Yaféh rejoiced, for surely now he was

triumphant; here at least perfection would vitalize his presence, and

prove how little needed he Amête. He mingled invisibly with the judges

of the works, and he beheld them scorned—contemned as dreams of madmen;

and the artists fled, disgraced and miserable, to their homes, with

difficulty restrained from shivering their work to atoms.

Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yaféh winged his flight to the studio

of the musician, and harmonies of heaven floated in his ear, entrancing

him with their exquisite perfection, and hour after hour he laboured to

bring them from their impalpable essence to the bondage of note and

phrase, but in vain—in vain! The sounds he did produce were wild,

discordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he refused to listen

more.

The poet, the philosopher, the historian—wherever genius lay—Yaféh

touched with his quivering breath, and to all came the same dream of

marvellous loveliness—the same ideal perfection. On all burst the

torrent of inspiration, compelling toil and work, to give words to the

pressing thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect; and their

burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each glorious lay,

each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis—clothed in such glowing

imagery and thrilling words—must last for ever. And Yaféh triumphed, for

surely here he was secure, and in these prove that he could work alone,

and needed the aid of none.

A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were forgotten

and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely as it had seemed,

quivered into darkness before the test of usefulness and reason. The new

discoveries, new thoughts of the historian met with scorn and laughter

in the vain search for their foundation. And, in their deep despair,

Yaféh heard the names by which he was known to earth accursed and

scorned; his presence banished; his inspirations rudely checked, as

bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and ruin, and the Spirit

fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the homes of earth and the hearts

of men; and shrinking from his starry home and light-clad brother,

sought to pierce through and through the vast realms of unfathomable

space, and lose himself in darkness. His iris rays seemed fading from

his lovely form, lost in denser and denser gloom. Above, below, and

around him thunder rolled, and the glittering Hosts of Heaven trembled,

lest his proud wish were to be chastised still further. But soon the

majestic form of the Spirit Amête stood beside his brother, and before

the touch of his glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to claim

Yaféh, fled howling.

“Yaféh, beloved! we will descend together,” he said, in tones clear,

distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood. “Thy work shall yet

live and be immortal.”

“Nay, ’twill be thine,” murmured the repentant Spirit, his darkened

loveliness resuming light and glory from the effulgent brow so pityingly

bent down on his. “What need hast thou for me? Go forth and work alone;

I have no part on earth.”

“Thou hast; for without thee I have no power. Man trembles at my form

when at the Eternal’s mandate, I must go forth alone; but with thee,

perchance because my sterner self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and

permits my work ascendency. Without thee I could but bind to earth; with

thee I lead to heaven. Brother, we are ONE, though earth may deem us

twain. We cannot work for Immortality apart.”

Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother spirits could

with difficulty distinguish their individuality, Amête and Yaféh stood

within the dwellings of man. The mechanic and the artizan started from

their desponding trance; the neglected work was resumed. The form, the

inspiration was the same; but as if a flash of light had touched it, it

gave back that perfect image of the mind for which before they had so

toiled and toiled in vain. On to the artist, the sculptor, the musician,

and one touch from that crystal spear, and the misty cloud dispersed,

and the senseless canvas gave back the perfected thought; the cold

marble sprung into the warmth of actual being; the impalpable but

exquisite harmonies, the ethereal essence of sound, at the word of

Amête, resolved itself into the necessary bondage of note and form, and

breathed forth to admiring thousands the music lent to one. Hovering

over the poet, again the thrilling words burst forth, and fraught with

such mighty meanings every heart responded, as to the voice of the

Immortal; folding his azure pinion round the panting soul of the

philosopher, the shrouding cloud dispersed, and science, deep, stern,

lasting, took the place of the mere lovely dream; and on the page of the

historian, light from the brow of Amête so flashed as to make him a

gifted reader of the Future, by the wondrous record his spirit-thought

unfolded of the Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man worked for

immortality; it mattered not under what guise, or in what rank. From the

highest to the lowest, each creative impulse, fashioned by Yaféh,

received perfection from Amête. The former, indeed, alone was _visible_,

but never more he sought to work alone. Within his outward work was the

vital essence breathed by Amête, without which the most exquisite form

was incomplete—the most lovely thought imperfect—the fairest theory a

dream.

And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleaming so brightly

through the immeasurable space, as may be their throne, still does their

glorious and united Presence walk the earth. Their semblance may be

found apart, but not themselves. Twain as they are in name and aspect,

in essence they are ONE. TRUTH is the vital breath of BEAUTY; BEAUTY the

outward form of TRUTH; the REAL the sole foundation of the IDEAL; the

IDEAL but the spiritualized essence of the REAL.

-----

Footnote 1:

Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the concluding

paragraph.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Fugitive._

A TRUE TALE.

JUDAH AZAVÉDO was the only son of a rich Jewish merchant, settled in

London. His grandfather, a native and resident of Portugal, having

witnessed the fearful proceedings of the Inquisition on some of his

relations and friends, secretly followers of Israel, as himself, fled to

Holland, bearing with him no inconsiderable property. This, through

successful commerce, swelled into wealth; and when, on his death, his

son, with his wife and child, removed to England, and settled in the

metropolis, they were considered, alike in birth, education and riches,

one of the very highest families of the proud and aristocratic

Portuguese.

But the situation of the Jews in England, some eighty or ninety years

ago, was very different to their situation now. Riches, nay, even moral

and mental dignity, were not then the passport to society and

friendliness. Lingering prejudice, still predominant in the hearts of

the English, and pride and nationality equally strong in the Hebrew,

kept both parties aloof, so that no advance could be made on either

side, and each remained profoundly ignorant of the other, not alone on

the subject of opposing creeds, but of actual character.

This, though certainly a social evil, was, in some respects, as

concerned the Israelites, a national good. It drew them more closely,

more kindly together; aliens and strangers to the children of other

lands, the true followers of their persecuted creed were as brothers.

Rich or poor, it mattered not. Hebrews and Portuguese were the ties in

common, and the joy or grief of one family was the joy or grief of all.

Fashion was little thought of. Heartlessness and that false pride which

forswears relation to or connection with poverty were unknown. Faults,

no doubt they had; but a more kindly, noble-hearted set of men, in their

own sphere, than the Spanish and Portuguese Jews, nearly a hundred years

ago, never had existence.

The restlessness and over-sensitiveness of Judah Azavédo was a subject

of as much surprise to his nation as of regret to his father. Sole heir

to immense wealth—unencumbered with business—nothing to occupy him but

his own pleasure—gifted with unusual mental powers—dignified in figure—a

kindly and most winning manner, when he chose to exert it; yet was his

whole life embittered by the morbid sensitiveness with which he regarded

his most unfortunate lack of all attraction in face and feature. He was

absolutely and disagreeably plain; we would say ugly, did we not so

exceedingly dislike the word. Yet there were times when the glow of

mind, or still more warmth of heart, would throw such a soft and gentle

expression over the almost deformed features, that their natural

disfigurement ceased to be remembered. Those who knew him never felt any

difference between him and his fellow-men, save in his superior heart

and mind; but Azavédo himself always imagined that, wherever he went he

must be an object of derision or dislike. He shrunk from all society,

particularly from that of females, who, he was convinced, would be

terrified even to look at him. Entreaties, commands, and remonstrances

were vain. Could he have known more, mingled more with the world at

large, these morbid feelings would, in time, have been rubbed off; but

in his very limited circle of familiar friends this was impossible, and

the evil, in consequence, each year increased.

To the Israelites of ninety years ago, the idea of travelling for

pleasure was incomprehensible; they were too happy, too grateful to the

land which gave them rest and peace, to think of quitting it for any

other. That Judah Azavédo should restlessly desire to leave England, and

seek excitement in foreign lands, was in accordance with all his other

extraordinary feelings; but that his father, the wise, sedate, contented

old man, whose every hope and affection were centred in this son, should

give his consent, was more extraordinary still; and many, in kindness,

sought to dissuade him from it. But Azavédo loved his son too well to

permit old habits and prejudices to interfere with the only indulgence

Judah had ever asked: he gave him his blessing and _carte blanche_ with

regard to gold, and the young man forthwith departed.

He was absent three years, having travelled as far as the East, and

visited every scene endeared to him as one of that favoured race for

whom the sea itself had been divided. He had looked on misery, in so

many varied forms, as the portion of his nation, that he felt reproached

and ashamed at his own repinings. He learnt that only sin and crime

could authorize the misery he had endured; that he was an immortal

being, and one whose earthly lot was blessed so much above thousands of

his brethren, that he only marvelled his sin of discontent had not

called down on him the wrath of God. His soul seemed suddenly free from

fetters, and he moved among his fellow-men fearless and unabashed.

Notwithstanding the danger of such a route—for, if known, or even

suspected as a Hebrew, he would inevitably have perished—Judah chose to

return home through Spain and Portugal, making himself known to some

friends of his family still dwelling in the latter kingdom. With them he

remained some few months, and then it was that a new emotion awoke

within him, chaining him effectually, ere aware of its existence. From

his earliest youth Judah had dreaded, and so forsworn love, feeling it

next to impossible for him ever to be loved in return; but Love laughs

at such forswearers. Before he could analyse why that bitterness against

his unhappy ugliness should return, when he had thought it so

successfully conquered, he loved with the full passionate fervour of his

race and his own peculiar disposition, and loved one of whom he could

learn nothing, trace nothing, know nothing, save that she was so

surpassingly lovely, that though he had seen her but three times, never

near, and only once without her veil, her beauty both of face and form

lingered on his memory as indelibly engraved as if it had lain there for

years, and then had been called into existence by some strangely

awakening flash. She was as unknown to his friends as to himself; only

at the Opera had she been visible; no inquiry, no search could elicit

information. Once only he had heard the sound of her voice, and it

breathed music as thrilling and transporting as the beauty of her face.

Yet was she neither saintlike nor angelic; it was an arch witchery, a

shadowless glee, infused with the nameless, descriptionless, but

convincing charm of mind.

Judah Azavédo returned home an altered man, yet still no one could

understand him. He no longer morbidly shunned society, nor even cared to

eschew the company of females, seeming as wholly careless and insensible

to the effects of his presence as he had before thought too much about

it. Some said he was scornfully proud; others, that it was impenetrable

reserve: all agreed that he was changed, but only his most intimate

friends could perceive that he was unhappy, and from some deep-seated

sorrow essentially distinct from the feelings engrossing him when he

left England, and that this one feeling it was which rendered him so

totally indifferent to everything else.

Three, nearly four years elapsed, and Azavédo, in character and habits,

remained the same. His father was dead, leaving him immense wealth,

which he used nobly and generously, winning “golden opinions” from every

class and condition of men, who, at the same time, wished that they

could quite understand him; and so we must leave him to waft our readers

over the salt seas, and introduce them to a more southern land and a

very different person.

In a luxuriously furnished apartment of a beautiful little villa, a few

miles from Lisbon, was seated a lady of that extraordinary beauty which

ever fastens on the memory as by some strange spell. Not more than three

or four and twenty, all the freshness of girlhood was so united to the

more mature graces of woman, that it was often difficult to say to which

of these two periods of life she belonged. Her large, lustrous,

jet-black eye, and the small, pouting mouth, alike expressed at will

either the mischievous glee of a mirth-loving girl or the high-souled

intellectuality of maturer woman. Hair of that deep, dark brown, only to

be distinguished from black when the sunshine falls upon it, lay in rich

masses and braids around the beautifully shaped head, and giving, from

the contrast, yet more dazzling fairness to the pure complexion of face

and throat which it shaded; the brow, so “thought-thronged” when at

rest, yet lit up, when eye and mouth so willed, with such arch,

laughter-loving glee; but we must pause, for the pen can never do beauty

justice, and even if it did, would be accused of exaggeration, although

there yet remains those who, from personal acquaintance, can still bear

witness to its truth.

A gentleman was standing near her as she sat on her sofa, in the busy

idleness of embroidery; and as part of their conversation may elucidate

our tale, we will record it briefly as may be.

“Then you refused him?”

“Can you ask?” and the lightning flash of the lady’s dark eye betrayed

unwonted indignation. “He who would have so tempted a helpless girl of

seventeen—I was then no more, though I had been married nearly a

year—under such specious reasoning, that I dreamed not his drift till

the words of actual insult came; sought to sow suspicion and distrust in

my heart against my husband, his own brother, to serve his vile

purposes: and you ask me if I refused him, when, being once more free to

wed, he dared pollute me with his abhorred addresses! Julian, my fair

cousin, have you so forgotten Inez?”

“If I had, that indignant burst would have recalled her; but of insult,

remember, I knew nothing. You were married when so young, to a man so

much older than yourself, that when I heard of his death, three years

ago, I fancied, as you know is often the case with us, you would have

married his younger brother, so much more suitable in point of qualities

and years.”

“More suitable! Wrong again, cousin mine. If I did not love my husband,

I respected, honoured him—yes, loved him too as a father; but as for Don

Pedro, as men call him, Julian, I would rather have trusted the tender

mercies of the Inquisition than I would him, and so I told him.”

“You could not have been so mad!”

“In sober truth, I was feeling too thoroughly indignant to weigh my

words. It matters not, he dare not work me harm, for the secret on which

alone he can, involves his safety as well as mine.”

“I wish I could think so; there are many to say that he is in truth what

he appears to be, and therefore one most dangerous to offend.”

“I fear him as little as I scorn him much. I have heard this report

before, but heed it not at all. Our holy cause loses little in the

apostasy of such a member.”

“It may be so, Inez; but he holds the lives of others in his keeping,

and therefore revenge is easily obtained.”

“You will not frighten me, Julian, try as you may. They say Pedro Benito

is ill, almost to death—I am sorry for him, for I know no one more unfit

to die; but I have far too much pride to fear him, believe me. Better he

should injure me, than I my own soul in uniting it with his. See,” she

continued, laughing, as she pointed to the portly figure of a Dominican

priest pushing his mule up the steep ascent leading to the villa, in

such evident haste and trepidation as to occasion some amusement to his

beholders; “there is more fear there than I shall ever feel. What can

the poor priest need? Do you know him, Julian? comes he to you or me?”

“I trust to neither, Inez, for such hot haste bodes little good.”

“Why, now, what a craven you have grown! I will disown you for my cousin

if you pluck not up more spirit, man!”

Julian Alvarez tried to give as jesting a reply, but succeeded badly,

his spirits feeling strangely anxious and oppressed. He was spared

further rallying on the part of Inez, by the sudden reappearance of the

priest (whom they had lost sight of by a curve in the ascent), without

his mule, at the private entrance of Inez’s own garden, and without

ceremony or question neared the window. Inez addressed him courteously,

though with evident surprise; the priest seemed not to heed her words,

but laying his hand on her arm, said, in a deep, low tone—

“Donna Inez, this is no time for courtesy or form. Daughter, fly! even

now the bloodhounds are on the track. The scent has been given; a dying

man proclaimed you a Jewess in hearing of others besides his confessor,

else had you been still safe and free. Ere two hours, nay, in less time,

they will be here. Away! pause not for thought; seek to save nothing but

life, too precious for such sacrifice. A vessel lies moored below, which

a brisk hour’s walk will reach. She sails for England the moment the

wind shifts; secure a passage in her, and trust in the God of Israel for

the rest.”

“And who are you who thus can care for me, knowing that which I am?”

answered the lady, in accents low as the supposed priest’s, but far less

faltering, and only evincing the shock she had sustained by the sudden

whiteness of cheek and lip.

“Men call me—think me, Padre José, my child; but were I such you had not

seen me here. _That which you are am I_, and because I thought Pedro

Benito the same, I stood beside his death-bed. Vengeance and apostasy

went hand in hand. Ask no more, but hence at once; how may those fragile

limbs bear the rack—the flames? Senor Alvarez, shake off this stupor, or

it will be too late!”

Julian did indeed stand as paralysed, so suddenly and fearfully were his

worst fears confirmed. Fly! and from all, home, friends, luxury, to be

poor and dependent in a strange land! It was even so; the voice of

vengeance had betrayed the fatal secret of race and faith, the very

first whisper of which consigned to the Inquisition—but another word for

torture and death. In two short hours, part of which had already gone,

Inez had to find the vessel, be received on board, and leave no trace

whatever of her way. Her very domestics must suspect nothing, or

discovery would inevitably ensue. And yet, in the midst of all this

sudden accumulation of misfortune, Inez but once betrayed emotion.

“Julian, Julian, my boy!” she exclaimed, her sole answer to the

reiterated entreaties of her companions for her to depart at once; “what

will they not do to him?”

“Nothing, lady; he shall be with me till he can rejoin you. Who will

suspect Padre José of harbouring an Israelite save to convert him to the

Holy Faith?”

Inez caught the old man’s hand, her lip and eyelids quivering

convulsively; but even the passion of choking tears was conquered by the

power of mind. In less than half an hour she was walking, at a brisk

pace, through the shrubberies, in the direction of the river, enveloped

in mantilla and veil, and Julian Alvarez carrying a small parcel,

containing the few jewels which she could collect, and one or two

articles of clothing, the all that the mistress of thousands could save

from the rapacious hands which, under the garb of religion, were ever

stretched out to confiscate and to destroy.

Scarcely had they quitted the shrubberies, after nearly an hour’s brisk

walking, and entered the high road, their only path, when about a dozen

men, in the full livery of the Holy Office, were clearly discernible on

a slight rising not half a mile beyond them, pushing their horses so as

directly to face them, and advancing at full speed. To turn back was to

excite suspicion, to meet them, tempt discovery. Fortunately a small

enclosure of tall larches and thick firs lay forward, a little to the

left, and there Inez impelled her bewildered companion, walking as

carelessly, to all appearance, as taking a saunter for amusement. They

saw the troop rapidly advance, pause exactly in front of their

hiding-place, look round inquiringly; one or two spurred forwards, as to

beat the bushes; a man’s step at the same time sounded in their rear—his

dress fanned them as he passed: it was one of Donna Inez’s own

labourers. They heard him hailed as he appeared, and questions asked, of

which they heard nothing, but that wordless sound of voices so torturing

to those who deem that life or death are hanging on the words. A few

minutes—feeling hours—the conference lasted; some direction, loudly

repeated along the file, betrayed that their questions only related to

their further route to the Villa Benito, and the horses galloped on.

Without exchanging a syllable, Inez and her companion hurried forward.

It was still full half-an-hour’s walk to the river, the sun was

declining, and the wind had risen fresh and balmy; but while Julian

rejoiced in its reviving power, he trembled lest it should be bearing

his cousin’s only chance of safety farther from them. Their pace was

brisk as could be, yet every step seemed clogged with lead, and weary

felt the way, till the river’s brink was gained. Bathed in the lingering

glow of a magnificent sunset, the bright waters lay before them, and

every sail spread, gliding softly yet swiftly on her course, they beheld

the longed-for vessel receding from their sight.

For one minute they stood, gazing on the departing ship, as mute, as

feelingless as stone, save to the horrible consciousness that flight was

over, all hope of escape must be vain. But great emergencies prevent the

continuance of despair. Ere Julian had recovered the stupor of alike

disappointment and dread, Inez had hailed the boatman, and drawing a

diamond ring of immense value from her hand, bade him place her in

safety on board the English vessel, and it should be his. The man

hesitated, then swore it was worth the trial, and very speedily a boat

was ready, manned by four stout rowers impatient as herself.

“And now farewell, dear Julian!” she said, calmly, taking the parcel

from his hand, and looking in his astonished face with her own sweet

smile. “You go no farther; I will not risk your life, so precious to

your wife and children, because I weakly fear to meet my destiny alone.

Do not attempt to argue with me, it will be useless, as you ought to

know. Look to my poor boy, he needs you more than I do.” Her voice sunk

to a thrilling whisper: “The God we _both_ serve bless you, and keep you

from a similar fate.”

She wrung his hand, and lightly springing into the boat, it was pushed

off, and rapidly cutting the yielding waters, ere Julian Alvarez

recovered sufficiently from his emotion to speak even a farewell word.

And now, with feelings wrought almost to agony, he watched a chase

seemingly so utterly vain. For some time the vessel still kept ahead,

but the efforts of the rowers in no degree relaxed. He heard their

stentorian hail repeated by the innumerable echoes on the shore, but

still there seemed no answer. Again, and yet again! It is fancy. No, the

sails are lowered, the vessel’s speed is diminished, till the boat

appears almost alongside. Julian strained his gaze, while his very heart

felt to have ceased beating, in the sickening fear that even now her

flight might be prevented by a refusal to receive her. He could discern

no more, for twilight had gathered round him, and interminable seemed

the interval till the boat returned with the blessed assurance that the

Senora was safe on board.

Night fell; the lovely southern night, with its silvery moonshine on the

gleaming waters, its glistening stars, appearing suspended in the upper

air as globes of liquid light, with its fresh, soft breezes, bearing

such sweet scents from the odoriferous shores, that a poet might have

fancied angelic spirits were abroad, making the atmosphere luminous with

their pure presence, and every breeze fragrant with their luscious

breath.

Inez sat upon the deck, a fugitive, and alone. She who, only the evening

previous, had been the centre of a brilliant group, whose halls had

sounded with the voice of revelry, the blithesome dance, whence aught of

sorrow seemed so far away as to be but a name, not a reality. To us,

looking back on the extraordinary fact of the most Catholic kingdoms

being literally peopled with secret Jews, whose property and life might

be sacrificed from one hour to another, it appears incomprehensible that

security or happiness could ever have existed, and still more difficult

to understand what secret feeling it was which thus bound them to a

country where, acknowledged or discovered, Judaism was death, when there

were other parts of the globe where they could be protected and

received. Yet so it was, and there are still families in England to

trace their descent from those who, like the Senora Benito, were

compelled to fly at an hour’s warning, saving little else than life.

Some spirits would have sunk under a misfortune so sudden, so

overwhelming in its details, but Inez rose above it. She had nothing to

look to but her own resources; the few valuables she had secreted would,

she knew, soon be exhausted, did she depend on them alone. She was going

to a land where she knew not one, her only credentials being a letter

hurriedly written by her cousin to one of his friends in London.

Loneliness, privation, care, and even manual toil, all awaited her,

child as she had been of luxury and wealth, lavish as it was believed

exhaustless; yet, as she looked forth on the glorious night with her

star-lit dome, as she inhaled the sweet breath of a thousand flowers

floating on the breeze, she knew she was not forsaken. He who cared for

all nature would still more care for her, and, when the spirit is at

peace, how lightly is all of sorrow borne.

The unusual stir in the harbour, which they reached about midnight,

attracted the attention not only of Inez but of the captain and crew. On

stopping at the quay for passengers and freight, he was told that the

vessel must remain at anchor, no English ship being allowed to leave the

harbour until it had received a visit from the officers of the

Inquisition, in search of a female fugitive suspected of Judaism, who,

having effectually disappeared from her home, was supposed to have taken

refuge in some English vessel, the general receivers of heretics and

unbelievers.

“I halt not at any man’s beck or bidding!” was the proud reply. “England

owns no Inquisitional supremacy. Had any such fugitive taken refuge in

my ship, no power of the Inquisition, backed by the whole kingdom,

should force me to give her up.”

Time for reply or seizure there was none. Every sail spread at the word

of command, and almost bending beneath her weight of canvas, the gallant

ship, with her right English-hearted crew, sped on to sea.

Inez had seen all, felt all—but though her heart beat quicker, no word

or sign betrayed it. She saw the captain look hastily on her, and for a

terrible moment she knew not whether the glance of discovery, for such

it was, would be followed by her surrender or her safety. His words

speedily reassured her, and sent her to the berth provided for her

comfort, with more care than for any other passenger, with the grateful

feeling that all of danger was indeed at end. She was in England’s

keeping, and no Inquisition could work her harm.

Nor was it the mere excitement of misfortune which so endowed her with

courage to endure. She retained not only firmness but liveliness during

the voyage, and when received in England with the most hospitable

kindness by Julian’s friends, gaily consulted them on the best means of

subsistence—whether to take in plain work or enter upon the business of

fancy confectionary, for both of which her convent education had well

fitted her. And what with her brilliant beauty, her sparkling wit, and

readiness of repartee, ere two days had passed she had completely

fascinated old and young.

The evening of the third day, Mr. Nunez’s family had been engaged to

spend with a friend living a few miles from London. On sending to state

that a Portuguese lady staying with them would prevent their going, an

entreaty was instantly forwarded that she would accompany them.

“What, go! and my whole wardrobe consists of this one dress?” was her

laughing reply. “I shall bring shame on your fashionable reputation, my

kind friends.”

They assured her that dress was of little consequence, and even if it

were, she need not be alarmed, being more likely to bring them fame by

the fashion of her face than shame by the plainness of her robe; which,

by the way, a rich black velvet, set off the dazzling clearness of her

complexion more becomingly than the most carefully assorted garb.

To the house of their friend, in consequence, they went; and the

beautiful stranger, with her broken English, sweetly spoken Portuguese,

and most romantic story, soon commanded universal attention.

Towards the middle of the evening a rapidly approaching carriage,

followed by a thundering rap, announced the arrival of some new guest.

“That is Azavédo,” observed one, “I know him by the sound of his four

horses. A strange fancy that, always sporting a carriage and four, when

in everything else he has no pretension whatever. Did you expect him,

Cordoza?” he asked of his host.

“He said he might look in on his way to Epping,” was the reply.

“What a changed man he is,” said another; “I remember when he literally

loathed society, and shrunk from beauty, male or female, as if it stung

him by the contrast with himself.”

“I have never heard him admire a woman yet though,” rejoined the first

speaker. “I wonder if he will notice the beauty of to-night?”

Azavédo entered as he spoke, and, after addressing his host and hostess,

began an earnest conversation with a friend near them.

A low, musical laugh from the centre of a merry group at the opposite

end of the large drawing-room caused Azavédo suddenly so to start, with

such an indescribable change of countenance, as to impel the anxious

query whether he were ill. He answered hurriedly in the negative, but

his friend perceiving his eye fixed on the group, eagerly entered on the

story of the stranger, from whom the laugh had come, inviting him to

join the circle round her. Somewhat hesitatingly he did so. Inez, in

compliance with the customs of her own country, still wore her veil,

which, in answer to the inquiry of some one near her as to the different

fashions of wearing it in Portugal, she had drawn so closely round her

as to hide every feature.

“Tell her that it is not the custom of English ladies to wear veils,”

whispered Azavédo to his hostess, in tones of such strong and most

unusual excitement, that she looked at him as if in doubt of his

identity. His hint was acted upon, however, and Inez, with winning

courtesy, soon after laid aside her veil.

Azavédo had become in some degree a man of the world, and it was well he

was, or he might have found it difficult so to suppress inward emotion

as to conceal it from those around him. He looked once more on the being

who for four long years had in secret so occupied his heart, as never to

permit the entrance of another image, or the faintest thought of another

love. She was there, not only yet more radiant in finished loveliness

than when he had first beheld her, but free, and of his own race and

creed. And so exquisite were the feelings of the moment, that he feared

to be introduced, lest her first glance upon his face, if it revealed

the horror that he believed it would, should sentence him to misery.

That he had trembled needlessly was proved by his never leaving her side

that evening. The lively spirits of the young stranger appeared, by some

extraordinary species of mesmerism, to call forth the same from him; and

lie conversed more brilliantly, more unreservedly, than he had ever

before been known to do.

Judah Azavédo pursued his journey to his country-house, and Inez quietly

fixed her residence with a Jewish family in London, and pursued her

intention of taking in plain work; giving no more thought of her former

affluence, save to wish that part had been spared for her boy, who,

through the efforts of Padre José and Julian Alvarez, joined her about

three weeks after her flight, bringing the information that every

article belonging to her had been seized and confiscated.

Twice a week, then three times, and at length every day, did Azavédo, on

some pretence or other, visit the fair fugitive. Folks talked and

wondered, but for once he heeded neither. But why prolong our tale,

claimed as it is by truth, however it may read like fiction? Not six

weeks after Inez left Portugal, a fugitive for her very life, she became

the wife of Judah Azavédo, the richest Hebrew in London, and the

possessor of a love as warm and unwavering as was ever felt by man. But

did she—could she—return it? Reader, we will not blazon the simplicity

of truth with the false colouring of romance. _She did not_ love him, in

the general acceptation of the term, and she told him so, beseeching him

to withdraw his offer, if his heart could not rest satisfied with the

respect and gratitude which alone she felt. He thanked her for her

candour, but the hand was not withdrawn, and they were married. Some

biographers stop here, bidding the curious reader probe not too deeply

into the history of wedded life. As regards our heroine, however, we

shrink not from the probe. The _romance_ of love _before_ marriage she

might not have known, but its _reality afterwards_ she made so manifest,

even when disease, joined to other infirmities, so tried her husband as

to render him fretful and irritable, that there are still living some to

assert that never was wife more tenderly affectionate, more devotedly

faithful than was Inez Azavédo. Her extraordinary beauty seemed

invulnerable to age, for I have heard it said that even in her coffin,

and she lived to the full age of mortality, she retained it still.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Edict._

A TALE OF 1492.

“The love that bids the patriot rise to guard his country’s rest,

With deeper mightier fulness thrills in woman’s gentle breast.”—MS.

“And we must wander, witheringly,

In other lands to die;

And where our father’s ashes be,

Our own may never lie.”—BYRON.

“THEN thou wouldst not leave this beautiful valley even with me,

Josephine?”

“Nay, thou knowest thou dost but jest, Imri; thou wouldst not give me

such a painful alternative?”

“How knowest thou that, love? Perchance I may grow jealous even of thy

country, an it hold so dear a place in thy gentle breast, and seek a

home elsewhere—to prove if thy love of Imri be dearer than thy love of

land.”

“I know thou wouldst do no such thing, my Imri; so play the threatening

tyrant as thou mayest, I’ll not believe thee, or lessen by one throb the

love of my land, which shares my heart with thee. I know too well, thy

heart beats true as mine; thou wouldst not take me hence.”

“Never, my best beloved. Our children shall rove where we have roved,

and learn their father’s faith uninjured by closer commune with its

foes. Here, where the exiles of Israel for centuries have found a

peaceful home, will we rest, my Josephine, filling the little hearts of

our children with thanksgiving that there is one spot of earth where the

wandering and the persecuted may repose in peace.”

“And surely it is for this cause the love we bear our country is so

strong, so deep, that the thought of death is less bitter than the dream

of other homes. We stand alone in our peculiar and most sainted creed,

alone in our law, alone in our lives on earth, in our hopes for heaven.

Our doom is to wander accursed and houseless over the broad earth,

exposed to all the misery which man may inflict, without the power to

retaliate or shun. Surely, oh, surely then, the home that is granted

must be doubly dear—so sheltered from outward ill, so blessed with

inward peace that it might seem we alone were the inhabitants of Spain.

Oh! it is not only memory that hallows every shrub and stream and

tree—it is the consciousness of safety, of peace, of joy, which this

vale enshrines, while all around us seemeth strife and gloom. Dearest

Imri, is it marvel that I love it thus?”

The speaker was a beautiful woman of some two- or three-and-twenty

summers. There was a lovely finished roundness of form, a deep steady

lustre in her large black eye, a full red ripe on her beautiful lip, a

rose soft yet glowing as the last tinge of sunset beaming, in the energy

of her words, upon a cheek usually more pale—all bespeaking a stage of

life somewhat past that generally denominated girlhood, but only

pressing the threshold of the era which follows. Life was still bright

and fresh, and buoyant as youth would paint it; but in the heart there

were depths and feelings revealed that were never known to girlhood. Her

companion, some three or four years her senior, presented a manly form,

and features more striking from their frankness and animation than any

regular beauty. But there was one other individual, seated at some

little distance from the lovers (for such they were), whose peculiar and

affecting beauty would rivet the attention to the exclusion of all else.

He was a slight boy, who had evidently not seen more than ten years,

though the light in the dark blue eye, so deep, so concentrated in its

expression, that it seemed to breathe forth the soul; the expression

ever lingering round his small delicately pencilled mouth appeared to

denote a strength and formation of character beyond his years. His rich

chesnut hair, long and gracefully curling, fell over his light blue vest

nearly to his waist, and, parted in the centre, exposed a brow of such

transparent fairness, so arched and high, that it scarce appeared

natural to his Eastern origin and Spanish birth. Long lashes, much

darker than his hair, almost concealed the colour of the eye, save when

it was fixed full on those who spoke to him, and shaded softly, yet with

a mournful expression, the pale and delicate cheek, to which exertion or

emotion alone had power to bring the frail and fleeting rose. An

indescribable plaintiveness pervaded the countenance; none could define

wherefore, or why his very smile would gush on the heart like tears. He

was seated on the green sward, weaving some beautiful flowers into a

garland or wreath, in perfect silence, although he was not so far

removed from his companions as to be excluded from their conversation,

could he have joined in it. Alas! those lips had never framed a word; no

sound had ever reached his ear.

An animated response from Imri followed his Josephine’s last eager

words; and the boy, as if desirous of partaking their emotion, whatever

it might be, bounded towards them, placing his glowing wreath on the

brow of Josephine with a fond admiring glance, calling on Imri by a sign

to admire it with him; then nestling closer to her bosom, inquired in

the same manner the subject of their conversation: and when told, there

was no need of language to speak the boy’s reply. He glanced eagerly,

almost passionately, around him; he stretched forth his arms, as if

embracing every long-loved object, and then he laid his hand on his

heart, as if the image of each were reflected there, and stretching

himself on the mossy earth, as if there should be his last long sleep.

He pointed to distant mountains, made a movement with his hands, to

denote the world beyond them, then turned shudderingly away, and laid

his head on the bosom of his nearest and dearest relative on earth.

The situation of the valley of Eshcol was in truth such as to inspire

enthusiasm in colder hearts than Josephine’s. Formed by one of the many

breaks in the Sierra Morena, and sharing abundantly the rich vegetation

which crowns this ridge of mountains nine months in the year, it

appeared set apart by Nature as a guarded and blessed haven of peace for

the weary wanderers of Israel; who, when the Roman spoiler desolated

their holy land, tradition said there found a resting-place. Lofty rocks

and mountains hemmed it round, throwing as it were a natural barrier

between the valley and the world beyond. The heath, the rosemary, the

myrtle, and the cistus grew in rich profusion amidst the cliffs; while

below, the palm, the olive, the lemon, orange and almond, interspersed

with flowering shrubs of every variety, marked the site of the hamlet,

and might mournfully remind the poor fugitives of the yet richer and

holier land their fathers’ sins had forfeited. To the east, a thick

grove of palm, cedar, and olive surrounded the lowly temple, where for

ages the simple villagers worshipped the God of Israel as their fathers

did. Its plain and solid architecture resisted alike the power of storm

and time; and it was the pride of every generation to preserve it in the

primitive simplicity of the past. Innumerable streams, issuing from the

mountains, watered the vale; some flowing with a silvery murmur and

sparkling light, others rushing and leaping over crags, their

prominences hid in the snowy foam, creating alike variety and fertility.

The brilliant scarlet flower of the fig-marigold mingled with the snowy

blossoms of the myrtle, peeping forth from its dark glossy leaves,

formed a rich garland around the trunks of many a stalwart tree; and

often at the sunset hour the perfume of the orange and almond, the

balsamic fragrance of the cistus, mingling with, yet apart from the

others, would float by on the balmy pinions of the summer breeze, adding

indescribably to the soothing repose and natural magic of the scene.

But it was not the mere beauty of nature which sunk so deeply on the

hearts of the Eshcolites, as to create that species of _amor patriæ_, of

which Josephine’s ardent words were but a faint reflection; it was the

fact that it was, had been, and they fondly hoped ever would be, to them

a second Judea. Its very name had been bestowed by the unhappy fugitives

from the destruction of Jerusalem, who hailed its natural loveliness as

their ancestors did the first-fruits of the land of promise. Throughout

the whole of Spain, indeed, the sons of Israel were scattered, far more

numerously and prosperously than in any other country. Despite her

repeated revolutions, her internal wars, her constant change of masters,

the Hebrews so continued to flourish that the whole commerce of the

kingdom became engrossed by them; and occupying stations of eminence and

trust—the heads of all seminaries of physic and literature—they

commanded veneration even from the enemies and persecutors of their

creed.

With the nation at large, however, our simple narrative does not pretend

to treat. Century after century found the little colony of Eshcol

flourishing and happy; acknowledging no law but that of Moses, no God

but Him that law revealed. It mattered not to them whether Mahommedan or

Nazarene claimed supremacy in Spain. Schism and division were unknown

amongst them; the same temple received their simple worship from age to

age; for if it chanced that the more eager, the more ambitious spirits

sought more stirring scenes, they returned to the simplicity of their

fathers, conscious they had no power to alter, and satisfied that they

could not improve.

Varying in population from three to five hundred families, actuated by

the same interests, grief and joy became as it were the common property

of all—the one inexpressibly soothed, the other heightened by

sympathy—the vale of Eshcol seemed marked out as the haven of peace. The

poet, the minstrel, the architect, the agriculturist, even the sculptor,

were often found amongst its inmates, flourishing, and venerated as men

more peculiarly distinguished by their merciful Creator than their

fellows. The sins that convulse kingdoms and agitate a multitude to them

were unknown; for the seditious, the restless, the ambitious sought a

wider field, bidding an eternal farewell to the vale, whose peaceful

insipidity they spurned. Crimes were punished by banishment, perpetual

or for a specified time, according to the guilt; liable indeed to death,

if the criminal returned, but of this the records of Eshcol present no

example.

Situated in the southern ridge of the Sierra Morena, on the eastern

extremity of Andalusia, and consequently at the very entrance of the

Moorish dominions, yet Nature’s care had so fortified the vale, that it

had remained both uninjured and undiscovered by the immense armies of

Ferdinand and Isabella, who for ten years had overrun the beautiful

province of Grenada, and now, at the commencement of our narrative, had

completed its reduction, and compelled the last of the Caliphs to

acknowledge their supremacy in Spain. Misery and death were busy within

ten miles of the Hebrew colony, but there they entered not. Some

aspiring youths had in truth departed to join the contending hosts; but

by far the greater number, more indifferent to the fate of war, cared

not on which side the banner of victory might wave—their affections

centred so strongly on the spot of earth at once their birthplace and

their tomb, that to depart from it seemed the very bitterness of death.

Tedious as this digression may seem, it is necessary for the clear

comprehension of our narrative; for the appreciation of that feeling of

_amor patriæ_ which is its basis; an emotion experienced in various

degrees by every nation, but by the Jew in Spain with a strength and

intensity equalled by none and understood but by a few.

Josephine Castello, in whom this feeling was resting yet more powerfully

than in her compeers, was regarded as an orphan, and as such peculiarly

beloved; yet an orphan she was not. The youth of her father, Simeon

Castello, had been marked by such ungovernable passions, as to render

him an object of doubt and dread to all; with the sole exception of

one—the meekest, gentlest, most timid girl of Eshcol. Perhaps it was the

contrast with herself—the generous temper, the frank and winning smile,

the bold character of his striking beauty, or the voiceless magic which

we may spend whole lives in endeavouring to define, and which only

laughs at our wisdom—but Rachel Asher loved him, so faithfully, so

unchangeably, that it stood the test of many months, nay years, of

wandering on the part of Simeon, who on each return to the vale appeared

more restless, more wayward than before.

Men said he was incapable of loving, and augured sorrow and neglect for

the gentle Rachel, even when, seemingly touched by her meek and timid

loveliness, he bent his proud spirit to woo her love, and was accepted.

They were married; and some few years of quiet felicity appeared to

belie the prognostics of the crowd. But, soon after the birth of a

daughter, the wandering propensities of her father again obtained

ascendency; and for months, and then years, he would be absent from his

home.

Uncomplainingly Rachel bore this desertion, for he was ever fond when he

returned; and even when she once ventured to entreat permission to

accompany him, it was with soothing affection, not harsh repulse, he

refused, assuring her, though honoured and trusted by the Nazarene, he

was seldom more than a month at one place; and he could not offer

delicate females the quiet settled home they needed. Rachel could have

told him that privation and hardship with him would be hailed as

blessings, but she knew her husband’s temper, and acquiescing, sought

comfort in the increasing intelligence and beauty of her child.

Ten years thus passed, and then Simeon, as if involuntarily yielding to

the love of his wife and child, declared his intention of never again

seeking the Nazarene world, and for two years he adhered to his

resolution; at the end of that time hailing with pleasure the promise of

another little one, to share with Josephine the affection he lavished

upon her. This sudden change of character could not pass unnoticed by

his fellows; and no man being more tenacious of his honour than Simeon

Castello, it was of course exposed to many aspersions, which his

passionate temper could not brook.

It happened, in a jovial meeting of youngsters when somewhat heated by

excitement and wine, that the character and actions of Castello were

canvassed somewhat more freely than sobriety would have ventured. One of

them at length remarked, that in all probability he was glad to avail

himself of the retreat of Eshcol, to eschew the hundred eyes of justice

or revenge.

“Then die in thy falsehood, liar!” were the words that, uttered in

thunder, startled the assembly. “The man lives not who dares impugn the

honour of Castello!” and the hapless youth sunk to the earth before

them, stricken unto death. The speechless horror of all around might

easily have permitted flight, but Castello scorned it. He knew his doom,

and met it in stern unflinching silence;—to wander forth alone, with the

thoughts of blood clinging to his conscience, till the mandate of his

God summoned him to answer for his crime;—death, if he ever ventured to

insult the sacred precincts of his native vale by seeking to return.

The voice of his father faltered not as from his seat of judgment, amid

the elders of his people, he pronounced this sentence. His cheek

blanched not as the wife and child of the murderer flung themselves at

his feet, beseeching permission to accompany the exile. It could not be.

Nay more, did he return, the law was such, that his own wife or child

must deliver him up to justice, or share the penalty of his crime. Hour

by hour beheld the wretched suppliants pleading for mercy, but in vain.

Nor did this more than Roman firmness (for it was based on love, not

stoicism) desert him when, in agonized remorse, his son besought his

forgiveness and his blessing. He confessed his sin, for he felt it such.

No provocation could call for blood. And headstrong and violent as were

the passions of Simeon Castello, his father believed in his remorse, his

penitence; for he knew deeds of blood were foreign to his nature. He

raised his clasped hands to heaven, he prayed that the penitence of the

sinner might be accepted, he spoke his forgiveness and his blessing, and

then flinging his arms around his son, his head sunk upon his shoulder.

Minutes passed and there was no sound—the Hebrew father had done his

duty: but his heart had broken—he was dead!

From the moment she was released from the parting embrace of her

doubly-wretched husband, and her strained eyes might no longer

distinguish his retreating figure, no word escaped the lips of Rachel.

For the first time, she looked on the sorrow of her poor child, without

any attempt to soothe or console. She resumed her usual duties, but it

was as if a statue had been endowed with movement. Nor could the

entreaties of her aged grandfather, her sole remaining relative, nor the

caresses of Josephine, wring even one word of suffering from her lips.

A week passed, and Josephine held a little brother in her arms; the

looks of her mother appeared imploring her to cherish and protect him,

and kneeling, she solemnly swore to make him the first object of her

life; belief beamed in the eyes of the dying—her look seemed beseeching

the blessing of heaven on them both; but Josephine yearned in vain for

the sweet accents of her voice—she never spoke again.

From that hour the gay and sprightly child seemed changed into premature

and sorrowing womanhood. She stood alone of her race. Alone, with the

sole exception of that aged relative, who had seen his children and

children’s children fall around him, and her infant brother. She shrunk,

in her sensitiveness, from the young companions who would have soothed

her grief. She did not fear that the crime of her father would be

visited upon her innocent head, for such feelings were unknown to the

simple government of Eshcol; but her loneliness, the shock which had

crushed every hope and joy of youth, caused her to cling closer to her

aged relative, and direct every energy to the welfare of her young

and—as, alas! she too soon discovered—afflicted brother. She watched his

increase in strength, intelligence, and loveliness, and pictured in

vivid colouring the delight which would attend his instruction; she

longed intensely for the moment when her ear should be blessed by the

sweet accents of his voice. That moment came not! the affliction of her

mother had descended to the child she bore, and Josephine, in

irrepressible anguish, became conscious that not only was his voice

withheld from her, but hers might never reach his ear.

Her deep affection for him, however, roused her from this mournful

conviction; and energetically she sought to render his affliction less

painful than it had appeared, and she succeeded. She led him into the

fields of nature—every spot became to the child a fruitful source of

intelligence and love, providing him with language, even in inanimate

objects; by his mother’s grave she instilled the thoughts of God and

heaven, of their peculiar race and history; of the God of Israel’s deep

love and long-suffering; and she was understood—though to what extent

she knew not, imagined not, till the hour of trial came. That she was

inexpressibly assisted by the child’s rapid conception of the good and

evil, of the sublime and beautiful—by its extraordinary intellect and

truly poet’s soul, is true, but the lowly spirit of Josephine felt as if

a special blessing had attended her task, and urged yet further efforts

for his improvement.

By means of waxen tablets, formed by the hand of Imri Benalmar, she

taught him to read and write. Leading his attention to familiar objects,

she would write down their appropriate names, and familiarising his eye

to the writing, he gradually associated the written word with the

visible object. The rest was easy to a mind like his. The flushed cheek

and sparkling eye denoted the intense delight with which he perused the

manuscripts collected, and often adapted for his use by Imri, and poesy

became his passion; breathing in the simplest words, on his waxen

tablets, the love he bore his devoted sister, and the pure, beautiful

sentiments which filled his soul.

The kindness of Imri to her Aréli, passed not unfelt by the heart of

Josephine. Tremblingly she became conscious that an emotion towards him

was obtaining ascendency, which she deemed it her duty to conquer, or at

least profoundly to hide. She could not forget the stigma on her name,

and believed none could seek her love. The daughter of a murderer (for

though the crime was involuntary, such he was) was lonely upon earth.

Dignified and reserved, they would have thought her proud, had not her

constant kindness, her total forgetfulness of self, in continually

serving others, belied the thought; but this they did think (and Imri

Benalmar himself, so well did she hide her heart) that her affections

were centred in her aged relative and her young brother.

But when the magic words were spoken, when Imri Benalmar, whose

unwavering piety and steady virtue had caused him to stand highest and

dearest in the estimation of his fellows, young and old, conjured her

with a respectful deference, which vainly sought to calm the passionate

affection of his soul, to bless him with her love, her trust—the

long-hidden feelings of Josephine were betrayed, their inmost depths

revealed. Blessed, indeed, was that moment to them both. Fondly did Imri

combat her arguments, that she had no right to burden him with the aged

Asher and her helpless Aréli, yet from them she could never consent to

part.

“Had not Aréli ever been dear to him as a brother—had he not always

intended to prove himself such?” he asked, with many other arguments of

love; and how might Josephine reply, save with tears of strong emotion

to consent to become his bride?

Josef Asher heard of their engagement with delight; but he would not

consent to burden them with his continued company. True, he was old, but

neither infirm nor ailing. He would retain possession of his own

dwelling, which had descended to him from many generations; but the

nearer his children resided, the greater happiness for him.

Imri understood the hint, and, as if by magic, a picturesque little

cottage, not two hundred yards from her native home, rose before the

wondering eyes of Josephine; and Aréli, as he watched its progress,

clapped his hands in childish joy, and sought to aid the workmen in

their tasks. Presents from all, as is the custom of the Hebrew nation,

were showered on the youthful couple, to enable them to commence

housekeeping with comfort, or add some little ornament or useful article

of furniture to the house or its adjoining lands. The more the

_fiancées_ were beloved, the greater source of public joy was a wedding

in Eshcol.

The conversation which the commencement of our tale in part records took

place a few evenings previous to the day fixed for the nuptials.

On leaving his sister and her betrothed, Aréli betook himself, as was

his custom, ere he joined the evening meal, to his mother’s grave, to

water the flowers around it, and peruse, in his simple and innocent

devotion, the little Bible which Josephine and Imri’s love had rendered

into the simplest Spanish, from the Hebrew Scriptures of their race. The

shades of evening had already fallen around the leafy shadowed place of

tombs, but there was sufficient light remaining for the boy to discern a

cloaked and muffled figure prostrate before his mother’s grave, the head

resting in a posture of inexpressible anguish on the cold marble of the

tomb. The stranger’s form moved convulsively, and though Aréli could

distinguish no sound, he knew that it was grief on which he gazed.

Softly he approached and laid his little hand on that of the stranger,

who started in evident alarm, looking upon that angelic face with a

strange mixture of bewilderment and love. He spoke, but Aréli shook his

head mournfully, putting his arm around his neck caressingly, as if

beseeching him to take comfort; then, as if failing in his desired

object, he hastily drew his tablets from his vest, and wrote rapidly—

“Poor Aréli cannot speak nor hear, but he can feel; do not weep, it is

so sad to see tears in eyes like thine!”

“And why is it sad, sweet boy?” the stranger wrote in answer, straining

him as he did so involuntarily closer to his bosom.

“Oh, man should not weep, and man like thee, who can list the sweet

voice of nature, and the tones of all he loves; who can breathe forth

all he thinks, and feels, and likes. Tears are for poor Aréli, and yet

they do not come now as they did once, for I have a father who loves,

and who can hear me too, though none else can.”

“A father?” wrote the stranger. “Who is thy father, gentle boy? Thou

bearest a name I know not. Tell me who thou art.”

“Oh, I have no father that I may see and hear—none, that is, on earth;

but I love Him, for He smiles on me, through the sweet flowers, and

sparkling brooks, and beautiful trees; and I know He loves me and cares

for me, deaf and dumb and afflicted as I am, and he hears me when I ask

him to bless me and my sweet sister, and reward her for all she does for

me. He is up—up there, and all around.” He stretched out his arms,

pointing to the star-lit heavens and beautiful earth. “My Father’s house

is everywhere; and when my body lies here, as my mother’s does, my

breath will go up to Him, and Aréli will be so happy—so happy!”

“Thy mother!” burst from the stranger’s lips, as though the child could

hear him; and his hand so trembled that he could hardly guide the steel

pencil which traced the word “Who is thy mother—where does she lie?”