Page:New-York Organ (June 19, 1852).pdf/3

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“Farewell, my son, go trustingly forth, have thine own fortunes by untiring efforts, and it will be doubly enriched by the memory of those years of patient toil that gained so much happiness for thee. The world is bright and beautiful to a young heart, but its light and loveliness pass away. Set not therefore too great value upon its riches. Walk calmly in the quiet path that leads to thy duty, envying none, loving all, and a purer and more lasting joy will be thine than the praise and homage a flattering world can give thee. Fear nothing but sin and temptation, follow only the dictates of thine own innocent heart. Be faithful to thy friends, forgiving to thine enemies, true to thyself, and earnest in thy love to God, and with a mother’s blessing on thy head, fare thee well.”

And with nothing but a deep love for his beautiful art, and a heart filled with pure and lovely feelings, Guido, a young Florentine painter, left home for the great city of Rome, where all his hopes and desires were centered. There, in the studio of some great master, he would seek honor and wealth for himself, and a luxurious home for her who, with all a woman’s patient constancy, had toiled to gain enough to place her son where his exalted genius might be guided and taught, till he could gain that she so fondly hoped; and when the time came, freely gave up all that made life pleasant to her—cheerfully bade farewell to her noble son, and in her lonely room toiled on, that he might lack nothing to cheer and help him on his way. Nor was all the mother’s self-sacrificing love unappreciated or unfelt; it kept her son from temptation and cheered him on to greater efforts, that he might repay with unfailing care and tenderness the sacrifice so nobly made. Nothing could stay or turn him aside, while his mother’s words lingered in his ear. No harm could fall on a head made sacred by her blessing, and no evil enter a heart filled with such holy love.

And so ’mid all the allurements of a luxurious city he passed unharmed, and labored steadily on till he won his way among the first of the high born young artists who crowded the studios of the great masters, and as time went on, honor and wealth seemed waiting for him, but not happiness.

The kind old painter with whom he had spent so many happy years, had a fair young daughter whom he had loved long and silently, happy that he could be near one so good and beautiful. He never thought of asking more, till a fellow student, possessed of wealth and rank, comely in person and courtly in manner, sought her hand; and then only, when he feared it was too late, did he gain courage to plead his love so well and earnestly that the old painter could not refuse to leave the choice to his daughter.

“Tell me truly, Madeline,” he said, “and he you love shall be thine, with my blessing. But pause and consider; young Ferdinand hath wealth, rank, a splendid home, and a heart full of love for thee; Guido has nothing—nay, blush not so proudly, my child; I mean no earthly riches. He hath a noble soul and a rare talent for painting; but in this cold world these are uncared for, where gold and honors are prized more highly. Judge for yourself, Madeline, which will bring the most happiness, the pomp and show of a countess, or an humble painter’s home, subject to all the care and sorrow poverty brings. Wealth or love—few maidens would pause; and yet ’tis a hard choice—both so noble and comely—I wonder not at your indecision.”

The image of the pale young painter came oftenest to the girl’s heart; all his silent acts of kindness, his humble, self-denying life, and most of all, his deep and earnest love for herself; and the gay, gallant Count was forgotten. A flower from Guido was more highly prized than all the costly gifts her titled suitor laid at her feet; but she knew her father longed to see her the wife of some high born lord; his own life had been darkened by hours of poverty and sorrow, and he fondly hoped to spare her that pain which he had borne unmurmuringly. So, with a daughter’s self-denying love, she answered:

“Father, as a painter’s daughter, my life has been one of perfect happiness; why not as a wife? The Count loves the beautiful art only as a means of gaining honor, and even that love will soon pass away, and some trifling thing succeed it. Guido is poor, and his art is his all. I know the deep, earnest love he bears for all that is great and good; beauty and purity he worships with a true painter’s steadfastness, and while he humbly toils for bread, the noble genius which lies hidden now will awake, and hallowed by such a purpose, will bring him honor and wealth. But I am young, father, and the world is new to me; judge as your own wise love counsels, and by that judgment will I abide.”

“So let it be, Madeline, and if I do not greatly err, our choice will be the same,” he replied, as he passed out and left a loving heart behind, struggling with the gentle memories that thronged so tenderly about it. But with a woman’s strength, all thoughts of love were banished, and she waited to fulfil her duty, hard though it might be.

“Seniors,” said the old painter, when he joined the rivals, who together sought to learn their fate, “my daughter leaves the choice to me, and as a father I would ask, what you would give up to win her love? Maidens are fond and foolish things, and would be hardly won. My lord, how highly do you prize the love of a simple girl?”

“More than life, liberty, wealth or honor,” replied the Count, with a glance at his humble rival, who possessed so little to sacrifice.

“And you, Guido?” said the old man.

The bright blood mounted to the pale face, and clear light glowed deeper in his dark eye as he answered with a low, sad voice, “I would give up that which is more precious than life or liberty; that for which I would most gladly give the little of honor, wealth, or happiness that I possess; all these were trifles, useless and vain, if that one thing were not gained.”

“And this is what?” asked the wondering painter.

“Your daughter! her happiness is more to me than all the earth can offer. Let her bestow her love where she will, and God protect him who is so blest as to possess it. My deepest, truest joy will be the knowledge of her own. Cold and selfish were the hearts that did not find pure happiness in the joy of those they truly love. My rival hath all that can make life fair and beautiful; I would not bring a cloud to darken her bright sky; but when all the blessings that the world can give are hers, I would only ask a passing thought of one whose earnest life and abiding love ever link all bright and happy memories with her.”

“It is enough! hear my decision: Three weeks hence is the Carnival; he who before that time hath painted a picture the most perfect in grace, and beauty of form, design, and coloring, to him will I give my daughter. Strange as it may seem, I feel a painter’s pride in bestowing my only earthly wealth on one worthy the glorious art that wins her. Three weeks hence at the gallery of, we meet again; ’till then, farewell.”

And as the two rivals turned away, his eye rested proudly on Guido, as he whispered with a smile, “He is worthy of her, and will succeed.”

The hours went by, and rumors of the strange trial between the rival painters were rife through the city. Many were the wondering thoughts of the people: gay jests went round, and happy visions of fame from the hand of the painters filled many a fair lady’s heart.

The beautiful Madeline sat alone, and strove to banish the thoughts that would come, bringing a picture she would not look upon, and so the time went on, the days were spent, and the Carnival was in progress.

Gallery after gallery filled, and still the crowd poured on till the dim old halls were brilliant with the fair and noble of the gay city; the sunlight stole softly in through the richly stained windows, throwing a strange, bright line on the old pictures within, and the air was heavy with the fragrance of the flowers, twined around statue and pillar.

Two dark mysterious curtains hung side by side, and before them stood the rival painters—a strange contrast. The young Count, his proud face glowing with joy, his costly garments glittering with embroidery, and his plumed cap, heavy with jewels, stood proudly forth, and many a light heart beat, and fair cheek flushed, as his dark eye glanced over the galleries, bright as an Eastern garden with the loveliest flowers of Rome.

But they soon turned from him to his rival, and lingered there. His humble dress and threadbare mantle were unheeded for the noble face that looked so pale in dark shadows where he stood; but a ray of sunlight lay softly on the long dark locks that fell heavily round his face, and all unconscious of the eyes upon him, he stood looking calmly on the sweet face of a Madonna above.

A crowd of the first painters stood around a canopied seat, conversing with the father, who listened, silently watching the dial as it fast approached the appointed hour; beside him sat Madeline; the long veil folded so closely could not hide the lovely face that blushed beneath; and the hand that clasped the victor’s wreath, trembled with the emotions of hope and fear that made the dark eyes fill with tears, and the gentle heart beat wildly.

As the twelve silvery chimes died away, the Count sprang forward and exultingly flung back the curtain. A long breathless pause, and then loud and long sounded the applause, till the vaulted roof rang again.

It was Madeline—beautiful as love could make her. Beneath the picture, traced in golden letters, were courtly words of love and flattery, and before it the Count knelt gracefully, and with uncovered head.

Then the pale young painter lifted his dark curtain, and not a sound broke the deep stillness as with fascinated eyes they gazed. Tears were on many a cheek, for the simple word “Mother” traced below, brought back to many a careless heart, the long forgotten hours of innocence and youth; it was strangely beautiful. The silvered hair lay softly round the gentle face, and the mild dark eyes seemed looking down on her son with all a mother’s fondness, while the golden light that fell from the high window seemed to shut the world of sin and shadows from them.

The silence was broken by a burst of applause that shook the old walls, and often as it died away ’twas again renewed; plumed caps waved, and flowers fell at his feet. Still, with folded hands he stood heedless of all, for his thoughts were far away; he only saw the gentle face before him, heard only her low, sweet voice, felt only her hand laid in blessings on his head, and all else forgotten.

Then clear and deep above the murmuring crowd, sounded the voice of the old painter, saying——“ [sic]Guido of Florence hath won the prize; and more than this, he hath gained our love and honor, for one whose holy affections prized above the young and lovely, the face that first smiled upon him, the heart that first loved. I ask no greater wealth for my child than the love of so noble a son. She is thine, Guido, with my fondest blessing.”

And ’mid a burst of triumphant music the wreath fell upon his breast. The noblest painters crowded round him, fair ladies scattered flowers in his path, and even his rival, shrouding his own fair picture, flung a bright wreath over the other, and with tears on his proud face, stood humbly before it, while gentle memories came stealing back, bringing a quiet joy, long unknown, to his ambitious heart; and he rose up a better man for the holy lesson he had learned.

And while noble painters, and beautiful women paid their homage to the humble artist, and the deep-toned music rolled through the bright halls, high above all, the calm, soft face looked proudly down on the son whose unfailing love for her had gained for him the the honor and love he so richly deserved.

A young peasant one day on returning to his village from Sion, a heavy fall of snow, about the beginning of October, met him on his toilsome ascent; he reached at length a rock from which he could see his own chalet, but in its stead nothing appeared but a frightful mass of snow heaps, beneath which his house, his wife, and their only child were doubtless engulphed. At first he was overwhelmed with despair, and threw himself on the rocks in a state of stupor; but presently the light of hope broke upon him—he started up, and rushed to the still uninjured cottage of one of his neighbors, whose assistance he entreated; several others joined with them, and together, armed with pickaxes and spades, they set to work with the view of disengaging the devoted from the overwhelming wreck. It required both strength and resolution, and the friends worked till night with ardor. The young man was then left alone; he continued to labor without ceasing, and at day-break his companions returned; the second day ended without result, but despair gave the husband fresh vigor, in spite of his fearful disappointment. A third day he toiled on, and at last, to his unspeakable rapture, he discovered the roof of his dwelling, and through an aperture for the smoke he perceived his wife sitting by the light of a lamp watching her infant, who was being at the moment suckled by a goat. His cries of joy were soon responded to, and the story of deliverance was soon told. A large rock behind the chalet had forced the avalanche which had descended to take another direction, and all beneath the roof, to the last of his flock were saved. His resolute perseverance was rewarded, and the pair became the objects of congratulation to the whole district. When one sees the position of these villages, one is not astonished at any of these histories, which, however, have seldom so fortunate an ending as this.—Sites in the Alps, by Miss Costello.  —The editor of the Wheeling Gazette lately saw a rare relic of antiquity, in the shape of a Bible in German, 212 years old. It belongs to S. Ott, Esq., of Wheeling, to whom it descended from his grandfather who paid $250 for it. The original cost at the time of its publication, was probably £500. It is nearly a foot in thickness, about twenty inches long, and must weigh some 60 or 70 pounds. The illustrations, and those well done, are several in number. It is truly a record of the olden times and style of printing.

—A maiden lady, suspecting her female servant was regaling her beau upon the cold mutton of the larder, called Betty and inquired whether she did not hear some one speaking with her down stairs? “Oh, no, ma’am,” replied the girl, “it was only me singing a psalm!” “You may amuse yourself, Betty,,” [sic] replied the lady, “with psalms, but let’s have no hims, Betty. I have a great objection to hims.” Betty courtesiedcurtsied [sic], withdrew, and took the hint.

☞Hear instruction and be wise.

—Several gentlemen of the Massachusetts Legislature, dining at a Boston hotel, one of them asked Mr. M., a gentleman who sat opposite,

“Can you reach them pertaters, sir?”

Mr. M. extended his arm towards the dish, and satisfied himself that he could reach the “pertaters,” and answered,

“Yes, sir.”

The legislator was taken aback by this unexpected rebuff from the wag; but presently recovering himself, he asked,

“Will you stick my fork into one on ’em, then?”

Mr. M. took the fork and very coolly plunged it into a finely cooked potato, and left it there.

The company roared as they took the joke, and the victim looked more foolish than before. But suddenly an air of confidence struck him; rising to his feet, he exclaimed, with an air of conscious triumph,

“Now, Mr. M., I will trouble you for the fork.”

Mr. M. rose to his feet, and with the most imperturbable gravity, pulled the fork out of the potato and returned it, amidst an uncontrolable thunderstorm of laughter, to the utter discomfiture of the gentleman from B.

—We lately reported the death of Dr. Ellenberger, a French physician at Prague, in consequence of an experiment he made himself, with poison, against the effect of which he contended he had discovered an infallible antidote. M. Meniere related, in the Gazette Medicale, some of the experiments of which he was a witness, while travelling in Germany with M. Orfila. During their visit to the Museum of Natural History at Prague, they were introduced to Dr. Ellenberger, who was happy at having an opportunity of showing them his experiments with the antidotes against vegetable poisons, and particularly strychnine and morphine. After relating the various trials he had made on himself, he proposed to perform an immediate experiment. He sent to an apothecary for 15 decigrammes (13 grains) of actetate of morphine, which, after it had been examined by M. Orfila, and declared to be pure, he put on his tongue and swallowed to the great alarm of all present. One minute afterwards he swallowed about the same quantity of a white powder, and the poison produced no effect whatever on him. He related that he had made the same experiment on animals and on plants, and invariably with the same result. He appears to have done the same with strychnine, and always with impunity, until the last time, when he unfortunately lost his life.

—Dr. Beddoes, the English antiquarian, was so enormously corpulent that a lady of Clifton used to call him the “travelling haystack.” He was once requested by a butcher to give it out that he bought his meat of him, as it would redound to the credit of any shop to have the feeding of such a Falstaff. At Cambridge resided a huge professor, and the paviouis were wont to exclaim:—“God bless you sir!” when he chanced to walk over their work. In the Court of Louis XV. lived two lusty noblemen, who were related to each other. The King said to one of them, when rallying him on his corpulency, “I suppose you take little or no exercise.” “Your majesty will pardon me,” replied the bulky duke, “but I generally walk round my cousin two or three times every morning.”

—A kind-hearted old lady was once reproved quite sharply by her friend for giving money to a stranger, who seemed to be very poor, when he asked charity in the streets of Boston. “Suppose he spent the money for rum?” said the censorious and suspicious friend. The quick and noble answer was, “If you must ‘suppose’ at all, why not ‘suppose’ that he will spend the money for bread? Why suppose anything that is evil about any one, when you are at liberty to suppose what is good and noble?” That lady had the true Christian spirit.

—I would have the windows of our farm houses adorned with flowers, not in rusty tin measures, and old black, glazed, spoutless tea-pots, and glass bottles with their necks broken off, but in whole and handsome flower pots or neatly painted wooden boxes, for they really cost little or nothing. I would have the door yard filled with flowers and shrubbery, and the roadside lined with trees; here a clump and there a single line, mingling the varieties as nature mingled them.

—Richness, without meekness and thankfulness, do not make any man happy. But let me tell you that riches with them remove many fears and cares. And therefore my advice is, that you endeavor to be honestly rich or contentedly poor; but be sure that your riches be justly got, or you spoil all. For it is well said, “He that loses his conscience has nothing left that is worth keeping.”—Isaak Walton.