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Portlan
GOULD & ELWELL,
-F Office 80 aitale, near Corner ot Exchange Bt.
31, A INDEPEDORNT FAMILY JOURNAL OF LITBRATURE,
PORTLAND, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30,
VOLUME XVI.
POETRY. |
THE FOUR PHILOSOPHERS.
* . Four great philosophers
Come every year,
‘Teach in the open air,
‘Then disappear!
SWintei' the Sro10,
9 chill and heroie
He sits in the mountain-breeze biting and pure,
And when, to bring fear and doubt,
Damp nightly winds are out,
Wraps an old cloak about,—he can endure.
Spring, at dull hearts to mock,
Comes in a farming-frock,
With garlands and plonghshare a lesson doth give;
He sings through the field awhile,
“Yurns up the soaking eoil,
{ All haste and laughing rol ,—briskly ean live.
<€ Ly? Sunimer. mith mantle free,
Lolls in the cooling ‘shade, like a tired boy:
hile blazing suns, unkind,
ve the stout mower blind,
Where faints the mountain-wind, he can enjoy.
stuns, when all are done,
s the good Curistiay one;
Fills well the igranaries, where seeds may lie
New, coming years to bless ;
Then. in his ruseet dress,
© All hope and quietness,—sweetly can die.
[Hale’s To-Da,
YHRILLING STORY.
THE ; POSTHUMOUS PORTRAIT.
A country town is not ‘a very hopeful arena for
the exercise of "the portrait-painter’s art. - Suppos-
ing an artist to acquire a local celebrity in such are
gion, he may paint the faces of one generation, and
then, haply finding a casual job once a year or so,
may sit down and count the hours till anozher gen-
eration rises up and supplies him with a second
run of work.’ Ina measure, the portrait-painter
mast be a rolling-stone, or he will gather no moss.
So thought Me. Conrad Merlus, as he packed up
his property, and prepared to take himself off from
the town of C—, in Wiltshire, to seek fresh fields
and pastures new, where the sun might be dispos-
ed to shine upon, portrait-painting, and where he
might manage to make hay the while. Conrad
was a native of C——. In that congenial spot he
had first pursued the study of his art, cheered by
the praises of the good folks around him, and sup-
ported by their demands upon his talents. While
jn a certain fashion, be had kept the spirit of art
alive if the place, the spirit of art, in return, had
kept him. » But now all the work was done for a
long titne to come; every family had its great por-
traits, and would want him no more yet awhile;
and Conrad saw, that if he could not turn bis hand
to something else,and in place of pencils and blash
«es, work with last, spade, needle, or quill, make
shoes, coats, till the ground, or cast’ up accounts,
Sytvivs.
- he should shortly be hardly put to itto keep him-
self going. He had made and saved a pretty tol-
erable little purse during his short season of pat-
ronage, and determined to turn that to account in
seeking, in other places, a continuation of com-
missions. His father and mother were both dead,
and, as so far as he knew, he had no near relative
alive. Thercfore. there were no ties, save those of
association, to bind him to his native place—“No
. | Hes,” sighed Conrad, “no ties at all.”
It was Monday evening, and the next day
Tuesday, was to behold his departure. His rent
was paid, his traps were all packed up in readiness,
and he bad nothing | to think about, saving whither
he should proceed. * He walked out, for the last
time, into the little garden behind the modest house
in which he had dwelt,pensive and somewhat friste ;
for one cannot, without sorrowful emotions of some
sort, leave, perhaps for ever, a spot in which the
stream of life has flowed peacefully and pleasantly
for many years, and where many little enjoyments,
successes and triumphs have been experienced —
Even.a Crusoe cannot depart from his desolate is-
Jand without a pang, although he goes, after years
of miserable solitude, to rejoice the human family.
* It was the month of August, and the glory of the
summer was becoming mellowed‘ and sofiened.—
‘The nights were gradually growing longer and the
days shorter, the reapers in the harvest-fields, the
woods and groves were beginning to shew the au
tumn tint, the sun sank behind the hills earlier and
earlier day by day, and the broad. harvest-moon
reigned throughout the sweet and fragrant nights.
Conrad felt the influence of the season, and though
he had for some time contemplated his departure
from his home with all the cheerfulness which the
spirit of adventure imparts to young men, he now,
as the time arrived, felt inclined to weep over the
separation.. He was indulging in reveries ‘of a
mournful complexion, when he observed his land-
lady leave the house, and, entering the garden, bus-
tle towards him in a great hurry. Assured by the
manner of the worthy old lady that he was want-
ed, and urgently, by some one or other, he rose
from the rustic seat on which he had been sitting,
and went to meet her. A gentleman had called to
see him, in a phaeton, and was waiting in the par-
lour in a state of impatience and excitement which
Mrs. Farrell had never seen the like of Wonder-
ing who the visitor could be, Conrad hastened in-
to the parlor.. Ile found there an elderly individu-
al of gentlemanly appearance, who was walking
to and fro restlessly, and whose countenance and
demeanour bore affecting evidences of agitation
and sorrow. He approched Conrad quickly.
“You are a portrait-painter, Mr. Merlus ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The only one, I believe, in this neighborhood ?”
“Yes.”
“I am anxious,” continued the gentleman, speak-
ing in a low tone, and with a' tremulous earnestness
that rendered his speech peculiarly emphatico—T
am anxious to have painted the portrait of one
who is—who was—very dear to -me,” immediately
—immediately, for a few hours may make such a
performance impossible. May I beg that you will
submit to some sacrifice. of convenienco—that you
will be good enough to set aside your arrange-
ments for a day or two to execute this work? Do
so, and you shall find that you have lost nothing.”
“Without entertaining any consideration of that
sort, sir,” answered Conrad, deeply touched by the
manner of his visitor, which betokened recent and
heavy affliction, “my best abilities, such as they
are, are immediately at your service.”
“Many thanks,” answered the gentleman, press-
ing his hand warmly, “Ilad you declined, I know
not what I should have done ; for there is no other
of the profession in this n¢igbborhood,. and there
is no time to seek farther. Come; for Heaven's
sake, let us hasten !”
Conrad immediately gave the necessary intima-
tion to his landlady ; his easel, pallet, and paint-
ing-box were quickly placed in the phacton; the
gentleman and himself took their places inside ;
and the coachman drove off at as great a pace as a
pair of good horses could command.
Twilight was deepeniag into dusk when, after a
silent and rapid ride of some ten miles, the . phae-
ton stopped before the gates of a park-like demesne.
The eoachman shouted ; when a lad, who appear-
ed to have been waiting near the spot, ran an
opened the gates, and-they resumed their way
through a beautiful drive—the carefully-kept sward,
the venerable trees, and the light and elegant ha-
has on either side, testifying that they were within
the boundaries of an estate of some pretensions—
Half a mile brought them to the portal of a sombre
and venerable mansion, which rose up darkly and
majestically in front of an extensive plantation of
forest-like appearance. Facing it was a large, lev-
el lawn, having in the center the pedestal and sun-
dial so frequently found in such situations.
A footman in livery came forth, and taking Con-
1ad’s easel and apparatus, carried them into the
house. The young artist, who had always lived
and moved among humble people, was surprised
and abashed to find himself suddenly brought into
contact with wealth and its, accompaniments, and
began to fear that more might be expected of him
than he would be able to accomplish.. The occa-
sion must be urgent indeed, thought he, nervously,
which should induce wealthy people to have re-
course to him, a poor, self-taught, obscure artist-—
merely because he happened to be’ the nearest ut
hand. fowever, to draw back was impossible ;
and, although grief is always repcllent, there was
still an amount of kindness and consideration in
\
1852.
the demeanor of his new , employer that reassured
him. _ Besides, he knew that, let his painting be as
crude and amateur-like as any one might please to
consider it, he had still the undoubted talent of be-
ing able to catch a likeness—indecd, his ability to
do this had never once failed him, this’ reflection
gave him some consolation, and he resolved to un-
dertake courazeously whatever was required of him,
and do his
When they had entered the house, the door was
softly closed, and the gentleman, whose name we
may here mention was Harrenburn, conducted
Conrad across the hall, and up stairs to an apart-
ment on the second story, having a southern as-
pect. The proportions of the house were noble—
‘The wide entrance-hall was boldly tesselated with
white and black marble; the stair-case was large
enough for a procession of giants; the broad oak-
en stair were partly covered with a thick, rich car-
pet; fine pictures, in handsome frames, decorated
the walls; and whenever they .happened in their
ascent to pass an opened door, Conrad could see
that the room within was superbly furnished. To
the poor painter, these evidences of opulence and
taste seemed to have something of the fabuloas
about them. The house was good enough fur a
monarch ; and to finda private gentleman of neith-
er rank nor title. living in such splendor, was what
he never should have expected. Mr, Harrenbnrn
placed his finger on his lips, as he opened the door
of the chamber already indicated ; Conrad follow-
ed him in with stealthy steps and suppressed breath.
‘The room was closely curtained, and a couple of
night lights shed their feeble and. uncertain rays
upon the objects within it. The height of the
apartment, and the absorbing complexion of the
dark ouken wainscot, here and there conecaled by
falls of tapestry, served to render such an illumi-
nation extremely efficient. But Conrad knew that
this must be the chamber of death, even before he
was able to distinguish, that‘ an apparently light
and youthful figure lay stretched upon the bed—
still, motionless, impassive, as death alone can be,
Two women, dressed in dark habliments—lately
nurses of the sick, now watchers over the dead—
rose from their seats, and retired silently to a dis-
tant corner of the room as Mr. .Uarrenburn and
Conrad entered. Where does the poor heart snf-
fer as it does in the chamber of the dead, where
lies, as in this instance, the corpse of a beloved
daughter? A hundred objects, little thought of
heretofore, present themselves, and by association
with the lost one, assume a power oyer the survi-
yor- The casual objects of every day life rise up
and seize a place in the fancy and memory, and be-
come invested with deep, passionate interest, as
relics of the departed. There is the dress which
lately so well became her; there the little shoes in
which she stepped so lightly and gracefully ; there
the book which she was reading only yesterday,
the satin ribbon still between the pages at which
she had arrived when she laid it down forever;
there the cup from which she drank but a few hours
back; there the toilet, with all its little knick-
knacks, and the glass which so often mirrored her
sweet face. /
‘Thus Conrad instinctively interpreted the glanc-
es which Mr. Harrenburn directed at the objects
around him. The bereaved father standing mo-
tionless, regarded one thing and then another with
asort of absent attention, which, under other cir-
cumstances, would haye appeared like imbecility
or loss of self-command, but now was fall of a
deeply-touching . significance, which roused the
sympathies of the young painter more powerfully
than the finest eloquence could have done.’ He
scemed at first to shun the bed, as if the object ly-
ing there were too powerful a source of grief to
bear—seemed to be anxious to discover in some
minor souvenirs of sorrow, a preparatory step,
which should enable him to approach with seemly
and rational composure the mute. wreck of his be-
loved child—the cast-shell of the spirit which had
been the pride and joy, the hope aud comfort of
his life, . Bat presently he succeeded in mastering
this sensibility, and approaching the bed, motioned
Conrad to follow him. Ile gently drew aside the
curtain which had concealed the face of the figure
that was lying there, Conrad started, . Could that
be death? ‘That hair, so freshly black’and glossy ;
uiscrint,
TERMS: $1,50 PER
YEAR.
One Dollar for Eight Months.
NEWS, ‘Se.
NUMBER 29.
‘those slightly-parted lips, on which the light of
fancy still seemed to play; the teeth within, so
white and healthy-looking ; the small, well-shapen
hand and arm, so listlessly laid along tke pillow:
could these be ready for the grave? It seemed so
much like sleep, and so little like death, that Con-
rad, who had never looked upon the dead before
was amazed. When he saw the eyes, however, ,
visible betwixt the partly-opencd lids, his scepti-
cism vanished. The cold, glazed, fixed unmean-
ingness of them chilled and frightened him—they
did really speak of the tomb.
“My daughter,” said Mr. Harrenburn, to whose
tone the effort of self-command now communicat-
ed a grave and cold severity. ‘She dicd at four
this afternoon, after a very short illness—only in
her twentieth year. I wish to have her represent-
ed exactly as she lies now. From tho window
there, in the day time, a strong light is thrown up-
on this spot; so that I do not think it will be noed-
ful to make any new disposition either of the bed
or its poor burden. Your easel and other matters
shall be brought here during the night. I will
rouse you at five in the morning, and you will thea
if you please, use your utmost expedition.”
Conrad promised to do all he could to aecom
plish the desire of the afflicted parent, and after
the latter iad approached the bed, leaned over it,
and kissed the cold lips of his child, they lcft the
room to the dead and its silent watchers.
After a solemn and memorable evening, Conrad
was sewn to his bedroom, and there dreamed
through the livelong night—now, that he was rid-
ing at a frightful speed through woods and wilds »
with Mr. Ilarrosbarn, hurrying with breathless
haste to avert some catastrophe that was about to
happen somewhere to some one; now, that he was
intently painting a picture of the corpse of a beau- ©
tiful young lady—terribly’ oppressed by nervous- ~
ness, and a fretfal sense of incapacity most injari-
ous to the success of his Iabors—when suddenly,
O horror! he beheld the body move, then rise in @
frightfal and unnatural manner, start upright, and
with opened lips, but rigidly-clenched teh, utter
shriek upon shriek as it waved its white arms, and
tore its streaming hair; then, that his landlady,
Mrs. Farrell, came up;to him, as he crouched weep-
ing and trembling by, and bade him be comforted,
for that they who ware accustomed to watch by
the dead often beheld such scenes; then that Mr.
Harrenburn suddenly entered the room, and stern-
ly reproached him for not proceeding with his work,
when, on looking towards the bed, they . perceived
thut the corpse was gone, and was nowhere to be
seen, upon which Mr, Harrenburn, with a wild cry,
laid hands upon him as if to slay him upon the
Spot
“You do not sleep well.” A hand was gently
laid upon his shoulder, a kind voice sounded in his .
ear; he opened his eyes; Mr. Harrenburn was
standing at his bedside. “Yon have not slept well, ~
Tregretto find. I heve knocked at your door sev-
eral times, but, receiving no reply, ventured to en-
ter. I have relieved you from an unpleasant
dream, I think.” .
Conrad, somewhat embarrassed by the combined .
influence of the nightmare, and being awakened ~
suddenly, by a stranger in a strange place, inform-
ed his host that he always dreamed unpleasantly
when he slept tco long, and was sorry that he had -
given so much trouble, .
“It is some minutes past five o” o’clock, ” said Mr.
Harrenburn. ‘Tea and coffee will be waiting for
you by the time you are dressed ; doubtless, break-
fast will restore you, and put you in order for your
work ; for really you have been dreaming in a -
manner which appeared very painfal, whatever the
experience might have been.”
~ Conrad rose, breakfasted, and did undoubtedly
fecl much more comfortable and light-hearted than
during the night. Ie was shortly conducted to
the chamber in which he had received so many
powerful impressions on the preceeding evening,
and forthwith commenced the task he had engag-
ed to porform. Conrad was by no means a young
man of 8 romantic or sentimental tarn, bat it is
not to be wondered at, that his present occupation
should produce a deep effect upon his mind. The
form and features he was now endeavoring to por--
tray, were certainly the most beautifal he had as
