 | The young artist, and, The bold insurgent |  |
THE
YOUNG ARTIST
1. CHAPTER I.
“There be stories tolden in pictures as well as in bokes and a cunning
paynter doth discourse with his pencil even as a ready wryter doth with
his pen; and some do think he hath the greater honor and the dignity; inasmuch
as genius is more excelling in artes than in lettres.”
The old stage road from Philadelphia to Lancaster, within a league
or more of the latter place, descends abruptly into a narrow glen,
through which, over a rocky bed, tumbles a wild and noisy brook.
Gigantic trees line its rugged banks, and form above a leafy canopy,
through which the noon-day sun scarce penetrates, flecking the dark
sward beneath with splashes of golden light, and gilding here and
there a sparkling wave as it leaps upward in its gambols. Across the
stream is thrown a rustic bridge, so old that from the huge gaps in
in its crazy joints, there grow, nourished by the dark, rich loam, with
which time has filled them, long waving grass, shrubs, and even flourishing
young trees; so that the passing traveller is scarcely less over-shadowed
in crossing the bridge than in the forests through which
the road has hitherto wound. One of the rude beams of the structure,
with an eye both to economy and strength, characteristic of those
days when it was built, is morticed in the trunk of an aged sycamore,
which flings broadly above it, its long, white spectral arms, as if its
protecting genii. At the foot of the tree, a narrow, rustic wheel-road
turns off to the right, and following the bank disappears in the intricacies
but so near the ground that a horseman would have to lean from his
saddle to read it, is nailed a guide-board, fashioned like a man's hand,
with the fore finger extended. From its worm-eaten corners, its
weather-beaten face, and faintly visible characters, it doubtless was
placed there by the founders of the bridge itself. With some difficulty,
the words, “To Eden” can be made out by the curious traveller
who may chance in a summer's day to stop and refresh his horse
and himself in the cool glade, ere he attempts the perilous passage of
the little bridge before him.
`To Eden.”
This is all the passing traveller knows. Not a figure to mark the
distance, nor the least trace of there ever having been any placed
there, is visible to the nicest eye. “To Eden!” reads the stranger.
and passes on his way; and the little finger-board which for a moment
drew his attention and awakened a temporary curiosity is soon
forgotten! But it shall not be so with ourselves, dear reader! We
are a traveller, not of the highways but of the byways; the seeker
out of snug rural nooks; a lover of shade rather than of sunshine;
delighting more in the fragrance of flowers, and the green sward
that clothes the hills and all the vallies round, than in the rocky turnpike
and dusty thoroughfares; beholding more beauty in a majestic
tree than in a stately tower; more harmony in the hum of a bee than
in the buzz of the crowd; more beauty in a running rivulet than in
the finest jet d'eau; more enjoyment in a ramble through a woodland
path than a dashing drive through Chestnut street; and, altogether
believing that true happiness is to be sought rather in the quiet corners
of the world than amid the splendid pageantries of life, invested
as they may be with all the blandishments of art. We will not now,
therefore, cross the old bridge and travel along the turnpike; but
leaving the highway, turn short into the path at the foot of the tree,
and follow its windings beside the brook, which, after twice leaping
into a cascade of tumbling snow, and thrice spreading out into a
miniature mere, without a ripple upon the mirror like surface of its
breast, dashes riotously through a narrow channel, and is lost amid
the gloom of the deep set forests. But after a brief absence, if we
continue our way, we shall see it issuing in a vale and expanding into
a little lake of the most picturesque character, with a quiet hamlet of
a few white cottages, clustered about a snowy spire, on one side, and
a gentle slope of pasture land, sprinkled with herds on the other;
noble forests, or sweeping down to the shore, in lawns of the brightest
verdure. This hamlet is “Eden!” the valley, which you perceive
is not a mile in length, and in width scarce half as much, is called
Eden Valley; and the lake, lively with ducks and geese, and children's
adventurous barks, sent off with many a shout, from the village
shore, is called “Eden Mere.” Is it not all beautiful! so still,
so quiet, so rural, so shut out from the world around it! How much
we should have lost, had we crossed the old bridge and rode on to
Lancaster, and yet have wandered only a mile and a half from the
high road; for, the venerable guide-board is silent, this only is the
distance of the lowly hamlet from the old sycamore. Indeed it is so
near that the village children used always of a Saturday afternoon to
follow the stream up to the bridge to fish; for there is beneath it, nigh
one corner, a fine deep trout-hole, in which their dirty naked feet,
hanging over the timber ends, the holiday rogues would ply their
hooks till they could no longer see their shadows in the black waters
below them; then with their loaded baskets, they would-start on a
nimble race homeward, and as twillight gathered the faster they ran;
for there were familiar tales of woodland goblins, remembered then,
that quickened their pace, lest night should overtake them ere they
reached the school house; which being the first building on the village
skirts, in the direction of the bridge, was to them, safe ground.
This school-house was an ancient scructure, having existed through
three generations of village urchins, the grand child sitting at the
same hacked and inky bench where his grandfather had been first inducted
into the mysteries of Dilworth.
It stood at the extremity of the village street, on an open green
space, where several forest oaks, suffered to remain, cast a shade upon
its roof and the surrounding lawn, which, in summer, was their play
ground; the Mere, which was a stone's throw in front, being in winter,
with its glassy bosom inviting the skater to his favorite pastime,
substituted for it. The school house was a square wooden building,
with a high Dutch roof, its low eaves stretching on every side, far
beyond the outer walls. It had four windows placed very high from
the ground, one on each side of the house; and a single door facing
the water. An irregular flat stone, well worn by little feet, was laid
before it, and the grass, for many yards around it, was trodden by the
feet of three generations of urchins, till it had become nearly as hard
and smooth as the door stone itself. Every thing about the school-house
initials; and names only traditionally known in the village, were cnt
deep into the wood, with jack knives, some bearing date as far
back as 1753; while here and there were curious hieroglyphics, that
no man might tell the meaning of, but doubtless meant for good honest
words and letters: there were to be seen, also, profiles of more
or less merit; men, all legs and head; scrawls with lead pencils or
red chalk on the smoother and whiter surfaces; names of favorite
school girls, now grandmothers; caricatures of the several masters,
and the usual display of obscene words, that show the corrupt state
of the human heart even in its earliest existence—one and all charcteristics
of a village school house.
Dominie Spankie, at the period of our stay, presided over the destinies
of the three-score-and-ten urchins that constituted the juvenile
population of the village of Eden; and this school house was the
realm in which he had reigned for forty years; and scarce was there
to be found a male inhabitant, under fifty years of age in the village,
whom, in his time, the Dominie had not had between his knees, inflicting
upon him the healthful dicipline of castigation. The Dominie
had once been a soldier in the wars, having followed Braddock
into the wilderness, and got much damage, as he asseverated, by “the
dread onslaught of the wild savages,” losing two fingers on his right
hand by the blow of a tomahawk, and one of his eyes by an arrow:
and it was pleasant of a Saturday evening to him, on the stoop of the
quiet inn of Eden, to relate his warlike exploits, using his ferule, which
he never let out of his hand, save when sleeping, now as a musket, now
as a broadsword, to aid in illustrating to his wondering listeners, the
deeds he had seen and of which he had been a part. The Dominie
was tall of stature, erect and military in his port; with a long and
sinewy frame, marvellously spare of flesh. His hair was thick and
and grey, for he was waxing towards his sixtieth year, and being brushed
desperately back from his forehead, bristled over his head after a
exceedingly terrific manner. His long habit of command over a regiment
of unruly breechlings, had settled a frown upon his shaggy
brows; and, as nature had given him a sort of under-eye-brow, his
aspect, combined with his sightless orb, when the other was turned
upon an offender, was awful to behold. The Dominie, indeed governed
by his eye alone; a look being found sufficient to paralyze the stoutest
urchin that had the misfortune to incur his wrath. His long service
as master, and elevatud him in some sense, to the dignity of
in their youth, under his especial eye; and from long habit he still
felt disposed to look after the manners and affairs of his quondam pupils,
and they themselves, from the same force of habit, to yield him
reverence and obedience. So, what with the boys at school, and their
fathers at home, the Dominie got to be, save the minister, the most
important personage in Eden. By the good wives he was looked upon
with a respect amounting to awe; and as he would frown upon
them as well as upon their lords and their lords pledges, when things
went not to his liking, his looks made such an impression upon many
of the more nervous portion of the woman kind, that, (being a bachelor,
the Dominie did little consider the times and seasons for administering
refroof,) nearly every other male child, to the wonder and astonishment
of the whole hamlet, came into the world marked with
one eye, and a double pair of eye-brows, looking for all the world
as like the Dominie's as one pea looks like another. But this belongs
rather to the “Chronicles of the Hamlet of Eden,” and to the Life
and Acts of Dominie Spankie, (which have carefully been written
and peradventure, one day will see the light,) than to our story, to
which what has yet been said is only prefatory.
2. CHAPTER II.
One sultry Saturday forenoon, in August, about half an hour before
closing the school, Dominie Spankie sat upon his throne which was
an arm chair placed upon a platform, raised two steps above the floor.
Before him, rising one behind the other, were the ranges of benches
filled with the boys, the biggest in the back seats, and the littlest,
down to three years old and under, on the front forms, immediately
beneath his terrible eye, and only seaprated from him by the area between
his desk and their seats. The huge fireplace upon the right
of his throne, was garnished with a young pine tree and other ever-greens,
and on the broken hearth before it, as the coolest spot was
placed a stone pitcher of water, with a tin cup floating upon its surface.
It was a very warm day; and scarcely did the light air that came in
at the windows lift the leaves of the numerous open books, for every
book was laid open before its owner, and the whole school, under the
viligant observance of the Dominie, appeared to be studious. Many
of the younger boys, in truth, were hard at work, from fear of the
birch, which was laid upon the desk before their eyes, in terrorem;
and buzz, buzz, buzz went their little lips for very life. Others held
their books perpendicularly before their faces, and with one eye fixed
desperately upon the page, kept the other askance upon the master,
for the Dominie had a way doubtless learned in his wars against the
savages, of flinging his oaken ferule through the air, like a tomahawk,
so that would unerringly light, (so true was his arm from long practice,)
on the desk in front of any idler, without exactly hitting him
on the head, but giving him a good start at the time, with a sure
promise of flagellation: for the flight of the ruler was sure to be followed
in a voice stern, and loud, by
`Bring me that ferule, young master!' when the instrument was
duly put to its more legitimate use.
The boys had just come in from recess, when the Dominie cast his
eye sternly over the schoolroom, to see if he could single out any unlucky
juvenile inattentive to his task, his ferule balanced across the
palm of his left hand, with the two fingers and thumb of the right,
gently dallying with its extremity. Instantly every soul went to work,
and lips moved mechanically in the sound of study, though, so far as
what was repeated from the page before most of them, was underderstood,
they might have been reading Chinese as well as the king's
English. The Dominie wore spectacles, (a pair of massive iron ones,)
that oddly reminded you of the crusading knights, or Don Quixote
in armour, which combined with the obliquity of his vision, put the
shrewdest boy at fault in guessing, when he happened to lift his face
from the desk and look over the school, on which point exactly his
gaze rested; each one, therefore, supposed himself as likely to be the
victim as any of his fellows. So when the Dominie, from time to
time, looked up, and gravely surveyed the array of boys, he always
gazed upon a praiseworthy scene; when apparently satisfied at the
diligent aspect of his schoolroom, he would ejaculate a gratified hem,
and turn again to his task of ruling copy-books, or setting copies for
the ensuing week. Although so strict a disciplinarian, the Dominie,
like most men, especially schoolmasters, had fallen into certain habits
and methods, all of which were well understood by his more saga-cious
pupils, who governed themselves accordingly. One of these
habits was, while ruling copy-books, always to lift his eye when he
got the end of the page, and in setting a copy, when he had given
the finishing hair stroke to the line. So, calculating on these periodical
inspections of the school-room, the elder and more observing
boys, would cleverly manage to time their idle moments to tally with
his busy ones: and by this politic arrangement much room was given
for play and mischief making. The Dominie wrote very slowly, and
with great method; for he prided himself greatly on the beauty of his
penmanship, deeming the art of calligraphy as important to the
schoolmaster as the knowledge of figures and other mysteries, invented
to puzzle boy's brains.
On the afternoon in question, after having ruled a page for `fine
hand,' he looked up, as was his custom, and chanced to decry an abortive
attempt to suppress a laugh, on the faces of all the boys in the
back forms, and the best part of those on the second row of desks.
this unseemingly merriment, well assured that the cause would
soon show itself, he husbanded his wrath, and resolved patiently to wait
until the treason was ripe. Therefore, he turned himself once more
to his copy; and as in the alphabetical arrangement it should begin
with D, he commenced penning his own euphonious name and designation,
and both having great favor in his eye, he speedily lost the
sense of the outrage that had been offered to his authority and magisterial
presence, in the pride of exercising his penmanship on
the flowing letters that compose Dominie Spankie, A. M. Scarcely
had he termined the serpentine flourish that indicated the initial of
`Spankie,' than a stifled burst of choking laughter, from some unlucky
urchin, caused him to erect his ears and bend his brows; nevertheless
he continued to write on; but scarce had he finished the
final e, turning the tail therefore gracefully back, over the k, like a
canopy, than a suppressed titter from the a, b, c bench at his feet,
caused him to start up, with a growl of astonishment and wrathful indignation.
He glared about the schoolroom and beheld one universal
grin on every visage, while the little tremblers at his feet kept up
a tittering and giggling they in vain tried to suppress by stuffing their
sponges and handkerchiefs into their mouths, two or three in the attempt,
even forcing tears from their eyes; while fear of the Dominie's
wrath, mingling with the cause of their mirth, caused other little
wretches both to laugh and to cry at one and the same moment.
Sounds so strange as laughter in the school-room, a place where a
smiling, happy, and cheerful face, seems to be regarded by most `masters'
as treasonable to their tyrannical rule, had never been heard before
within those old walls. The Dominie was thunderstruck. He
could scarcely believe that he heard what he did hear, saw what he
did see! Boys daring to langh in his presence! Grinning visages
surrounded him on all sides! He shoved back his spectacles from
his forehead, as was his wont at such times; lowered his thunder-cloud
looking brows; balanced his ferule, preparatory to a cast, and
began to squint horribly around in search of the ringleader. At this
movement and disposition of his person, there bust one universal
uncontrollable shout of laughter, from every juvenile throat, so
long and so loud was it, that it was heard even in the midst of the
village, to the infinite wonder and alarm of the adult pupils of Dominie
Spankie, who could not divine the meaning of so strange a
sound coming from such a source.
`It's te boys let out o' school,' says one of a group of villagers
gathered about the inn.
`Nay,' said another, shaking his head, `'tis na twal o' the clock,
an' the Doominie e'er stickes to the minnit o't. The lads be unco
fay.'
`Mercy me! what has come up o'er at the school house, ayond?
D' ye not hear the childer, Maggy?' asked one gossip, seated knitting
in the door of her neighbor across the way.
`Gracious, and 'deed do I! and it's a merry laugh the dears give.
Where can the Dominie be away, and it's not noon,' answered the
other, giving a knowing look at the sun as she ended.
`Mony's the dee I've heard the skreel when the brecken were doon
from that awa, but it's the first time I heard laughter,' said an old
Scotch woman, stopping her wheel, and taking a pinch of snuff;
`Fech! there's somethin' in it a' ye may depend! cummers!'
Suddenly Dominie Spankie recovered his voice and his presence of
mind. `Silence!' he shouted, in a voice of thunder, bringing
his ferule down on his desk and his foot on the floor, at the same time
with terrible emphasis. Instantly the merriment, save one or two
faint note from the smaller boys, ceased, and a portentous silence followed.
`What means this outrage upon my authority?'—who caused this
laughter?' be demanded, in a voice that made the little boys shake
in their trowsers, and the larger ones look sufficiently sober. The
only reply was a general direction of eyes towards the red brick chimney,
which protruded into the room, followed instantly by a suppressed
titter from many of the boys, and a loud guffaw, in the back
form, from a thick set, clownish, lad, about sixteen years old, who almost
suffocated himself with his fist to keep from giving vent to his
cachinations. But they were suddenly checked by the `ruler,' which
whizzed through the air, glanced by his ear, and buried itself half an
inch in the plastering of the wall behind him. The Dominie was
foaming with rage and could not even articulate the words commanding
him to bring the ruler. The lad, however, from habit, took the
instrument in his hand, and leaving his form descended the steep alley
between the seats and the desk, and held it forth. For a few
seconds the Dominie paced the floor, without taking it or noticing
him; at length, having in some degree conquered his surprise at the
events he had witnessed, he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, with
a gripe that caused him to roar with pain.
`Tell me, Davy Dow,' he cried, in a voice that made the stoutest
boy's heart quake, `who and what is the cause of this uproar? Tell
me truly, or I will not leave a bone whole in your body!' and he shook
him as if he would even then fulfil his threat.
`I didn't do it, master,' said the boy as well as he could speak.
`What—do what? you scape gallows! do what? you wretched
little villain!' shouted the Dominie, lifting him from his feet, and
shaking him at arm's length.
`Make um laugh, sir. Haw, haw, haw!'
`He, he, he!' tittered the school.
`What! do I hear laughing again?' almost yelled the Dominie,
and his eye followed that of the culprit, in the direction of the chimney.
Instantly a change came over his spirit. He beheld, affixed to the
chimney, facing him and the whole school, what no man could mistake—an
admirable, half-length likeness of himself, caricatured with
surpassing skill. His spectacles were pictured, thrown up to the top
of his forehead; his ruler was in his hand, as if in the act of being
cast at some unruly boy, and he was represented in the act of frowning
most terribly. It was the exact image of Dominie Spankie. The
likeness ludricrously correct, and he himself, even if he had never
looked into a mirror, could not but have recognized it. He did recognize
it, and saw at once what had excited the risible muscles of
his slaves, (for what were pupils twenty years ago, but slaves, for six
hours in a day!) and he trembled with passion. He turned slowly
round, and as he did so, the titter, which, as he detected the caricature,
had begun to revive, was suddenly suppressed. Every face encountered
his dark looks, and a portentous silence filled the room.
Each eye was fixed on his, and histo all appearance, was fixed on those
of each one. There was a long and portentous silence. At length
he spoke.
`Davy Dow, you may return to your seat. Henry Irvine, come
here!' The permission and command were both given in the calm
tones of settled and resolute revenge.
The clown obeyed with alacrity; but as he passed the other on his
way towards the desk, he whispered to him, `I'll be dom'd if he shall
strike you, Henry.' The boy gave him a reproving yet grateful
glance, and said, `hush, good Davy, I deserve it now.'
The youth who was called, had left his seat with a fearless smile.
With a firm, light tread, he descended the alley and stood before the
forehead, about which brown hair clustered in the utmost profusion;
his eyes were large, black, and sparkling with genius. His face was
strikingly handsome, his figure elegant, and his manners graceful. He
was evidently far superior to his fellows in birth and mental culture,
as well as in person.
Henry Irvine was, in the beautiful language of Scripture, `the only
son of his mother, and she was a widow.' His father had been the
village pastor, until his death, a few years before and his successor
taking the parsonage, the widow, with scarce a pittance, (for country
clergymen can seldom do more than make both ends meet,) retired to
a lowly dwelling, the residence of a widow in humble life, but better
circumstances, than herself, who, for a trifling sum, rented her and
her son, part of her tenement. But Henry soon lost his remaining parent,
and to the widow Dow he looked up as to a second mother, and
between himself and her son, though nature had given them
minds of a different order there existed the ardent love of twin brothers.
Davy was rough in person, and blunt in manners, but he possessed
a kind heart, and was capable of strong attachments; and,
though a clown, had a breast full of generous feelings to counterbalance
his want of refinement. The more cultivated and intellectual
Henry, appreciated his warm attachment, though Davy's was an affection
more like the shaggy Newfoundland entertains towards a beloved
master, than that between two beings whom fortune, not nature, had
placed on the same social level.
`Thee sha'n't be struck, Henry I'll be dom'd if thee shall,' were
words that forcibly illustrated the nature and the strength of the attachment
of the faithful peasant. Dominie Spankie drew up his lengthy
figure to its full longitude, and bent a withering look upon Henry,
who met it with a steady and fearless bearing. There was a dead,
expecting silence throughout the room. The humming of fleas that
circled above the Dominie's head, was the only thing to be heard. At
length he moved to his throne and seat ed himself with direful solemnity.
`Henry Irvine stand before me!'
He silently obeyed. `I need not ask,' continued he, pointing to
the caricature, `if that be thy handy work, for none else in this school
hath that gift of the devil's art, save thyself. Confess and deny it not,
stripling, that it was thyself who hast vilified thy preceptor: thy pater
of learning and letters; the teacher of the humanities to a horde of
taught thee the beauties of Cicero, and led thee not a little way into
the Hebrew tongue. Say, is it not thou, ungrateful lad, that hast
done this thing?' Here the indignant Dominie pointed with his ferule
towards the painting, which looked so very like himself in his proper
person, that he started at the wonderful likeness, and with his bony
hands, stroked his long visage to ascertain, if indeed it was present
with him and not in the chimney.
`I disdain a falsehood, sir,' replied the boy; `I did do it.'
`Ha! you confess, graceless,' he cried, clutching his ferule tightly.
`So, now will I make an ensample of thee to the whole school. Hold
out your right hand.'
The boy, for a moment, held his breath, and compressed his lips
as if collecting firmness to undergo the torture, and coolly extended
his hand with the open palm upward. It was a soft, elegantly shaped
member, and seemed to quiver instinctively at the pain it was about to
endure. The ferule of Dominie Spankie was an oaken slab, two feet
in length, three inches wide, the thickness of a man's finger and full
three pounds in weight. At one extremity it was made concave, like
a spoon, for the purpose of raising blisters on the part it came in contact
with. By long handling, this instrument of torture, (which is
still in vogue in most American country schools,) was highly polished
and had become as hard and nearly as dark as ebony. When the offence
was not of the first order, or the offender was young, the smooth
end of the ferule was graciously used upon his palm; but when the
punishment was to be great, the Dominie was seen to turn the ferule
end for end, and balance it in his fingers with a gratified look, and
more than usual dexterity. There was a vein of cruelty, whether natural,
or acquired by a long reign of tyranny, is uncertain, running
through the Dominie's composition, and there is no doubt that he delighted
in the shrieks of the little victims, and in the blisters and blood
that followed his blows as truly as ever did a Spanish Inquisitor, in
the sufferings of those that had fallen into his merciless grasp Dominie
Spankie screwed up his visage into a devilish expression of malignant
triumph as he passed his fingers gently along the ferule, like
an executioner feeling his whip, before inflicting the lash, then suddenly
up went the heavy weapon, and the next instant it descended
upon the hand, with that sharp, peculiar ringing rap, which all my
male readers will remember, some, I doubt not, feelingly, while others
will not only recognise the ruler in question, but also Dominie
my pen than the luckless Henry did with the pencil.
A second blow, after an interval long enough for the victim to feel
the full smart of the pain of the first, fell upon the outstretched palm,
now no longer white and soft, but glowing with inflammation. A
third, a fourth, and fifth followed, till twelve most cruel and inhuman
strokes had lacerated the hand, till both blood and water broke from
it, and trickled through its fingers to the ground. The brave boy
bore it like a martyr—a martyr he sure was to a system of education
disgraceful even to a pagan people, and endurable only in a nation of
serfs—yet a system upheld in a Christian land, by ignorant pedagogues
and sustained and strengthened by the indifference and fears
of parents. What right, moral, social, legal—yea, what right so ever
had this man to punish and lacerate this boy? Interrogation crowds
upon interrogation, all alike unanswerable. But this is no place to
discuss the question, though a volume that would come home to the
hearts and feelings of every parent might be written on the subject.
`Now the other hand!' said the implacable Dominie, after refreshing
himself by drinking the dipper full of water, handed to him by
one of the little boys. Not a groan had yet escaped the manly sufferer.
He bore this species of bastinado with a fortitude that should
have put to blush the savage cruelty that inflicted it. He held forth
his left hand and it was in like manner blistered.
`Nay, I have not done with you yet, sir,' said the monster, taking
a bunch of willow-rods down as the youth turned to go to his seat after
the infliction of the last blow. `Take off your jacket.'
Hitherto the whole school had looked on with trembling sympathy;
one alone, Davy Dow, betraying by his clenched fist, set teeth, and
flushed face, his resentment at the cruelty inflicted upon his friend,
for whom, had he not been forbidden by him, he would have done battle
even with the Dominie: he now impulsively started to his feet,
leaned forward over the desk, and shook his fists at him, shouting,
`Dom thee, if thou touch 'um again, I'll knock the doon, and be
doom'd to thee, if thee 'rt the Dominie!'
Without speaking, Dominie Spankie advanced in three strides to
the seat of this rebel, seized him by the collar with irresistible force,
dragged him across the benches to his desk, and flung him upon the
floor with such violence, that for a moment he lay there stunned; then
casting a glance of mingled threat and definance over the school, he
his coat.
`Never, tyrant!' cried Henry, roused rather at his friend's treatment,
than on account of his own injuries; `I have borne shame
enough. My punishment has already exceeded my offence. I have
submitted thus far to corporal chastisement, because it is in conformity
to the vile discipline of schools, but I will bear no more, not even
on my hand. My back, sir, shall never be bared to the cat! I am
no slave, to be whipped with stripes. Custom has made a distinction
between blows on the hand and those on the body, and I have hitherto
submitted to the least degrading. But I shall do so no longer.'
He stepped back as he spoke, and proudly folded his arms.
`Strip, sir!' thundered the infuriated Dominie.
`Never!' was the quiet and firm reply.
`Then I will tear thy garments from thy shoulders, strip thee to the
skin, and give thee a castigation that thy upstart pride will not stomach.'
`Touch me at your peril,' said the boy, in a determined tone, as
the Dominie advanced to seize him.
Heedless of the warning and never dreaming of the resistance from
a pupil, the furious pedagogue placed his hand upon the shoulder of
the spirited lad, and instantly received a blow in the breast that between
surprise and pain, caused him to start back. But, recovering
himself, he made a second and more furious attempt to seize upon
him, when a heavier and well directed blow on the side of the head,
from Davy Dow, who had got to his feet, knocked him heavily against
the chimney. Before he could recover himself the gallant fellows
followed up their success and inflicted upon his sacred person the
soundest pummelling ever a magister of a village school received, and
one certainly that was most richly deserved. The uproarious shouts
of the tiny boys when they saw their master hors du combat; the cries
of the terrified little ones; the mingled shouts and hurrahs, who can
describe? The terrible ferule was broken in two; the bunch of rods
scattered to the winds, by willing hands; and the school-room, save
by a few chicken hearted urchins, who, by remaining, hoped to avert
the Dominie's wrath when he should recover, was instantly deserted,
and the disfranchised boys, half frantic with tremulous joy, were seen
flying and shouting in every direction over the green.
3. CHAPTER III.
On the opposite side of the mere of Eden, half a mile from the village,
was situated a gentleman's seat, with its lawns and gardens extending
quite to the water. It was called `Rosemont,' and was the
residence of Colonel Odlin, who had distinguished himself in the then
recent war of the revolution, and now with fresh military honors, an
ample fortune, and an only daughter, had retired to this lovely spot.
He was proud and haughty, and educated his daughter in aristocratic
seclusion; but nevertheless occasionally permitted her to visit Eden,
and once a month attend the village church. Mary Elizabeth Odlin
was a sweet, delicate girl, with soft black eyes of the identical rich
color of her auburn hair, which at every motion of her head, reflected
a sunny hue of gold: her complexion was unsulied as snow, and
so transparent was the skin of her hands, temples, and round white
neck, that the veins could be followed by the blue tints underneath.
She was scarcely sixteen, a little below the middle height, with a round
full figure, light and agile in its motion as the pet fawn that accompanied
her in all her walks. She had a lively spirit, a gentle temper,
a musical laugh, and a smile so sweet and expressive of her happy-heartedness,
that one could not look upon, without feeling an interest
in her; few saw without loving her. I forgot to say, too, that she
sang with great simplicity and taste, several gentle songs; had an exquisite
hand and the most loveable little foot in the world. Somehow
or other it chanced that Henry Irvine and she had once met, the year
before, and from that period, young as they both were, a silent, unspoken,
but increasing mutual passion, sprung up in their hearts.
At sunset of the day on which the events just related had transpired,
Mary was seated in a little favorite bower, at the foot of the garden,
that looked upon the water, and from which was a view of the
containing two persons, put off from the opposite side of the lake, and
rapidly approach the spot where she was seated. A glance at the form
of the individual in the stern told her that it was none other than
Henry; while in the broad shoulders and shaggy bare head of the
oarsman, she could not fail to recognize his inseparable companion,
Davy Dow. Scarce had the boat touched the snowy beach, ere Mary,
who flew to meet it, was in the arms of Henry. They walked together
silently for a few moments, beneath the water-oaks that overhung
the winding shore, when, after they had retired a little apart from
observation, Henry, who, to Mary's surprise, had remained moody as
well as silent, and wholly forgetful of his usual lightness of spirits,
stopped suddenly, and impressively said to her:
`Mary, I have come to bid you good bye.'
`Henry!' was the exclamation that escaped her lips at this announcement.
`It is true. I leave Eden with the dawn.'
`Whither?'
`To seek my fortune—and, in after years to return, if you will then
have proved true to me, to claim you, dare I say it, as my bride!'
He warmly pressed her to his heart as he spoke, and looked anxiously
into her face for a reply
For a moment, the gentle girl remained silent. The suddenness
of the announcement had stunned her, and she was incapable of speaking.
At length recovering her usual manner, she said playfully:
`You say so but to try my affection, Henry. If this is all you wish,
although I ought not to humor you, I will frankly tell you that my love,
young as we both are, shall never meet with a change.'
`Your father?'
`With his approval, always, Henry.'
`But the wealthy Colonel Odlin will never approve the love of a
poor lad, unknown to birth and fortune.'
`My father will ever seek the happiness of his only child Henry;
and my happiness never will be sacrificed even to his own pride of
birth and fortune.'
`Yet thrice has he forbidden me to speak and have you forgotten
Mary, when he so rudely thrust me one side, at the church door, when
I offered to assist you in descending from the carriage?'
`Speak not this now—'twas a hasty act. I wish to learn what you
mean by saying you have come to bid me farewell?'
`It needs no explanation. I have struck the master a blow, and
the whole village has risen against me. Even my good foster mother,
if I may call her such, has forbidden me the shelter of her roof, until
I have asked the tyrant's pardon.'
`And you will not?'
`And I will not.'
`I am very sorry this has chanced! You have been inprudent and
over-hasty, I fear, Henry. Your temper is too quick to take fire at
every spark that comes in contact with it. What could have provoked
you to so rash a thing! Sacrilege would scarce have been a greater
crime in the eyes of the villagers.'
`He bade me take off—but no, I will not speak of it,' he said
blushing with mingled shame and indignation, `let it suffice, Mary,
that he insulted me, and I struck him.'
`That 'a did, Miss Mary,' said Davy, who had approached them
unperceived, `and I hut un a dig i' the ribs, too, that knock'd the wind
oot 'o the body on un. Young Measter Henry was right, and had he
no' licked the Measter, I fegs! I'd a felt mighty like lickin' Henry
myself, savin' your presence, Miss Mary; and so I came to tell yees
yer father is coomin doon the walk, and might'nt altogether—yer
know Master Henry—' here Davy completed his intelligence with a
wink and a hieroglyphical screwing up of his face that was easily interpreted
by the lovers.
`I must leave you dearest,' said Henry quickly. Go and shove off
the boat, Davy. Farewell Mary, dear Mary,' he would have said more,
but the fullness of his heart impeded utterance.
`Whither do you go, Henry?' she asked, lifting her face wet with
tears, from his shoulder.
`To Philapelphia, to carve out my own fortunes—to accomplish
something, dearest girl, to make me worthy of you. Will you love
me while I am absent?'
`Love you, Henry dearest! how can you doubt me?'
`Will you promise, then, to wait for me seven years? If you do
not hear from me then either for good or for evil, you shall then be
free.
`I promise to be yours and none other's while life lasts,' she replied
earnestly.
`I ask only for seven years. Will you promise?'
`promise,' she said fervently and affectionately.
`God bless you, then, Mary! I shall have something to cheer my
exile. I shall not return until Colonel Odlin, haughty as he is,
shall take me by the hand with pride, and in that hand place the trembling
little member I now clasp in it. Adieu, adieu, dearest. When
you next hear from me it will be with honor. Only be true to
me.'
`Do you see those twin stars, just appearing in the evening sky?—
they shall be emblems of our love. Look at them often, when absent
far from me, and doubt it not!'
A hasty embrace—a passionate kiss—the first he had ever placed
upon her sweet mouth, and they had parted. The boat containing the
fading figure of Henry shot rapidly across the lake, while Mary turning
to meet her parent, joined him before he reached the bottom of
the avenue, or had described them, and returned with him sllently and
sadly towards the house.
4. CHAPTER IV.
It was known throughout the village, long before the close of the
succeeding day, that Henry Irvine had suddenly and secretly departed
from his native village, no one knew whither: and thereupon great
was the triumph of Dominie Spankie and his adherents. It would
occupy more space than we have allowed ourselves in the compass of
this sketch, to recount the adventures of the high spirited boy ere he
fairly entered the path by which he was to travel onward to fortune,
fame, and felicity. He arrived in Philadelphia pennyless and friendless,
without definite aim or object, resting his hopes of success solely
on the confused, but too frequent erroneous notion, common with
the country lads of his native state, that there, and there alone he could
make his fortune. Aside from his own peculiar case, far better, indeed,
would it have been now for thousands of such if they had staid at
home to till the soil or labor at the bench of the mechanic.
With a small pack lashed to his back, a staff in his hand, and his
bridge, an hour before sunset of the third day after his departure from
Eden; and after winding through several streets, he found himsel
lounging down the great thoroughfore of Chestnut street, staring at
the numerous gay signs and novel sights that every where met his
rustic gaze; the while diligently pondering in his mind which of the
countless means of livelihood in which he saw the citizens engaged,
he should select, and make the first step towards the accomplishment
of his high objects. As he gazed into the dazzling windows of a
jeweller's shop, he thought he should like to be a jeweller; but he
thought of Col. Odlin, and shook his head. `He will never give his
daughter to a mechanic!' was his mental language. `Yet why should
he not?' was the question that irrestibly forced itself upon his ingenuous
mind. `Should I not still be Henry Irvine, whether I were a
mechanic or a merchant?' He could not answer his own query; and
being puzzled by the nice distinctions that society has formed, he
turned from the showy window and continued his walk. `Shall I be
a storekeeper?' he inquired, as he observed the well-dressed young
men that were selling silks and muslins across mahogony counters to
beautiful women. He watched them with an observing air, for a few
seconds, and then turning away, said, `No, I feel within me that I
am destined for a more manly and a far higher destiny, than I see this
to be.'
`Thus, in turn, every pursuit offered itself, for the passing moment
to his choice, and each, in turn, as it was presented, was mentally
rejected. At length a small, unassuming sign, caught his attention,
on which he read in gilded characters, “R. Peale, Portrait Painter.”
The last words arrested his eye, and he repeated them aloud,
while a glow of surprise and pleasure lighted up his countenance. After
surveying the sign fixedly a few seconds, as if his glance fascinated,
he struck the end of his staff energetically upon the pavement, and
exclaimed, `I will become a painter!'
`Will you, my lad?' said a pleasant voice near him.
He looked up with surprise, and saw a middle aged gentleman,
with a gold headed cane in his hand, and a benovolent, yet highly intellectual
countenance, standing in the door and gazing on him with
that friendly air and look of interest which is so readily translated and
appreciated by a stranger among strangers. Henry blushed on finding
himself so particularly the object of attention, and stammered something
he knew not what, in his confusion; but instantly recovering
with modest firmness:
`Yes sir, I would like to become a painter.'
`Come into my studio, then. Perhaps you would be pleased to look
at some of the paintings there.'
`With the greatest pleasure in the world, sir,' said Henry, while
his face beamed with gratitude and delight.
He then quickly followed him into an upper room, which was lined
on every side with dark green cloth; and he observed that the only
light it received came in through the top of a single window, which
to subdue its strength and properly temper it, was covered with fine
white tissue paper, notwithstanding the softened character of the light
and the smallness of the aperture, it did not escape him that it was
so managed as far better to show what was in the room, than the
glare of noon-day from many windows could do. The apartment was
hung round with pictures, more in number than Henry before believed
were in the whole world put together; and, for a few moments after
entering, he remained silent, with mingled wonder and astonishment.
A new creation seemed to have broken upon him. He at first looked
about wholly bewildered. Gradually, at length, he grew familiarized
with the scene, and wandered from picture to picture with that reverent
delight which true genius, in such a situation, alone can experience.
The benevolent painter watched him, with a gratified smile on his benign
countenance; and after enjoying for some time the unsophisticated
rapture of the rustic youth, a thought seemed suddenly to strike
him; for going to a corner of the room, he drew from a pile of dusty
paintings, an old piece of canvass, on which was painted an unfinished
head of St. John by Michael Angelo, and, as if by accident, placed it
in the range of his vision. Henry glanced at the old painting, an instant,
and was about to pass on to a fresh and brilliant picture, by a
modern artist, when something in the head arrested his attention. He
stopped and gazed upon it steadily for a few seconds, and with increasing
wonder; and while he looked, his eye lighted up with the fire of
enthusiasm—the blood leaped to his temples—his breath came and
went quick, and finally, clasping his hands together, he bent forward
in the involuntary attitude of adoration; then, as if gradually over-come
by the presence of the spirit of genius, he slowly dropped upon
one knee, and said in tones of awe:
`It is the work of God and not of man!'
The painter awed by the wonderful impression the head had made
to, and affected by the sublimity of the whole scene, gazed
upon him for a moment with wonder and admiration; then springing
forward, he caught him in his embrace, and burst into tears. `The
Spirit of God is in the child!' he cried, `and Heaven has directed thy
wandering footsteps hither. Henceforward we will part not till the
pupil shall have excelled the master.'
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 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.
6. CHAPTER VI.
Three months elapsed after the breakfast scene, described in the
last chapter, about dusk, one Sabbath evening, two persons might
have been seen in close conference beside the hedge under the window
of the humble cottage of the Widow Dow. The figure of one was
partly concealed by the foliage, but a close veil and a large shawl
thrown across the shoulders as if for disguise, betrayed it to be a female.
Through all her attempts at concealment, however, there shone
a certain feminine grace, which, with a particularly neat foot, and a
hall visible snowy hand betrayed her rank to be above that of a village
maiden. Her companion was a stout, good-looking young countryman,
in the plain and homespun garb of a ploughman.
`It is my wish, Davy,' said she, as if enforcing some request, and
it is for his sake, too, that it is to be done.'
`Yes, Miss Mary; but it may not turn out to be young Measter
Irvine, after all,' responded Davy Dow, whom the lapse of seven years
had little changed, save in stature and breadth of shoulders.
`I know that it is he, Davy,' said Mary Odlin, with confidence;
`the newspaper that came this morning, after stating that this distinguished
painter had returned to Philadelphia and taken a studio in
Chestnut street, describes, in one short paragraph his personal appearance,
and it is just that of Henry as my fancy would paint him as
being. My heart tells me that none but himself could have sat for
the picture. You must go, Davy.'
`Well, Miss Mary, I love Measter Irvine, thof I haint seen un for
seven years, as much as I did the day I holped him thrash the Dominie.
You must make all right with old measther here, if I go, Miss
Mary, and I'm off; and, I fegs, if he be doon to the city I'll hunt him
out, and give him the letter and ring; and I don't know which will
make him most glad to see me or get a letter from you. I'm most
sartain both on us coming together'll go noigh on to upset him.'
`You are the kind, obliging, good creature I ever thought you were,
Davy. Be speedy, and only be successful, and I will not only reward
you well, but do all in my power to forward your suit with my maid,
Bessy.
`He, ge, ge! you knows it, Miss Mary, do ye? Well, it's truth: I
does love un, and if ye can only make her say yes, some Sunday night,
when I pops the question, it 'ill be all the reward I want for going.—
So I'll be up and off by the dawn, and thoff it's a pretty smart chance
of a road, I'll make Snowy pace it in less than two days.'
`Don't be imprudent, Davy, mind, and see that no one knows your
business nor from whom you are going. Steal away before day break
and I will take care that Dame Dow be made easy in your absence.
Here is silver to defray your expenses. Do not forget now, on your
arrival in the city, to visit, as I before told you, every painter's room
until you discover him: his face you cannot have forgotten, and seven
years will have altered it little save by the addition of manly graces.
Now, God speed thee and give thee success in thy errand.'
She retreated, as she spoke, hastily, down the green lane, at the end
of which is a rustic bridge, that crosses the stream before it empties
itself into the mere, by which she reached Rosemont again without
detection.
The ensuing morning, at day-break, our Mercury, Davy Dow,
stole from his rude bed to the stable, and speedily saddled a diminutive,
had perversely christened Snowball or Snowy. He then placed across
his back a pair of saddle-bags, well filled with meat, bread, apples and
dough-nuts, and mounting him, after he had carefully secured the
stable-door, he was soon trotting briskly past the school-house, where
Dominie Spankie still continued to reign more terrible than ever; and
just as the sun began to flush the eastern skies, he turned into the
turnpike at the spot where the venerable finger-board points back to
Eden, and, at a vigorous pace, pursued his way towards the metropolis.
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
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
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
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
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:
`Come.
`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.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
The day after Davy's secret departure, on his search for Henry,
whom he so happily discovered, Colonel Odlin received a letter relating
to some financial matters, that required his presence for a few
days in the city. He immediately left Rosemont, accompanied by his
daughter, and arrived the evening of the day on which Davy left,
without having met him on the road. Instead of going to the Indian
Queen, then the most respectable inn, (not hotel,) of the town, they
drove directly to the residence of an old friend who had recently been
united to a very lovely woman, and lived in much style in Walnut
street. The portrait on which Henry was at work when Davy first
entered his studio, was that of Mrs. Astley. It chanced to be the
subject of conversation the next morning at the breakfast table, and
the highest encomiums were passed by the Dr. and Mrs. Astley, not
only upon it as a likeness and work of art, but upon the painter.
`Who is he?' asked Colonel Odlin, with interest.
`The American Angelo.'
`What, the celebrated young American painter, who has recently
been received with such distinction in England?'
`The same,' replied Dr. Astley. `It is but a few weeks since he
returned to this country; and it is only at the request of several of
our most eminent citizens, and even of General Washington, who is
anxious to visit his native village, somewhere in the interior of the
state. You must see him, and get your head taken off,' added the
doctor laughing.
`I will accompany you and the ladies to his rooms, this morning,
before I go to the bank. I have great curiosity to form his acquaintance.
His country should be proud of him.'
`Ay, indeed, should they,' responded the Doctor; `but look at my
fair friend Mary! Her face glows with something like pride in him
already. Why girl, you would fall in love with him at sight! He is
not a bad favored young gentleman, by any means. Who knows, Colonel,
what may happen? A man who has raised himself to be the
associate of princes and nobles of Europe, simply by the aid of his
genius, may be a match for any woman.
`I should be honored by such a son-in-law,' said Colonel Odlin,
smiling, and looking towards Mary. She felt confused and distressed,
why, she scarcely knew; and felt relieved when the party rose
from the table. She was not sure that the painter was Henry. She
darred not ask Dr. Astley his name; still her love would not let her
doubt, and so she believed.
9. CHAPTER VIII.
Henry Irvine was seated in his studio that morning, busily at work.
On the easel before him stood a piece of canvas, on which he had
been painting for several hours, with the animated and glowing countenance
of one whose soul was lost in the subject. The door opened,
and the party from Dr. Astley's entered. Observing him so deeply
absorbed in his task, they did not interrupt him, but lounged through the
room, inspecting the creations of his pencil, and admiring some pictures
of the old master of painting which he had brought from
from Italy, leaving him to discover their presence at his leisure. Mary
Odlin leaned upon the arm of Dr. Astley as they traversed the room
but from a singular feeling, easily understood but difficult to analyze
knew would satisfy her if it was Henry; but she felt it might also
crush at once the hopes she had so fondly cherished. She trembled
at hastening the denouement, and chose rather to nourish the delusion,
if delusion it was, to the latest moment, than risk the chance of final
disappointment. She feared, too, if it should prove to be Henry, to
meet his eye before so many, and her emotion at the discovery should
be observed.
As they slowly made the tour of the apartment, Mrs. Astley, whose
curiosity was awakened to know whether it could be her own picture
that so closely engaged the whole mind of the handsome young artist
as to render him unconscious of their presence, crossed the room in
such a direction, that by slightly bending forward, she could discover
the subjecton the canvas. Her eye had scarcely glanced at it,
when she uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight, and cried,
`The living image of Mary Odlin, as I knew her when she was
scarce sixteen!'
He started with surprise, blushed, stammered out a few incoherent
words of spology for not before aware of their presence, and hastily
turned the canvas to the easel—but not before Colonel Odlin had
seen and recognized an admirable portrait of his daughter, just as she
was merging into womanhood. Mary heard the words of Mrs. Astley,
and her heart told her that the limner could be none other than Henry!
She raised her eyes—it was Henry! She uttered a cry of delight,
and would have fallen with joy, had not the young artist, who
at the same instant recognized her, flown and caught her in his arms.
The moment she felt his arms around her, she quickly recovered herself
with maidenly shame, and buried her blushing, happy face in her
hands!
`What means this?' inquired Colonel Odlin, bewildered by the
scene, wholly at loss to account for his daughter's emotion, and puzzling
himself with conjectures how her portrait came to be on the
painter's easel.
`Cupid has something to do it, Colonel, I will wager,' said Dr.
Astley, with a mischevous glance at Mary. `Did I not tell, you, fair
lady, it would be love at first sight!'
`It is something more,' said Colonel Odlin; `will you do us the
kindness to explain, sir?' he added, addressing Henry
`Cheerfully sir,' said Henry taking the hand of Mary, which she
beloved by me, and I had reason to hope my love was reciprocated.
But my birth is humble, and also were my fortunes. That I might
make myself worthy of her, seven years ago I left my native village,
to seek my fortune, and strive to win a name, in the lustre of which,
whispered my youthful ambition, my lowly one should be lost. For
that purpose, I assumed only my christian name, with the determination
to resume my paternal one only when I could with honor confer
it on her, who was the guiding star of my career. Seven years we
promised to be true to each other, trusting to better fortunes, at the
expiration of that period, to reward our loves. It is just seven years
to-day, sir, since we parted, on the shore of Eden Mere.'
`In Henry, the painter,' exclaimed Colonel Odlin, with astonishment,
`I then behold—'
`Henry Irvine,' replied the young artist, bowing with modest
pride.
`Take her, young man. She is fairly won. Yours is a patent of
nobility derived from Heaven, and sealed with the signet of a Divinity.
Nor are you so lowly by birth. Your father though a poor clergyman,
was a gentleman and a scholar!'
As he spoke, he took the hand of the happy Mary and placed it
himself in that of her lover, embraced them both, and in an affectionate
manner bade, `God bless them!'
`Amen!' fervently responded Dr. Astley.
A few weeks afterwards, the village of Eden was beside itself with
merry-makings in honor of the marriages of Henry Irvine with Mary
Odlin, and of David Dow with Bessy Blodget.
| The young artist, and, The bold insurgent | |