red, as we know by the illuminated books of the Middle Ages. Had she lived in Venice, that great school of color, two or three hundred years ago, in the days of Titian and Giorgione, its greatest masters, she would probably have sat upon a balcony with her locks drawn through a crownless broad-brimmed hat, and covered with dye, to remove some of their rich chestnut hue, and substitute a reddish tinge;-just as this lady is represented as doing in this Venetian book of costumes of that date. Grey [as if to himself and Tomes].— "Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd, Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though Art's hid causes are not found, Grey. Only a verse or two à-propos from rare Ben. Mrs. Grey. What do poets know about dress, even when they are poetesses? Look at your friend, the authoress of the "Willow Wreath." What a spook that woman is! Where does she get those Key. Oh that two little nephews of mine, that the boys call Carroty Bill dresses? I've often wondered and Brickdust Ben, were here! How these comfortable words would edify them! Grey. I'm afraid not, if they understood me, or the poets, who, as well as the painters, are with me. Pyrrha had red hair, "Cui flavam religas comam Simplex munditiis?" Horace's Here the glass door opened, and a neat, fresh-looking maid-servant said, "Please, Ma'am, dinner is served." Grey. Dinner! Have we been talking here two mortal hours? You'll all stop, of course: don't think of declining. Nelly blushes, yonder, doubtful, on “hospitable thoughts intent." I don't believe " our general mother," though she had Eden which, if Tomes will not be severely for her larder, heard Adam announce critical, I will translate, "For whom bind'st back thy amber hair In neat simplicity?" Mrs. Grey. The poets are always raving about neat simplicity, or something else that is not the fashion. I suppose they sustain you in your condemnation of perfumes, too. the Archangel's unexpected visit about dinner-time without a momentary qualm as to whether the peaches would go round twice. There'll be enough for Miss Larches and you, Nelly; and we gentlemen will beam smiles upon you as we mince our modest share. Let us go in. Mr. Key, will you commit yourself to Mrs. Grey? Miss Larches, will you lay aside Tomes. There I'm with Grey,- and your bonnet? Oh, it's off already! One the poets, too, I think. Mrs. Grey. What say you, Mr. Key? Tomes. At least, Grey, [turning to him,] Plautus says, "Mulier recte olet ubi nihil olet,” which you may translate for the ladies, if you choose. I always distrust a woman steeped in perfumes upon the very point as to which she seeks to impress me favorably. can't see, unless one stands behind you; and I prefer the front view. Pray, take my arm. And, Tomes, keep at a respectful distance in the rear, for the safety of Miss Larches's skirts, or she will be for excluding you, if we should have a talk about another phase of Daily Beauty, or stay away herself; and neither of you could be spared. THE ARTIST-PRISONER. HERE, in this vacant cell of mine, In spite of walls and gyvéd wrist, The muffled footsteps' ebb and swell, The clenchéd lip, the gaze of doom, All fade and cease, as, mass and line, And from my olive palette take With azure, pearl, and silver white, Ceiling, wall, and iron door, When the grim guard goes, I picture o'er. E'en where his shadow falls athwart The sunlight of noon, I've a glory wrought, — Have shaped the gloom and golden shine No cruel Alpine heights are there, But sea-blue liftings, far and fine, And domes of marble, every one All ambered o'er by setting sun;— Yes, marble realms, that, clear and high, We all have deemed them, o'er and o'er, Nor marvel made that hither floods Bore wonderful forms of hero-gods. THE MINISTER'S WOOING. CHAPTER XXV. A GUEST AT THE COTTAGE. [Continued.] NOTHING is more striking, in the light and shadow of the human drama, than to compare the inner life and thoughts of elevated and silent natures with the thoughts and plans which those by whom they are surrounded have of and for them. Little thought Mary of any of the speculations that busied the friendly head of Miss Prissy, or that lay in the provident forecastings of her prudent mother. When a life into which all our life-nerves have run is cut suddenly away, there follows, after the first long bleeding is stanched, an internal paralysis of certain portions of our nature. It was so with Mary: the thousand fibres that bind youth and womanhood to earthly love and life were all in her as still as the grave, and only the spiritual and divine part of her being was active. Her hopes, desires, and aspirations were all such as she could have had in greater perfection as a disembodied spirit than as a mortal woman. The small stake for self which she had invested in life was gone,- and henceforward all personal matters were to her so indifferent that she scarce was conscious of a wish in relation to her own individual happiness. Through the sudden crush of a great affliction, she was in that state of self-abnegation to which the mystics brought themselves by fastings and self-imposed penances, - a state not purely healthy, nor realizing the divine ideal of a perfect human being made to exist in the relations of human life, but one of those exceptional conditions, which, like the hours that often precede dissolution, seem to impart to the subject of them a peculiar aptitude for delicate and refined spiritual impressions. We could not afford to have it always night,—and we must think that the broad, gay morn ing light, when meadow-lark and robin and bobolink are singing in chorus with a thousand insects and the waving of a thousand breezes, is on the whole the most in accordance with the average wants of those who have a material life to live and material work to do. But then we reverence that clear-obscure of midnight, when everything is still and dewy;- then sing the nightingales, which cannot be heard by day; then shine the mysterious stars. So when all earthly voices are hushed in the soul, all earthly lights darkened, music and color float in from a higher sphere. No veiled nun, with her shrouded forehead and downcast eyes, ever moved about a convent with a spirit more utterly divided from the world than Mary moved about her daily employments. Her care about the details of life seemed more than ever minute; she was always anticipating her mother in every direction, and striving by a thousand gentle preveniences to save her from fatigue and care; there was even a tenderness about her ministrations, as if the daughter had changed feelings and places with the mother. The Doctor, too, felt a change in her manner towards him, which, always considerate and kind, was now invested with a tender thoughtfulness and anxious solicitude to serve which often brought tears to his eyes. All the neighbors who had been in the habit of visiting at the house received from her, almost daily, in one little form or another, some proof of her thoughtful remembrance. She seemed in particular to attach herself to Mrs. Marvyn,- throwing her care around that fragile and wounded nature, as a generous vine will sometimes embrace with tender leaves and flowers a dying tree. But her heart seemed to have yearnings beyond even the circle of home and friends. She longed for the sorrowful and the afflicted,—she would go down to the forgotten and the oppressed,— and made herself the companion of the Doctor's secret walks and explorings among the poor victims of the slave-ships, and entered with zeal as teacher among his African catechumens. Nothing but the limits of bodily strength could confine her zeal to do and suffer for others; a river of love had suddenly been checked in her heart, and it needed all these channels to drain off the waters that must otherwise have drowned her in the suffocating agonies of repression. Sometimes, indeed, there would be a returning thrill of the old wound,—one of those overpowering moments when some turn in life brings back anew a great anguish. She would find unexpectedly in a book a mark that he had placed there, or a turn in conversation would bring back a tone of his voice, or she would see on some thoughtless young head curls just like those which were swaying to and fro down among the wavering seaweeds,- and then her heart gave one great throb of pain, and turned for relief to some immediate act of love to some living being. They who saw her in one of these moments felt a surg ing of her heart towards them, a moisture of the eye, a sense of some inexpressible yearning, and knew not from what pain that love was wrung, nor how that poor heart was seeking to still its own throbbings in blessing them. By what name shall we call this beautiful twilight, this night of the soul, so starry with heavenly mysteries? Not happiness, but blessedness. They who have it walk among men "6 as sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing,-as poor, yet making many rich,-as having nothing, and yet possessing all things." The Doctor, as we have seen, had always that reverential spirit towards women which accompanies a healthy and great nature; but in the constant converse which he now held with a beautiful being, from whom every particle of selfish feeling or mortal weakness seemed sub limed, he appeared to yield his soul up to her leading with a wondering humility, as to some fair, miraculous messenger of Heaven. All questions of internal experience, all delicate shadings of the spiritual history, with which his pastoral communings in his flock made him conversant, he brought to her to be resolved with the purest simplicity of trust. "She is one of the Lord's rarities," he said, one day, to Mrs. Scudder," and I find it difficult to maintain the bounds of Christian faithfulness in talking with her. It is a charm of the Lord's hidden ones that they know not their own beauty; and God forbid that I should tempt a creature made so perfect by divine grace to selfexaltation, or lay my hand unadvisedly, as Uzzah did, upon the ark of God, by my inconsiderate praises!" "Well, Doctor," said Miss Prissy, who sat in the corner, sewing on the dove-colored silk, "I do wish you could come into one of our meetings and hear those blessed prayers. I don't think you nor anybody else ever heard anything like 'em.” "I would, indeed, that I might with propriety enjoy the privilege," said the Doctor. “Well, I'll tell you what,” said Miss Prissy; "next week they're going to meet here; and I'll leave the door just ajar, and you can hear every word, just by standing in the entry." "Thank you, Madam," said the Doctor; "it would certainly be a blessed privilege, but I cannot persuade myself that such an act would be consistent with Christian propriety." man. "Ah, now do hear that good man!” said Miss Prissy, after he had left the room; "if he ha'n't got the making of a real gentleman in him, as well as a real Christian!-though I always did say, for my part, that a real Christian will be a gentleBut I don't believe all the temptations in the world could stir that blessed man one jot or grain to do the least thing that he thinks is wrong or out of the way. Well, I must say, I never saw such a good man; he is the only man I ever saw good enough for our Mary." |
