Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes
not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is
thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future,
without fear, and with a manly heart.
LONGFELLOW.
“The spirits of youth are elastic, and after great pressure will
naturally rebound. ‘Hope on, hope ever,’ is a maxim seldom forgotten
until age has chilled the blood and palsied the powers of life. After a
few days spent in brooding over the present, Paul again looked forward
to the future, and determined to seek some other avenue by which he
might gather up a little, just a little, of the treasure which others
possessed in such abundance. His fondness for literature suggested the
idea that his pen might be employed with more profit than his pencil,
and the periodicals of the day appeared to offer a wide field for
exertion. But emolument from such sources was precarious at best. All
who held an established reputation in the world of letters were
contributors to the various popular publications, and Paul Talbot wanted
the “magic of a _name_” to win _golden_ opinions from the Press.
Sometimes he met with those who were more just, and more generous, and
thus encouraged he toiled on, hoping even against hope, that his desires
would yet be accomplished.
“With many misgivings, and a fear that he had mistaken his vocation, he
had taken his ill-fated picture to a place where engravings were kept
for sale, and left it with the shopkeeper, promising to pay him one half
the money for which it might be sold. How discouraging to see it week
after week in the window, until it began to look like a soiled fixture
of the establishment. No one would ever buy it, that was certain, and if
they would not purchase this his best work, how could he ever hope to
dispose of others of less merit, which were standing round the walls of
his little room? Alas, no! but when once in Italy—then he would paint
pictures such as he dreamed of in imagination. For the present, with
weary frame and throbbing brow, he must Labor on.
“There are few but know
‘How cruelly it tries a broken heart
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.’
And who that has ever walked forth on a particularly bright morning,
when he was nursing a deep sorrow, or was weighed down by the pressure
of misfortune, but felt annoyed by the light, and noise, and
cheerfulness around him? Those vast tides of human life what are they to
him? He is but a drop in a wave of the mighty ocean—but a pebble thrown
upon the sand—a broken link in the great chain of the Universe. Thus
felt Paul, as on one of the loveliest days of laughing June, he wended
his way to the office where he had left a manuscript to be examined by
the publisher.
“‘How can those people look so smilingly,’ thought he, while glancing at
the well-dressed groups on the side-walk. ‘And those children, how noisy
they are—and see that carriage with its liveried attendants—pshaw!’
Now Paul was not envious, and he was particularly fond of children, but
the feeling of loneliness in the crowd was oppressive, and with another
half audible pshaw! he turned into a quieter street.
“The smiling face of the great man who employed so many subordinates in
his large establishment, somewhat reassured the desponding youth, and
after a little preliminary talk about encouraging native talent, a sum
was offered, which, though small in itself, was just then a god-send to
the needy Paul, who with many thanks bowed himself out of the
publisher’s presence. One ray of light had dawned on his darkened path,
one beam of hope had shed its warmth upon his heart, and how differently
now looked the scene through which he had lately passed! With buoyant
step he went on. He, too, could smile,—the darling little ones, how
delighted he was to see them looking so happy—and the poor blind man at
the corner must not be forgotten! Like the child who plays with the
kaleidoscope, and every moment sees some new beauty, so Paul toyed with
the many-colored hues in the rainbow of Hope, grouping them together in
the most beautiful and dazzling forms.
“It was destined to be a red-letter day in his book of life. As he
passed the print-shop he saw that his picture was gone from the window.
It had been sold, and a companion-piece ordered by the purchaser. ‘Oh
that my mother were living!’ sighed Paul—‘oh that my mother were
living, we might yet go to Italy!’
“Again the painter laid aside his pen and resumed his pallet. The one
order was executed, the money transferred to his slender purse, and even
now he began to think how much might be put aside for his darling
project.
“‘Could I but obtain enough to pay for my passage—once there, in that
delicious climate, I could live on so little. Oh that some one would buy
this,’ he continued, taking up a small picture on which he had bestowed
unusual care, ‘it is worth more than either of the others. I shall leave
it with the kind Mr. Barry; how generous he was in refusing the
commission I promised him for the last one he sold.’
“Mr. Barry, at whose print-shop Paul had left his first picture, had
kindly drawn from him the story of his life, and felt deeply interested
in the young artist’s changing fortunes, but, like many other
generous-hearted men, he was always forming schemes for the benefit of
others, which his means would not permit him to accomplish.
“The kind man had just reared a goodly super-structure of greatness,
upon a rather sandy foundation, for his young protégé, when Paul entered
with the new work fresh from his easel.
“‘Why, Talbot,’ said he, cordially grasping the painter’s hand, ‘this is
capital! and I consider myself a tolerably good judge. When younger, I
was in the employ of a picture-dealer, who pursued the profitable
business of making old pictures look like new, and the still more
profitable one of making new pictures look like old. You stare, it is a
fact, I assure you. To a Madonna, that had been bought for a trifling
sum, I had the honor of imparting a time-worn tinge, which so took the
fancy of an amateur, that he paid two hundred and fifty dollars for it
at auction. But I never could endure cheating, so I left the picture
manufactory, and commenced the sale of prints on my own account.’
“‘Do you think there is any chance of selling this Landscape?’ inquired
Paul. ‘I will take fifteen dollars for it.’
“‘Why, Talbot, you are foolish, it is worth at least fifty.’
“‘Ah, no one would give me so large a sum for a picture; fifty dollars!
that would almost take me to Italy.’
“‘Well, well, my dear fellow, it is said, Providence helps those who
help themselves, and you are sure to be helped in some way or other. I
was thinking about you this morning, and wrote a note of introduction to
Mr. C., who is a great patron of the Fine Arts. I have told him of your
desire to go abroad, and how you are situated—’
“‘Nay, nay, my kind friend,’ interrupted Paul, ‘this looks too much like
begging a favor, remember I cannot sacrifice my independence, even to
secure the accomplishment of my most ardent wishes.’
“‘You are wrong, Talbot, you do not solicit him for aid; he has a taste
for art, and if he give you money, you return an equivalent in your
picture, so that the obligation is mutual.’
“Paul was persuaded, and, bearing his friend’s letter, bent his way to a
fine-looking house, a long way from his own abode. Upon ringing the
bell, he was informed by the servant that the family were at dinner.
Leaving the letter with the waiter, he desired him to hand it to Mr. C.,
and say that Mr. Talbot would call to-morrow evening. The next evening
Mr. C. was engaged, and on the next, when Paul was ushered into the
drawing-room, and his name announced, he received a stately and
patronizing bow from a short, stout gentleman, who stood with his back
to the fire, conversing with three or four more who were seated near
him.
“‘Take a seat, sir,’ and the short man waved his hand toward the
intruder, and resumed the conversation thus momentarily interrupted.
“Paul grew nervous, and taking advantage of a pause he rose, and bowing
slightly, advanced toward Mr. C. for the purpose of speaking. The latter
began first—‘I have looked over Mr. Barry’s letter, young man, and
hardly think it will be in my power to assist you.’
“‘I came not seeking assistance, sir,’ replied Paul; ‘my friend Mr.
Barry thought you might perhaps wish to add another picture to your
collection, and, as I purpose going abroad, assured me that you would
cheerfully give a few lines of introduction to your young countryman.’
“‘Well, well, we will see, we will see, but all you young men have taken
it into your heads that you must travel, and this makes so many
applicants.’
“‘Applicants!’ the word stung Paul to the quick, and again bowing to Mr.
C., he left the apartment. Once in the free air of heaven, he gave vent
to his suppressed feelings, and vowed that should be his first and last
visit to a patron.
“Barry was indignant when he heard the non-success of his young friend.
‘Why, Talbot, that man’s name is bruited abroad as a most liberal patron
of Art, a fosterer of early genius, an encourager of native talent—how
I have been deceived!’
“‘Never mind, my dear friend, you will sell the picture to some one
else, and I will conquer yet.’
“And Paul Talbot did conquer. When another year had gone by, he stood
with the hand of his friend Barry clasped in his own, returning the warm
‘God bless you,’ fervently uttered by the old man in that hour of
parting.
“In a wild tumult of feeling, half joy half sorrow, he stood upon the
deck of the vessel, and watched the shores of his native land as they
faded in the distance.
‘The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft him from his native home.’
And now he is on the ocean—the waves are dashing against the ship and
bearing him onward—whither? To the land of his hopes. To the land of
his dreams. Why each moment does he grow sadder and sadder? Why, as the
crescent moon rises serenely in the heavens, does he press his eyelids
down to shut her beauty from his sight?
“‘Oh that my mother were here! Great God! yon moon is shining on my
mother’s grave!’