University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The third day after the departure of Davy, on his Quixotic expedidition,
the several artists of Philidelphia were thrown into amusing
consternation by the apparation of a clownish young countryman,
wearing a homespun frock, and hob-nail shoes, and carrying a small
cart-whip, deliberately stalking into their studios, and without casting
a glance upon the works of art around, approaching, and looking them
as closely in the countenance as they themselves had ever done sitters;
and then with a negative shake of the head, quietly disappearing
without having spoken a word.

Early in the afternoon of the same day, a certain young painter of
that city was seated in his studio, which, though a plain green room,
and containing but few pictures for display, was situated in the most
fashionable part of the town. His head was covered with a crimson
Turkish cap; a gorgeous oriental dressing gown enveloped his manly
and elegant person, and his feet were thrust into Indian slippers, richly
embroidered with bead-work. He had just dismissed a fair sitter,
and was still seated before his easel, contemplating the beautiful pictures
that had risen beneath the magical touches of his pencil. While
thus occupied, the door opened softly, and first the head, and then the
shoulders, of a countryman, were thrust in. The owner of these after

taking a survey of the room, then advanced his whole body, and
slowly approached the artist, as if to obtain a sight of his features,
which were hidden by the canvas before him, and which he was so intently
studying as to be unconscious of the presence of an intruder.
The countryman, who was Davy Dow, in proper person, at length, by
thrusting his head over the top of the canvas, got sight of the painter's
face. It was shaded to the eyes by the drooping fold of his velvet
cap, and partly covered by his right palm and fore-finger, on which
his cheek thoughtfully leaned. Davy looked hard and scrutinizingly,
but the singularity of his costume, with the attitude, defeated his
scrutiny. But he was not to be foiled in his object, and it occurred
to him that there was something in the shape of the symmetrical and
gentlemanly hand that reminded him of his foster-brother—for the
expression of the hand—so to express that which all have noticed, is
the last to change. In his anxiety to get a better view of the face, he
struck his foot against a limb of the easel. The artist started, and
looking up, beheld, to his infinite surprise, the broad visage of Davy
staring down upon him over the top of the picture. The instant Davy
saw his face, browned and manly, yet about the forehead and
eyes almost transparent with intellect, the lip darkened by a moustache,
and the face classically oval, with parted hair, flowing to the
shoulders, from beneath his cap, he started in his turn. In it his duller
vision saw no trace of the fair boy that shared his sports in childhood.

`Dang it, he be a Turk and no Christian!' he ejaculated, after surveying
him a few seconds; being bewildered by the picturesque costume
as well as confused by the stern, inquiring look that sought his.

`What, sir?' demanded the artist, not comprehending Davy's
words.

`Nothing, your worship. It is of no sort o' consequence—a bit o'
a mistake—into the wrong shop, sir—no offence, I hope, sir!' and
thus speaking, Davy bowed himself backwards as for as the door, and
then made his escape from the room with extraordinary precipitation.

The artist gave a few moments' thought to the oddity of the interruption,
and then taking up his pencil, began to work upon the picture,
touching and adding grace to each feature, and blending in the
higher parts of expression from memory. These touches were more
delicate and truthful than those which he had mechanically copied
from the face of the sitter; for fancy and taste combined with the
restless spirit of creating the beautiful, will then always insensibly

guide the artist's pencil, and mingle themselves with his colors. After
a while, he stopped abruptly, and spoke half aloud, his mind having
evidently dwelt on the recent circumstances while his pencil
moved over his canvas.

`Certainly, I have seen that broad, honest face before. Where can
I have encountered its owner?' He seemed to be recalling the past
for a moment, and then shook his head sorrowfully.

`Ah, gentle Mary! I wonder if you have continued true to me!
Two days longer this picture will detain me here, and I will then know
in person. In disguise will I revisit my native village, and from her
own lips, myself unknown to her, draw the evidence of her truth or
unfaithfulness!—How strange it is that the face of this clown should
bring Eden so vividly to memory. I have, at length, gained a name,
Colonel Odlin need not be ashamed to acknowledge. I know his
passion and taste for the fine arts. I trust much to this for success,
if Mary should have proven true. I wonder if she has altered much?'
As he spoke, he rose, and removing the canvas from the easel, replaced
it by a half finished portrait, the original of which could not
be mistaken.

`How like her as she was when we last met!' he said, contemplating
with a lover's gaze, the fair resemblance of Mary Odlin. `Perhaps
she is much altered now, but it is only to be still lovelier.' He
continued to gaze awhile longer on the picture which he had sketched,
of Mary in the bloom of sweet sixteen as she was pictured on his
memory, and then, rising, threw aside his gown and cap, replaced
them with a coat and hat, and after another passionate glance at the
the portrait, replaced it by the one he had removed, and descended
to the street. As he passed out of the door to the pavement, he saw
his late visitor, standing with his face close to his sigh, which he was
spelling over and over again, with great care, Henry, Portrait and Historical Painter.'

`That's half o' the name, and no mistake. It may be him and it
mayn't be! but dang me if he didn't look like a Turk up there. But
the chap I see might not ha' been the painter. `Henry!—Henry!
I wonder if he ha'n't got no pitcher to his handle! Henry what?
May be its Mr. Henry. Gad! I'll go in again, after I have been
round to the Indian Queen tavern, and got a snack, for its nigh on to
three o'clock, and I ha'n't had no dinner yet. If it's Mr. Henry,
'ta'n't Master Henry, that's all. But its so pesky near it, I'll give

another trial. For none o' the other painters look any more like Henry
than me old grandmother.'

There was something in the tones and manner of the speaker, that
arrested the painter's attention. He involuntarily stopped and was
about to address him, when Davy strode away beyond his reach, and
doubtless, very soon afterwards was regaling himself at the inn, with
bread, cheese, and dough-nuts. Two hours afterwards, on returning
to his room, which, as most artists are wont to do, he had left unlocked,
he discovered, seated in his chair before the easel, and gazing
with looks of surprise and gratification upon the sitter's portrait he
had replaced there, no less person than his former rustic visitor. He
surveyed him a moment with a smile, and then approaching him,
slapped him good humoredly on the back, and said:

`You seem to be fond of paintings, my good friend!'

`Noa, measter, not particularly,' said Davy, quietly looking up
from the canvas; `Ise ony waitin' here for the painter.'

The voice and face of the speaker brought back to the artist his
boyhood. He scanned his features with eager curiosity, as if he
sought to trace there familiar lines. But the tan of the sun and the
seasons, combined with a heavy beard, defeated his scrutiny. Davy,
in his turn, stared at the painter, his face alternately lighted up with
hope, and clouding with doubt, as at one moment he thought he detected
a resemblance, which, the next instant, was replaced by an expression
altogether strange to him. On the part of the young painter,
conviction grew to certainty, that an old companion of boyhood
stood before him: but, as if prompted by a sudden thought, which
suggested a plan for the better confirmation of his suspicions, he removed
the picture from the easel, and silently, with a half smile, replaced
it by one covered by a cloth, which hitherto had stood
against the wall, and then said:

`I was about to ask your name, my good friend; for your face reminds
me most forcibly, of one I knew in my boyhood; but I chose
to satisfy myself by means of my art. Look at this picture,' he added,
removing the cover; `if you recognize it, I think I shall not be at a
a loss to call you by name without asking it. Stand here before it!'

Davy took the position he pointed out, and had no sooner fastened
his eyes upon the canvas, then they seemed to start from their sockets
with mingled surprise and bodily fear. He stepped back, again
advanced, and then bent his face closer to it as if scarcely believing
his eyes for wonder; finally, he stooped down before it, with both

hands, from one of which stuck out the handle of his inseparable cart
whip, resting on his thighs, and gazed upon it until a broad smile
of amusing recognition, illumined her ruddy visage. Near him, with
his pencil extended in one hand, and his pallette elevated in the other,
stood the painter, watching every expression in his face, and enjoying
in triumph, the anticipated success of his art.

All at once, Davy drew back, and doubling his massy fist, said,
while he shook it at the canvas, `If thee beest no' Dominie Spankie,
thee beest the dev'l!' Then turning and looking at the amused artist,
he added, `There be but one could do that, and if thee beest not
not Measter Henry—'

`Then,' interrupted the Artist, smiling; `thou art not Davy Dow.'

`Odds butters! Bessy's mine, Bussy's mine!' he cried, capering
round the studio. `Give us thee hand, Measter Henry! Dod! it's
thyself after all, then! How thee hast shot up; and the tan has
made thee brown as a hazle-nut; and what with that whisker on your
upper lip, I'd barely know'd thee, but for the Dominie, here. I know'd
nobody could ha' done him but you. Well, it's odd, the old chap's
picture should ha' made you go off, at first, and then be the means o'
making me find you again.'

The two friends cordially shook hands, and Henry passed one of
the pleasantest hours since his exile in reviving old associations with
the communicative Davy. That Mary formed the burden of the numerous
questions he put to his foster-brother, need not be told. At
length, Davy began to feel in the capacious pockets of his frock as if
suddenly recollecting that he had not delivered all his message `Dang
it, Measter Henry, what with talking 'bout the Dominie, and the gals,
and the old women, I'd loike to a' forgot! Here's a bit of a letter
and a round gold ring for ye!'

Henry seiezed them with eagerness, while a heightened color betrayed
the state of his heart. He kissed the silent token, and placed
it on his finger, and then tore open the letter. It contained but a
single word:

`I obey!' he exclaimed. `How do you go back, Davy?'

`On Snowy. He's at the tavern, and if you'll ride him, Measter
Henry, I'll foot it along side, bad as I feel to get back to Eden to
see Bessy.'

`No thank you, good Davy. I will take the stage. You can return
at once, and bear this seal to her, and—'

`To Bessy?'

`To Bessy! No, you ninny—to Mary.'

He gave, as he spoke to Davy, a small signet, in which was cut the
metto, `My heart is with you.' `Tell her in three days I shall be at
Rosemont.' In a few minutes afterwards, Davy took his leave, and
by sun-rise the next morning, was several miles on his way to Eden,
the image of his Bessy filled his thoughts and added speed to his
progress.