University of Virginia Library

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

garments travel-worn and dusty, he entered the city by the Schuylkill
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

himself, encouraged by the kind manner of the gentleman, he repeated,
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

upon the boy, struck by the extraordinary language he had given utterance
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.'