Chapter V (1)

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.

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.

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_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.