University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Seven years had nearly passed away since the departure of Henry
Irvine from his native village, when one morning, at the breakfast table,
Colonel Odlin, as was his custom, opened his newspaper, the old
`Philadelphia Gazette,' which came to him in those days, regularly
once a week, and prepared leisurely to discuss it over coffee: an Epicuerean
method of breakfasting, to which retired old gentlemen, particularly
if they have been in the army, are much given. Mary, his
blooming daughter-sat opposite, presiding over the coffee-urn. She
was now in the ripeness of her beauty; and in her lovely face and
form, all that the bud had promised was realized. She had continued
to cherish her young love for Henry, absence serving rather to strengthen
rather than diminish it; yet, from the evening he had parted with
her on the shore of the little lake, she had received from him no intelligence
whatever. But, with a true woman's constancy and hope,
measuring his love by her own, she felt assured that wherever he was,
he continued faithful, and would, within the time he had promised,
return to claim her hand.

`I wonder who this young American painter can be, who makes so
much noise in the world,' said Colonel Odlin, pushing back his spectacles
and laying down the paper beside him, while he drank his coffee.
`I scarcely, of late, take up a newspaper that I do not find an
eulogium on this young artist. Really, I am proud of my country,
girl,' he continued, with animation; `we shall yet, believe me, give
lessons to England both in the arts and literature as well as we have
already done in arms.'

The attention of Mary was immediately awakened; for all mystery
connected with young aspirrnts for fame, had an interest for her; her
thoughts, moreover, were at that moment, running on her absent lover
and his probable career, and the words of her father, indifferent as
they would have been to an ordinary listener, instantly roused her curiosity.

`Do you mean that extraordinary genius, who is now in England?'
she asked with assumed carelessness

`Who else, child? I am proud of him, and his country should be
proud of him. She should welcome him with open arms when he returns!
What class of men reflect such glory on an age and country
as painters? They are the pet children of genius, and their pathway,
above that of all other men, is heavenward, and honor and glory encompass
them in their upward flight, like a shining cloud. Listen to
this, and see if it does not cause your American blood to mount to
your brow with national pride!' and setting his glasses to suit his vision,
the ardent old soldier read aloud from the Gazette, the following
paragraph:

`We learn with great pleasure that Peale's celebrated pupil, whose
brilliant career we have often had occasion to allude to in our columns,
has at length left Rome, where by the force of genius alone—
for to birth and parentage we learn he owes nothing, both being alike
involved in obscurity—he has held rank with nobles and princes, and
from all classes received the homage due to his commanding talents.
The London paper from which we obtain our information, also says,
that `it having been his intention to return somewhat leisurely from
Italy to the United States, he has taken England in his way, where,
his fame having preceded him, he has drawn from their Majesties the
most flattering personal attention. At their command, he has consented
to delay his departure for America, until he has taken portraits,
not only of their Majesties, but of the whole royal family. The Duke
of Sussex and the Earl of Wellesley, both sat to him in Rome, some
months since, of whom he has taken most extraordinary likenesses,
the truth of which is only surpassed by the spirit and beauty of the execution.
These will be, in a few days, placed in the royal gallery:—
We congratulate this distinguished young painter's countrymen on the
possession of an artist of such high merit, and console ourselves that
genius belongs to no land nor realm; but, inasmuch as its empire is
over the intellect, so is its dwelling place only limited by the boundaries
that confine the immortal mind. We learn that it is his intention

to return to America as soon as he shall have fulfilled his present engagemens
to their majesties.'

`There, my daughter, is a man whom men should delight to honor.
The title genius has given him is a far nobler one than the noblest the
patent of a king can confer.'

Mary assented in her heart to these sentiments of her father, but
did not open her lips, for her thoughts were busy, her ideas confused
—her hopes, feelings, wishes, all in commotion. His name, strangely
enough, was not given in the paper, and the impression singularly
and unaccountably forced itself, each moment increasing in strength
upon her mind, that the young painter was the exiled Henry. At
length as thought built itself on thought it almost reached positive
conviction in her mind. `If you hear of me, it will be with honor!'
She remembered these parting words, and also called to mind that
talent for sketching which had been the cause of their separation.—
`Oh, if it should indeed be Henry!' and the ambition of her love
which would give its object no inferior station among men, whispered
her to cherish the hope.