scarcely any compositions of the art, in whatever class, are calculated
to excite a greater variety of deep and serious feelings; feelings, it
is true, so uniformly tempered and modified by a calm and delightful
satisfaction, that they can scarcely be considered without calling up a
_smile_ to the countenance. But the smile arising from inward delight is
as different from the laughter excited by strangeness and drollery as
any one thing can be from another. It is, in fact, the very essence of
Wilkie’s pictures, that there is literally nothing strange, and
consequently nothing droll and laughter-moving about them.
From the works of no one English artist have I received so much pure and
unmixed pleasure and instruction as I have from those of Sir David
Wilkie. He differs from all the great old masters, inasmuch as I think
he possesses more vigor of pencil, and more natural and characteristic
truth of expression than any of them. His style cannot, indeed, be said
to possess the airy and enchanting graces of Claude, or the classic
power and beauty of the Poussins, or the delicious sweetness of Paul
Potter, or the sunny brightness of Wynants, or the elegant warmth of
Both, or the delightfully rural and country-fied air of Hobbima. In
fact, he has no peculiar or distinguishing style of _his own_; and this
is his great and characteristic beauty. There is nothing in his pictures
but what belongs positively and exclusively to the scene they profess to
represent. When any of the above qualities are required in his pictures,
they are sure to be found there; not because they are part of _his_
style, but because they are part of _Nature’s_, in the circumstances
under which he is representing her. The _artist_ never obtrudes himself
to share with nature the admiration of the spectator. And this is a very
rare and admirable quality to possess in these days of pretence and
affectation; when _subject_ is usually but a _secondary_ consideration,
and is kept in submission to the display of style, manner, and what is
called _effect_.
* * * * *
TO AMIE—UNKNOWN.
BY L. J. CIST.
They tell me, lady! thou art fair
As pale December’s driven snow;
That thy rich curls of golden hair
Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow;
That on the coral of thy lips
Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;
And in thy deep cerulean eye
A thousand gentle graces lie;
While lofty thought, all pure as thou,
Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!
Lady! I love thee! though I ne’er
Have seen that form of faultless grace;
Though never met mine eyes the fair
And perfect beauty of thy face:
Yet not for that thy face is fair—
Nor for thy sunny golden hair—
Nor for thy lips of roseate hue—
Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue—
Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow—
I love thee:—not to _these_ I bow!
I love thee for the gifts of mind
With which they tell me thou’rt endow’d;
And for thy graceful manners—kind,
And gently frank, and meekly proud!
And for thy warm and gushing heart,
And soul, all void of guileful art,
And lofty intellect, well stored
With learning’s rich and varied hoard;
For gifts like _these_ (gifts all thine own)
I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN!
* * * * *
EDITH PEMBERTON.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded,
Why thus forever haunt my view?
While in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not memory die there too?
Moore.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton, drawing her needle through a very
dilapidated stocking which she was darning, “my dear, do you know how
much your old friend Ellis is worth?”
Mr. Pemberton looked up from his newspaper with some surprise, as he
replied, “I can’t tell exactly, but I should think his property cannot
fall short of one hundred thousand dollars.”
“That will be twenty thousand a piece for each of his five children,”
said Mrs. Pemberton, apparently pursuing some hidden train of thought.
“I am not so sure of that,” returned her husband, with a smile, “it is
difficult to calculate the fortune of a child during the life of a
parent. Mr. Ellis is a hale hearty man, and may live long enough to
double his fortune or perhaps to _lose_ it all. But why are you so
interested in his affairs just now, Sarah?”
“To tell you the truth, husband, I have been thinking that Edward Ellis
would be a good match for Caroline.”
“Pooh! pooh! Carry is but sixteen, it will be time enough three years
hence, to think of a husband for her.”
“But if a good opportunity should offer, it would be the height of folly
to let it slip only on account of her youth. Edward is certainly very
constant in his visits.”
“His intimacy with Charles, sufficiently accounts for his frequent
visits, and his attentions, if they mean anything, are rather directed
to Edith, as far as I can judge,” said Mr. Pemberton.
“Oh that is only because Edith is the eldest. I could easily manage to
keep her out of the way, if she were to interfere with Caroline’s
prospects.”
“But why not secure him for Edith, if you are so desirous of allying him
to the family?”
“Mercy on me, husband, what should I do without Edith? I would not, upon
any account, put such a notion into her head; nobody could supply her
place if she were to marry just now.”
“Rotation in office, my dear, is the true and just system in family
government, whatever it may be in politics; it is time that Caroline
shared some of Edith’s manifold duties,” said Mr. Pemberton.
“How little men know of domestic affairs,” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton; “do
you suppose that such a giddy creature as Carry could ever be taught the
patience, industry and thoughtfulness which seem so natural to Edith?
No, no, I must keep Edith at home as long as possible.”
“So you have come to the conclusion that she is too useful to be allowed
to seek her own happiness.”
“Oh, Mr. Pemberton how can you talk so? I am sure if Edith really loved
any body I would never throw any obstacle in her way. She is quite
contented now and I don’t believe marriage is necessary to the happiness
of every body.”
“Why then are you so anxious to make matches for your girls? Why not
wait and see whether Carry is not also content to be single?”
“Because Caroline is such a hare-brained, thoughtless girl, that nothing
but domestic duties will ever give her steadiness of character, and
therefore I am anxious to see her settled in life.”
“Well I don’t think you need waste any feminine manœuvres upon Edward
Ellis, for whatever fortune his father may possess, he will never
support his sons in idleness. He means that they shall work for
themselves as he has done, and though he has given Edward a liberal
education, he intends to make him a thorough merchant.”
“Edward wishes to study a profession.”
“I know old Ellis well enough to believe that he sets too high a value
on time and money to consent to such a plan. He would never be willing
to maintain Edward during the next ten years, as must necessarily be the
case, if he adopted a profession.”
“Edward is a remarkably fine young man.”
“Yes, he possesses excellent talents and an amiable disposition, but his
character is yet to be formed by time and circumstance.”
“He is two and twenty, husband; and you were married when you were not
that age.”
“I know it, Sarah,” said Mr. Pemberton, drily, “and we both married five
years too soon. I became burdened with the support of a family at the
outset of life, and you were weighed down with domestic cares, while yet
in your girlhood; the consequence to me has been, that I am now obliged
to labour as hard for a living at forty-five as I did at twenty, and
with as little prospect of making a fortune; while the result to you has
been broken health and wearied spirits.”
“I am sure I never repented our marriage, my dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton
half reproachfully.
“Nor I, my dear Sarah,” replied her husband kindly, “it would be but an
ill requital for all your affection and goodness; but should we not be
equally happy and less care-worn now, if we had deferred our union until
we had been a little older and wiser?”
“Ah well,” sighed Mrs. Pemberton, feeling the truth of her husband’s
remark, but unwilling to confess it, “there is no use in such
retrospection; we have a large family around us, and there are no finer
children than ours in the whole circle of our acquaintance. If I am
broken down with the care of bringing them up, I can forget all my
trouble, when I have so much cause to be proud of them. A better
daughter than Edith, a more steady boy than Charley, and prettier girls
than Caroline and Maria, are not to be found anywhere in society; and I
dare say I shall be just as proud of the little ones in the nursery as
they grow up.”
“I dare say you will, my dear,” said her husband, smiling
good-humoredly, “it would be very strange if you were not, and quite as
strange if I had not similar opinions; Edith is as good as she is
handsome and I only wish young Ellis was in circumstances to marry her.”
“Don’t speak of such a thing, husband, I cannot consent to part with her
for the next four or five years.”
“Yet you want to get rid of Caroline.”
“I have already told you my motives; there never were two sisters more
unlike.”
“Edith has all the prudence and kindliness which befits a good wife, and
therefore deserves to be well mated.”
“She does not seem to think of such a thing as marriage, and I am truly
glad she is so indifferent about it, indeed I almost believe that Edith
is destined to be an old maid.”
“It needs no great prophetic skill to predict that, if you keep her
forever in the back-ground.”
“I am sure I do no such thing,” said Mrs. Pemberton, warmly.
“I don’t pretend to know much about these matters but I have noticed
that when the girls are invited to a party it is generally Edith who is
left at home.”
“It is not my fault, Mr. Pemberton, if she takes no pleasure in gay
society.”
“Are you certain she always stays at home from choice?”
“I dare say she does, at least she is never controlled by me.”
“But you know as well as I do, that the slightest expression of a wish
is sufficient to influence her. The truth is, Edith has made herself so
useful in the family that we all depend upon her for a large portion of
our comforts, and are too apt to forget that she often sacrifices her
own. Do you suppose that she actually preferred staying at home to nurse
little Margaret, the other night, to going to Mrs. Moore’s grand ball?”
“No, I can’t say she did, for she seemed rather anxious to attend that
ball, and had trimmed a dress beautifully for the occasion.”
“The child was certainly not so ill as to require her attendance in
addition to yours, and why, therefore, was she obliged to remain?”
“No, the baby was not very sick, but she cried so bitterly when she saw
Edith dressed for the party, that I was afraid she would bring on a
fever.”
“Therefore you disappointed Edith merely to gratify the whim of a petted
infant.”
“I left her to do as she pleased; she immediately changed her dress, to
pacify Margaret, and took her usual place by the cradle.”
“Yes, you left her to do as she pleased, after she had been allowed to
discover exactly what you wished she should do. This is always the way,
Sarah; the incident just mentioned, is only one out of hundreds, where
Edith’s kind feelings have been made to interfere with her pleasures. I
have long seen in the family a disposition to take advantage of her
unselfish character, and it seems to me exceedingly unjust. I do not
want to part with Edith, and should give her to a husband with great
reluctance, but I insist that she should have a fair chance, and not be
compelled to join the single sisterhood whether she will or not. You had
better let match-making alone, Sarah; leave the girls to choose for
themselves; only be careful that they have the right sort of admirers,
from which to select their future master.”
Edith Pemberton was the eldest of a large family. Her father, immersed
in business like most of our American merchants, spent the working days
of every week at his counting room, only returning at evening, jaded and
fatigued, to read the newspaper, and to doze upon the sofa till bed
time. Governed by the erroneous ideas, which led men, in our country, to
attempt the accumulation of a rapid fortune, in the vain hope of
enjoying perfect leisure in their later years, Mr. Pemberton had become
little more than a money-making machine. He loved his family but he had
little time to devote to them. He spared no expense in the education of
his children, liberally provided them with comforts, and punctually paid
all the family bills, but he left all the management of household
matters to his wife, who soon found it utterly useless to consult him on
any domestic arrangement. His purse was always open to her demands, but
his time he could not give. The consequence was that Mrs. Pemberton
while endeavoring conscientiously to perform her duties, made the usual
mistake, and fell into those habits which often convert our good wives
into mere housekeepers and nurse maids; “household drudges” as our
grumbling cousin Bull calls them. A rapidly increasing family, and her
utter ignorance of her husband’s business prospects, induced her to
practise the strictest economy which was consistent with comfort.
Abandoning the elegant accomplishments which she had acquired with so
much expense of time and labor at school, she secluded herself in her
nursery, and in the care of her children and the duties of housekeeping
found full employment.
In childhood, Edith was what old ladies call ‘a nice quiet little girl.’
Her delicate features, fair complexion, and blonde hair, established her
claim to infantile beauty, while her bright smile, sweet voice and
graceful gentleness seemed to win the love of all who knew her. Endowed
with no remarkable intellect, no decided genius, she yet managed, by
dint of good sense, industry and perseverance, to maintain her place at
the head of her classes, and to leave school, which she did at fifteen,
with the reputation of a very good scholar. A plain, but thorough
English education, a little French, a few not very ill done drawings in
water colors; some velvet paintings and a profound knowledge of the art
of stitching in all its varieties, were the fruits of Edith’s studies.
Gentle reader, do not despise the scanty list of accomplishments which
she could number. It comprised the usual course of education at that
time, and perhaps, in point of real usefulness, would bear a fair
comparison with the more imposing “_sciences_” and “_ologies_” which are
now _presumed_ to be taught in schools of higher pretensions. Her skill
in _needlecraft_ was a most valuable acquisition to the eldest daughter
of so numerous a family, and Mrs. Pemberton availed herself fully of its
aid. Edith returned from school only to take her place as an assistant
to her mother in the nursery. The maid whose business it was to take
care of the children, was not trustworthy, and it became the duty of
Edith to watch over the welfare of the little ones, while she employed
her busy fingers in shaping and sewing their multifarious garments.
Kindly in her feelings, affectionate in her disposition, gentle and
patient in temper, she was dearly loved by the children. It was soon
discovered that her influence could do more than the clamor of an
impatient nursemaid, or the frown of a mother whose natural good temper
had been fretted into irritability. If a child was refractory, sister
Edith alone could administer medicine, or smooth the uneasy pillow,—and
in short Edith became a kind of second mother to her five sisters and
three brothers.
Had her nature been in the slightest degree tainted with selfishness,
she might have reasonably murmured against the heavy burdens which were
laid upon her at so early an age. But Edith never thought of herself. To
contribute to the happiness of others was her chief pleasure, and she
seemed totally unconscious of the value of her daily sacrifices. If any
particularly disagreeable piece of work was to be done, it was always
concluded that Edith would not refuse to undertake it; if any one was
compelled to forego some anticipated pleasure, the lot was sure to fall
on Edith; and in short the total absence of selfishness in her seemed to
be the warrant for a double allowance of that ingredient in the
characters of all around her. Have you never met, friend reader, with
one of those kind, affectionate, ingenuous persons who have the knack of
doing every thing well, and the tact of doing every thing kindly? and
did you never observe that with this useful and willing person, every
body seemed to claim the right of sharing their troubles? Such an one
was Edith Pemberton.
But Edith was not proof against that passion which is usually libelled
as selfish and engrossing. Edward Ellis had cultivated an intimacy with
her young and studious brother, solely on her account, and the patience
with which the gifted “senior,” assisted the efforts of the zealous
“sophomore,” might be attributed less to friendship than to a warmer
emotion. Ellis was talented, ambitious and vain, but he was also
warm-hearted, and susceptible to virtuous impressions. The perfect
gentleness, the feminine delicacy, the modest beauty of Edith had
charmed the romantic student, and her unaffected admiration of his
superior mental endowments, completed the spell of her fascination. His
parents, well knowing how strong a safeguard against evil influences, is
a virtuous attachment, rather encouraged his intimacy with the Pemberton
family, without enquiring closely into his motives; and Edward was
content to enjoy the present, leaving the future to take care of itself.
In compliance with his wishes, his father had given him a liberal
education, but when, upon leaving college he requested permission to
study some profession, he met with a decided negative. “I wish you to be
a merchant, Edward,” said his father, “I have given you an education
which will enable you to be an enlightened and intelligent one, but upon
yourself it depends to become a rich one. Talents and learning without
money are of as little use as rough gems; they are curiosities for the
cabinet of the virtuoso, not valuables to the man of sense; they must be
polished and set in a golden frame before they can adorn the possessor,
or seem precious in the eyes of the multitude. If you are wealthy, a
little wisdom will procure you a great reputation; if you are poor your
brightest talents only serve as a farthing rush-light to show you your
own misery!” Such were the views of Mr. Ellis, and though his son
differed widely from him in feeling, yet he dared not gainsay the
assertions which he deemed the result of experience and worldly wisdom.
It was but a few days after the conversation just narrated that another
of a different character took place between two of the parties
interested. Edith was returning from a visit to a sick friend, just as
evening was closing in, when she was met at her door, by Edward Ellis.
“Come with me, Edith,” said Edward hurriedly, “wrap your shawl about
you, and walk with me on the Battery.”
“Not now, Mr. Ellis,” replied Edith, “it is quite late, and little Madge
is waiting for me to sing her to sleep.”
“Psha! Edith, you are always thinking of some family matter; do you ever
think of your own wishes?”
“Yes,” replied Edith, laughing, “and I confess I should prefer a
pleasant walk with you to a warm and noisy nursery.”
“Then come,” said Edward, drawing her arm through his, “I have something
of great consequence to say to you.”
Edith looked surprised, but the expression of Edward’s countenance was
anxious and troubled, so she offered no further opposition. They entered
the Battery, and walked along the river side, for some minutes in
perfect silence, before Edward could summon courage to enter upon the
subject nearest his thoughts. At length as they turned into a less
frequented path, he abruptly exclaimed, “Do you know, Edith, that I am
going away?”
Edith’s heart gave a sudden bound, and then every pulsation seemed as
suddenly to cease, as with trembling voice she uttered a faint
exclamation of astonishment.
“You are surprised, Edith, I knew you would be so, but have you no other
feeling at this announcement of my departure? Nay, turn not your sweet
face from me; I must know whether your heart responds to mine.”
Edith blushed and trembled as she thus listened, for the first time, to
the voice of passionate tenderness. Feelings which had long been growing
up unnoticed in her heart, and to which she had never thought of giving
a name—fancies, beautiful in their vagueness,—emotions undefined and
undetermined, but still pleasant in the indulgence,—all the
“countless things
That keep young hearts forever glowing,”
found in that instant their object and their aim. Edith had never
thought of Edward as a lover, she had never looked into her heart to
discover whether she really wished him to be such, but at the magic
voice of affection, the mystery of her own heart was revealed to her,
its secret recesses were unveiled to her gaze, and she knew that his
image had long been there unconsciously enshrined. Her lover saw not all
her emotions in her expressive countenance, but he read there no
repulsive coldness, and as he clasped the little hand, which lay on his
arm, he said:
“Listen to me, dear Edith; my father informed me, to-day, that he has
made an arrangement with my uncle, (whom, as you know, has long resided
at Smyrna,) by which I am to become the junior partner in the house, and
he has directed me to be ready in three weeks, to sail in one of his
ships, now lading for that port. How long I shall be absent, is
uncertain, but as my uncle is desirous of returning to America, I
presume that it is intended I shall take his place abroad. Years,
therefore, may elapse ere I again behold my native land, and I cannot
depart without telling you how dear you have long been to my heart. Yet
let me not deceive you Edith: I have confessed to my father my affection
for you,—he acknowledges your worth, and does not disapprove my choice,
but he has positively forbidden me to form any engagement for the
future. I am violating his commands in thus expressing my feelings to
you.”
“What are his objections, Edward?” faltered the trembling girl.
“Oh it is the old story of over-prudent age; he says we may both change
long before I return, and that it is best to be unfettered by any
promise; then no harm can happen to either, and if you love me you will
wait my return, without requiring any engagement to confirm your faith.
Thus he argues and I can make no reply. I have no means of supporting a
wife, therefore I dare not ask you of your parents, and my father’s
caution deprives me of the only comfort which hope might have afforded
me in my exile.”
Edith was deeply agitated, and her cheek grew pale, as she murmured:
“You are right in obeying your father, Edward; happiness never yet
waited on one who was deficient in filial duty.”
“And is this all you can say, Edith,” exclaimed Edward passionately. “Is
this cold approval all I can hope to receive from the object of my first
and only love? Have not my every look and tone told you how deeply I
loved you, and can you let me depart without one word of tenderness or
regret? Must I remember your gentle face but as a dream of boyhood?
Shall your low, sweet voice be but as the melody of by-gone years? May I
not bear with me, in my banishment, a hope, faint and cold it may be as
the winter sunbeam, yet lighting up my dreary path with something like a
promise of future happiness? Edith I ask no plighted faith; I wish you
not to pledge me your hand till I can come forward and claim it openly;
but I would fain know whether my love is but as incense flung upon the
winds. If you can offer no return to my affection, dearest, let me at
once know my fate, and with all the force of an over-mastering will,
shall my heart be silenced, if not subdued. Say that you love me not,
Edith, and though the stream of my life must forever bear your image on
its surface, yet you shall never know how dark has been the shadow it
has cast. Say that you love me not, and you shall never hear a murmur
from my lips, nor shall your peaceful existence be saddened by the gloom
which must ever pervade mine. You are silent Edith—you cannot bear to
utter the words which must condemn me to despair.”
Ellis paused, and strove to read in Edith’s face, the feelings to which
she could not give utterance. But her eyes were bent upon the ground,
while the big tears fell like rain from beneath the drooping lids and in
her flushed cheek he saw only displeasure.