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 generoushearted 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 superstructure 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 think ing 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.' "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 eve ning 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 conver sation 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.' "Barry was indignant when he heard the nonsuccess 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!' CHAPTER IV. Wilt thou take measure of such minds as these, Its holy flame forever burneth, At times deceived, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest! It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of Love is there. SOUTHEY. "Paul Talbot is in the city of wonders. Ivygirdled ruins of the time-embalming Past are lying in the distance. Lofty cathedrals, rich in votive offerings of surpassing magnificence, surround him on every side. Stately palaces, their long galleries filled with the noblest works of the mighty minds of old, are baring their treasures to his gaze. The 'dewdropping coolness' of the marble fountain, breathes new vigor into his frame. He is excited-bewildered -dazzled and drunk with beauty,' and for weeks Paul wandered about Rome and its environs, half forgetful that his lot was still to struggle and to toil. "When roused to action, he threw himself heart and soul into his art, and the consequence was a long and severe illness, brought on by that absorbing devotion which often kept him at his pursuits until the morning dawn peering into his room reminded him that he was weary and overtasked. For months he lay wasted by sickness, helpless at times as a feeble child, but nature triumphed over disease, and he wandered once more beneath the blue sky, and felt the kiss of the balmy air upon his pallid cheek. "With a return to health, Paul returned with renewed ardor to his task, until the picture on which he had long and earnestly labored was at length completed. He had chosen for his subject a scene representing the Hermit Peter exhorting the people to join the crusaders. Standing in the midst, with one arm outstretched, and the other raised to heaven, was seen the enthusiast. On either side, were grouped mailed knights and stalwort forms, the tillers of the soil. One gentle lady, like the weeping Andromeda, was clinging to her lord, and a villager's wife held up her child for his father's last fond kiss. So animated and life-like was the figure of the preacher-so eager and intense the emotion betrayed by the assembled multitude-that you listened to hear the eloquence that roused all Europe, and sent prince, peer, and peasant to rescue the holy sepulchre from the hand of the Infidel, to cast down the crescent of Mohammed, and to raise the cross of Christ. "And now came that fame for which the young painter had toiled, and to which he had looked forward as his highest guerdon. Crowds were daily drawn to his atelier, and artists who had themselves won a world-wide renown, bestowed their warmest praises upon the 'Hermit' of Paul Talbot. "The following winter Paul passed in Florence, and there his picture was purched by a Florentine merchant, at a price which relieved the artist from fear of pecuniary embarrassment. Paul was requested to visit the house of the merchant, and select the most fitting place to display the work of which the fortunate possessor was so justly proud. He went, and in the picture-gallery of the wealthy Florentine was opened a new page in the artist's book of life. "Poets and painters have ever an eye for beauty in women; and when Carlotta D. entered the apartment, leaning on the arm of her father, Paul started as if one of the bright visions of his ideal world stood suddenly embodied before him. The lady, too, was for a moment half-embarrassed-for the fame of the young painter had reached her ears, and, womanlike, she had been wondering if report spoke truly when it ascribed to him the dark clustering locks, and the lustrous eyes of her own sunny south. Love's not a flower that grows on the dull earth; "Was it strange that Paul and Carlotta, both worshipers of the beautiful, with souls alive to the most holy sympathies of our nature, was it strange that they should love? "Paul had hitherto lived for his art alone. Painting was the mistress he had ever wooed with intense passion, but now another claimed his homage, and he bowed with a fervor little less than idolatrous at woman's shrine. Such a love could not long remain concealed. The father of Carlotta, a vain and purse-proud man, hoping by his wealth to obtain a husband for his daughter among some of the haughty but decayed nobility, frowned on the artist, and forbade him his house. In secret the lovers plighted their troth, and parted, not knowing when they should meet again. "Paul left Florence with the resolve to win not fame alone, but wealth. "At Rome he was enrolled a member of the Academy of St. Luke, under Overbeck-the spiritually-minded Overbeck-who himself the son of a poet, has enriched his art with the divinely poetical conceptions of his own pencil. At Munich, one of his pictures was shown by Cornelius to the king of Bavaria, and purchased by that munificent patron of art at a price far exceeding the painter's expectations. At Vienna a similar success attended him, and he returned to Florence after an absence of six years, with fame, and wealth enough for the foundation of a fortune. "From Carlotta he had rarely heard, but he knew her heart was his, and he had that faith in her character as a true woman, which made him believe that no entreaties or commands of her father would induce her to wed another. And Paul was rightCarlotta D. still remained unmarried. In her the budding loveliness of the girl had expanded into the fuller beauty of the woman, but Talbot was sadly altered. The feverish excitement-the continued toil-the broken rest-the anxiety of thought to which he had been subjected, undermined his health, and planted the seeds of that insidious disease, which, while it wastes the bodily strength, leaves the mind unimpaired, and the hope of the sufferer buoyed to the last. The father of Carlotta finding that neither persuasion nor coercion could make his high-souled daughter barter her love for a title, consented at last that she should become the bride of the artist; but many said the wily Florentine had given his consent the more readily, because he saw that Paul would not long be a barrier in the way of his ambition. "Paul Talbot had buffeted the adverse waves of fortune; he had gained renown in a land filled with the most exquisite creations of the gifted; he had won a promised bride. Whence, in that bright hour loomed the one dark cloud that blotted the stars from the sky? Could it be the shadow of the tomb? Was death interweaving his gloomy cypress with the laurel on the painter's brow? Oh, no, no-he was but weary -he only wanted rest, and his powers would again be in full vigor. Then, with Carlotta at his sidewith her smile to cheer him on-he would aim higher, and yet higher in his art. "And the young wife was deceived. Although a nameless dread, a dark prescience lay heavy at her heart, she yet thought the bright flush on the cheek of Paul a sign of returning health. How tenderly and anxiously she watched lest he should fatigue himself at his easel, and how gently she chid, and lured him from his task into the open air of their beautiful garden. "One of the days thus passed had been deliciously mild, and, although mid-winter, in that heavenly climate where flowers are ever blooming in the open air, each breeze was laden with the heavy odor of the orange blossom, and the fainter perfume of the Provence rose. Stepping lightly from the balcony where Paul and she had been seated watching the piled-up masses of crimson, of purple, and of gold that hung like regal drapery round the couch of the western sun, Carlotta pushed aside the opening blossoms of the night-jasmine which intercepted her reach, and gathering a handful of rose-buds, carried them to Paul. He took the flowers from his wife, and looking mournfully upon them, said, 'When we cross the waters to visit my native land, we will take with us some of your precious roses, beloved, and beautify my mother's silent home; and now,' he continued, twining his arm round her waist, and leading her to the harp, 'sing me that little song I wrote while yet a student in old Rome.' Pressing her lips upon his brow, Carlotta seated herself, and sung the song, which she had set to music. The air was soft and melancholy, and the sweet tones of the singer were tremulous with emotion. Fill high the festive bowl to-night, As ere our eyes were dimmed with tears. Those hours, those friends, those social ties, PICTURE. Like twilight clouds of golden dyes, 187 We sigh for those who are not here. "My dear Paul,' said his wife, smiling through the tears with which, in spite of her efforts to repress them, her eyes were suffused, 'this sad song should be sung on the last night of the year, the night for which it was composed. It should be sung while the student-band of artists stood around, each holding the flower-wreathed goblet from which he might quaff in silence, while his heart-memories were wandering back to fatherland. Let me sing,'-she paused on seeing the deep melancholy depicted on her husband's countenance-' nay, forgive me for jesting, love, I know with whom are your thoughts to-night, and will not ask you to listen to a lighter strain.' "A month went by winged with love and hope. Paul found himself growing weaker, but he looked forward to a sea-voyage as a sure means of restoring him to health. Carlotta was hastening her preparatory arrangements, willing to leave her home, willing to brave the perils of the deep, in the belief that old Ocean's life-inspiring wave would prove the fabled fountain of youth to her beloved. She had never seen consumption in any of its varied and sometimes beautiful forms. She knew not that the eye could retain its lustre, that the cheek could glow with more than its usual brightness, that the heart could be lured by a false hope, until, like a red leaf of the forest, dropping suddenly from the topmost bough, the doomed one fell, stricken down in an unthought of moment by the stern destroyer. "One morning, when Paul had remained much longer than usual in his apartment, Carlotta sought him for the purpose of whiling him abroad. "He was lying asleep on a couch, where he must have thrown himself from very weariness, as one of the brushes with which he had been painting had fallen from his hand upon the floor. His wife softly approached. She stooped and kissed his lips. He opened his eyes, smiled lovingly upon her, and pointed to the picture. "You have made me too beautiful, dearest; this must be a copy of the image in your heart.' 66 6 Ah, I have not done you justice, you are far more lovely, my own wife, yes, far more lovelymy mother-my mother-' repeated Paul, dreamily. It was evident his thoughts were wandering. "You are exhausted, dear love; but sleep now, and I will watch beside you.' Carlotta knelt down and laid her cheek on his. Afraid of disturbing him, some minutes elapsed ere she again raised her head and turned to look upon the sleeper. She took the hand that hung listlessly by his side. It was cold, and she thought to warm it by pressing it to her lips-to her cheek-to her heart. She bent her ear close to the sleeper-there was no sound; she laid her lips on his-oh, God! where was the warm breath? A horrible dread came over her, and unable from the intensity of her agony to utter any cry, she sunk down and gazed fixedly in her hus- 'And still upon that face I look, "And thus were they found by her father, who was the first to enter the apartment. Paul quite dead-Carlotta lying to all appearance lifeless at his side-and before them the unfinished picture. Florence, but a letter received since my return home informs me that after a short interval, in which reason resumed her sway, the sufferer calmly departed, coupling the name of her beloved with the rest and the bliss of Paradise. "The wretched father was filled with self-upbraidings. But for him, he said, Paul Talbot might have been living, and his daughter living, happy in each other's love. He spoke truly. To gratify his ambition, Paul had overtasked the powers of life. The frail shrine was consumed by the flame which for years had been scorching and burning into the heart and soul of the artist. Too late had he obtained his reward. Too late had Carlotta's father consented to her union with Paul. Too late had the old man found that by his daughter's alliance with a man of genius, a greater lustre would have shone upon his house than could ever be reflected from his glittering hoard." "When the fond wife was restored to conscious ness, and felt the full weight of that misery that was crushing out her young life, her reason became unsettled. It was very sad to see her wandering from room to room as if in search of some lost object, often stopping to unfold, and then folding again, the garments prepared for their journey. She would frequently rise with a sudden start, walk hurriedly to the window, and stand for a long time in an attitude of fixed attention, then mournfully shaking her head to and fro, would slowly resume her accustomed seat, and in a low voice repeat'not yet-not yet Paul still lingers in Rome.' Carlotta remained in this melancholy state during the time I was institute the only real greatness. Here ended my friend's narration, and while with him I lamented the fate of genius, I could not forbear blaming the conduct of the wealthy Florentine. Nor could I help thinking, that too often the golden ears betray the ass, while wisdom, virtue, talent, con To make my good deeds vain and valueless; Before whose eyes I may not draw the screen; And then I know that I have turned away From my own standard of the good and true; From childhood's slumbers, in the outward face, I have o'erstepped my bound-I have past by Paths that in early youth we swore to shun, So, from the blue sky shining overhead, The whispering angels leave us, one by one. I have past by the goal; 't is hard to pause, And with my own dishonor pay the price. Wo to us, when our pride becomes our truth So low contempt will lose me in its scope! How long ere malice o'er my head shall creep, I know not that I shall forget my kind, Nor shame the form I owe to human birth; |