University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WHISPERS OF HOPE.

The countenance of Ringold Griffitt was
so quickley mantled with a blush of consciousness
at the few words his mother uttered,
that it would have been clear to a by-stander,
that she spoke with a suspicion, if not a
knowledge of some secret passion of his
heart. He smiled and replied, but not without
confusion.

`Perhaps I ought to add love, my dear
mother, to `the fame and glory' which tempt
me to go to England.' High born as the
maiden evidently is, I shall never forget her,
never cease to feel towards her gratitude,
perhaps it may be called love.'

`If she resembles the picture that you so
value of her, and which you always carry

with you, Ringold, she is not only beautiful,
but good. There is no deception in her
clear, sunny eye. You seem to read in it
the volume of a pure heart and guileless
spirit.'

`I know that she is all that her face would
bespeak her, dear mother. Her heart is in
her face, and may be read. Look, my dear
mother,' he added, his manner kindled with
enthusiasm, as he drew from his knapsack,
the very knapsack he had so courageously
rescued from the bear he had slain, a small
canvass portrait, and after gazing upon it
with prideful pleasure, turning it towards his
mother: `see what angelic beauty, love, and
affection, and goodness, and truth, are all
dwellers in the heart to which such a face
is a mirror.'

`She is very lovely, Ringold, very. Did
I not know you are ignorant of falsehood,
I should be inclined to believe that this is
some fairy head of womanly beauty—the
embodiment of some fair vision of your imagination;
for it appears too lovely to be one
of earth.'

`I am sure she is of earth, though she is
my guardian angel. I have made her such,
mother. But for her, I should have been
wrapped now in gloom and despondency,
and utterly despairing of attaining to advancement
or excellency in my art. But
her voice, her smile, her few words of hope,
bade me live again. For her sake, I will
yet write my name side by side with those of
Raphael, of Guido, of West. She shall yet
see that the friendly stranger, in the garb of
a seaman, whom she encouraged when she
saw him in despair, was not all unworthy of
her interest.'

`I trust you do not love her, Ringold,' said
his mother, `for, as you say, she may be high
born, and good and kind, as she may be, she
will not stoop to return thy love.'

`Stoop, mother. Europe has stamped genius
with nobility. Painters have sat at the
tables of kings, and walked equals with princes.
Yet you say truly, mother. I am a
poor, unknown artist. My name is not identified
with that genius which has fellowship
with nobility, and ere I attain eminence
and fame, I may be grey-headed, and she,
she may be the wife of another. You advise
me well, mother, not to love her, yet I
may cherish gratitude, and I can gaze upon
her sweet picture without reproof.'

This was said with an air of sadness, and
his affectionate, sensible mother, gazed sympathizingly
upon his fine face, on which genius
had laid the impress of true nobility. Her
heart swelled with pride as she admired his
manly beauty, but she sighed as she reflected
how few youths realized in the future
the early dreams of their ambitions. She
knew that he possessed genius and talents
of a high order, not that she was a judge,
but every body in the valley said it, and maternal
pride bore its testimony; but she feared
for the future to which he looked with
such a kindling eye, and in the depth of her
heart regretted that the spirit of ambition
had been enkindled in his soul; for the chances
were that after battling with life for the
crown of fame, he would find it woven with
thorns. And though she gazed with pleased
wonder upon the angelic head of the maiden
who had bid him hope for fame, she could
not but regard her rather as her and his enemy,
by leading him to wander from the maternal
roof, and by alluring him to the height
which so many brave spirits had fallen short
of, or reached with broken hearts.

`Better,' she said, as in the silence of her
bosom she dwelt upon her son's happiness,
with all of a mother's anxiety, `better that
he should remain in the valley, and be content
to follow the quiet and harmless
pursuits of agriculture, than fling himself into
the arena of the world in pursuit of the
bubble fame. This unknown maiden, whom
he seems almost to worship, I fear will prove
instead of his guardian angel, his evil angel,
not that she may not be pure and good, and
as innocent as she looks in the fair picture
he has painted of her, but he by fixing his

eye and heart on her as he does, she being so
far above him, as he says she is, will only
sow for himself disappointment and sorrow,
It was a fatal enterprize his going to sea, I
fear, for otherwise, he would have been content
to remain in the valley, and some day
married a maiden of his love and degree;
and I should have had him ever with me.
But, now, alas, he departs, invited by the
witching voice of the high-born maiden,
whom he fondly and foolishly calls the star
of his destiny. Heaven grant that it may
not prove an evil one, as my heart fears.'

Such were the reflections of the mother of
Ringold Griffitt, as she sat by herself and
meditated upon her son's happiness, while he
sat down in the room before her, to write to
Mr. Bixby, the agent, informing him of his
having safely delivered the letters and money
into the hands of Red Beard.

While he is writing, and waiting for the
return of Whitlock, from his visit to his sweet-heart,
to accompany him to the abode of Red
Beard, preparatory to their expedition to the
inn, we will refer more particularly to the
circumstances already alluded to, under which
Ringold met the original of the lovely portrait,
which he carried with such devotion in
his portfolio.

The reader is already informed of his expedition
at sea, in seach of adventure, and
partly to extend some portion of that restlessness,
and love of change, which seems
to characterize genius.

After he had sailed up the Mediterranean,
and visited several of the ports of Southern
Europe, his ship proceeded to St. Petersburg,
in Russia, conveying to that port a cargo of
the luxuries of Italy. There the vessel was
ladened with the productions of that northern
country, and set sail for England, and aimed
at the port of London, intending there to
purchase, with the proceeds of her Russian
cargo, English manufactured goods for the
American market. While the ship lay at
London, our hero, who had seen enough to
awaken his desire to see and know more, in
the scriptural pieces of inferior masters that
adorn the churches in Italy, having heard of
the royal academy of art, resolved to visit it.
For this purpose he dressed himself in neat
apparel, a blue jacket, white full trowsers, a
black knotted handkerchief and shining tarpaulin,
and putting two guineas into his pocket
he started on his enterprize. He found at
first some difficulty in gaining admission after
reaching the noble building, but applying
well his gold he at length found himself
in the interrior of the most magnificient pile
he had ever penetrated.

There were numerous visiters lounging
through the long galleries and noble saloons,
which were lined with works of art from the
floor to the ceiling. For the first quarter of an
hour Ringold wandered along, bewildered.
He could fix his gaze upon none of the pictures
long, so many, each seemingly more meritorious
than the last, ceaselessly challenging
his admiration. At length he became a little
used to the splendor of the place and the
glory of the world of art, and the presence
of the richly dressed people about him, and
put himself to studying some of the pictures
with care.

One picture at length drew his eye and arrested
it. It was a landscape by Claude.
He had painted landscapes of scenes in his
own valley of the Susquehannah, and therefore
this piece attracted his attention, as he
felt he could judge it. But his eye had not
more than flown over the canvass as a bird
would have darted across the natural scene,
before he saw that it transcended all that he
had ever conceived of the art he loved. The
transparent clearness and infinite depth of
the sky was real. It seemed to him that if
the room in which he stood were darkened,
the stars must appear in it. The clouds
seemed to be in motion, sailing on the breeze,
and the very woods beneath to rustle their
foliage.

He set down before it and gazed upon it,
marked its pleasant fields, its glimming or
darkly-shadowed streams, its cattle and the

peasants at their tasks, and the soft summery
atmosphere, through which all was seen, and
his soul died within him. He felt that he
was a child in the art, and that the picture
before him would forever remain unapproachable,
unless as he said half aloud `an angel
from heaven should guide his pencil.'

As he uttered this, he looked up and caught
the eye of a man gazing upon him fixedly.
He was about to turn away lest his emotion
should be marked, when a second glance
showed him that the eyes were those of a
portrait. It was a Rembrant. He apporched
it and stood gazing upon it for a moment!
It wanted only this to fill the cup which was
already to the overflow!

`It is in vain! Art is divine and I am
mortal! I will never take pencil in hand
again, for I see that my strength is weakness
—my excellence infirmity. I have been a
fool to let my ignorant neighbors in the valley
delude me into the belief that I was an
artist! Farewell, sweet art!' he added with
emotion, `farewell, proud, happy dream of
my soul! I deserve this bitter lesson, this
toppling fall, for attempting to take flight
with eagles!'

`And why not with eagles if thou art kindred
with eagles?' said a voice near him, a
voice that thrilled to the depths of his being.
It was a female voice, low, half-undertoned,
as if the speaker would be heard by herself
alone. It breathed sympathy, while it kindled
courage and hope, and caused his startled
spirit to hear echoing from the future the
trumpet charge of fame!

He raised his face, over which unconsciously
he had suffered the tears of disappointment
and despair to roll, and his eyes
met the face of a beautiful blue-eyed girl of
nineteen, who was regarding him with looks
of friendship and kindness. He stood before
her with awe and admiration, confused at
her presence and at the consciousness that
he had been overheard in his language of
hopeless depression, and that his emotion
had been unwittingly exhibited to strangers;
for, in truth, he had forgotten as he gave
way to his lament that he was not alone in
the gallery. He made an effort to speak and
acknowledge the kindness of the words of
hope that had so graciously fullen from her
lips, but was too much embarrassed and surprised
to articulate a syllable.

She smiled at witnessing his confusion,
and said, with a certain air of superiority and
benevolent condescension, which perhaps
would have been restrained or more embarrassed,
had he been in other than a seaman's
garb,

`Do not confuse yourself, sir, to make me
any thanks. I overheard your words and
know that, humble as you appear to be, you
are yet an artist and a true lover of the art.
I have watched unintentionally your kindling
eye and the lofty expression of genius in
your face, as you have been gazing on this
Claude, and read the painter in the light of
your brow and in every lineament of your
speaking features. And while I was wondering
that a painter should be found in a
youthful seaman, I was surprised to see a
cloud cross your brow, the tears gush to
your eyes; and then I knew hope was
dying at your heart. I beheld you sink
upon the chair, and, burying your face in
your hands, speak so bitterly and so hopelessly,
I could not but forget the woman in
the friend and sympathizer, and whisper to
you a word of of hope!'

`It is like herself, young man,' said a
stout, middle-aged gentleman on whose arm
she was lightly leaning her hand. `She
speaks as she feels, especially about art; for
if she loves any thing it is pictures, hey,
Winny?'

`Yes, Uncle,' she answered, `next to you.
Do not despair, sir, if you are a lover of the
pencil,' she added, as she was passing on;
`true genius need never despond—ought
never to doubt! These great masters of art
were once pupils. If you paint and love the
pencil, persevere! Never despair.'

`I will not despair,' answered Ringold, inspired

by her words as well as by her beauty
and the graceful manner in which she spoke;
which was not with the air of one who fears
either to compromise her modesty or her dignity
by addressing a stranger, but with the
beautiful friendliness of a noble and free
heart that sympathized with sinking hopes
wheresoever met with, and that recognised
the claims of genius under every garb.

The maiden then bowed, smiled encouragingly
and passed on with the good-natured
looking gentleman, who supported her.—
Ringold stood like a statue and followed her
with his gaze till she was lost to it by the interposition
of the figures of other persons who
filled the rooms.