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T. L. MITCHELL, Proprietor.
Vol. I.— No. 7.]
For Woman’s Work.
THE SILVER LINING.
BY 8. MINERVA BOYCE.
Though shadows may darken thy pathway at
noon,
All along where the sun should be shining,
Remember the clouds that o’ershadow full soon
Thy young life, wear a bright silver lining.
Though friends that were loving prove false and
untrue,
Life is ever too brief for repining;
Look upward and onward; there’s still work to
do;
Through the clouds soon the sun will be
shining.
" hen adversity threatens and friends turn away,
All neglecting the wreath they were twining;—
The darkest time ever is just before day—
Then remember the clouds’ silver lining.
When death in his flight steals the loveliest
flower,
From the arbor where love is reclining,
Al ld J.°P e 1° l |er castle lies crushed in an’ hour
Faith views clearly the clouds’ “silver lining.”
Tl ?v- , .? h .£ ough , and un even life’s journey below,
,„." lth the goal ever distant and shining •
Tis never all lost—some time we will know
Why the clouds should conceal their bright
lining. B
BEAUFAIN IRVING.
BY GENIE ORCHARD.
How to bear prosperity, has been the
' text of many sermons; but how to bear
adversity, demands a different philosophy. I
A man who falls from wealth and case'
by no act of his own into almost hopeless
privation and bears the transition with
cheerful, uncomplaining tranquillity, is that
spectacle for the praise of the gods of which
the poet spoke when he referred to a brave
soul struggling with fortune.
The lives of public men, and especially
representative men, are at all times full of
interest and instruction, epitomizing to a
certain extent their aims, aspirations,
capacity and progress. But it becomes of
ten-fold interest when a man from our
midst goes forth into the world and gains
distinction and honor as did Beaufain
Irving, South Carolina’s greatest painter
since the days of Allston.
The Irvings were chief among the
families of lower Carolina. They were a
high spirited race, active alert, brave and
chivalrous, owning vast estates, and living
in ease and elegance.
Beaufain Irving displayed remarkable
talent at a very early age, and it was
fostered and improved by every advantage
that wealth could give. After studying
art in the best schools of Europe, he re
turned home with the determination to
devote his life to art as a profession, but in
this he was discouraged by his parents.
“ Painting as a pastime and accomplish
ment, is worthy the son of an Irving,”
said his father, “ but as a profession, it is
weak and unmanly.”
These words fell like frost upon the long
cherished hopes of the young man. Thus
his aspirations were fettered by parental
pride, for they scorned, what to him was
more to be desired than the wealth and
ancestry of a hundred generations.
But it is too often so. The white wings
of genius are impeded by some weights.
Beethoven must be deaf, and Homer and
Milton blind, Scott and Byron lame, and
Bunyan and Cervantes write in the gloom
of a dungeon, and poor Burns contends
with a whole catalogue of woes.
It is strange, but I believe there is a com
pensation somewhere reconciling genius to
COULD SHE BUT KNOW HER POWER FOR GOOD OR EVIL I
ATHENS, GEORGIA, MAY, 1888.
the sorrows of time. Philosophize as we
may, things will have their course. Nature
always knows her own, and adapts it to a
chosen sphere.
Years passed before circumstances opened
the sphere for the young artist to enter. At
the close of the late war, the Irvings were
reduced to poverty, and the talent of the
gifted son became a blessing and a God
send to the family. He established a studio
in Columbia, S. C-., which became a favored
KUS
■Kws
resort for the votaries of art, and he also
received patronage that brought him lib
eral remuneration.
His wife was the beautiful Mary Hamil
ton, daughter of General James Hamilton.
It is said that her beauty etherealized his
artistic creations, and like Titian, the lovli
ness of his wife characterized the charm of
his themes. In most of his early works
there was ever the glimpse of the sunny
hair and sapphire eyes, and the dreamy
saint-like expression that made Mary
Hamilton one of the famous beauties of her
day.
On the night when Columbia was burned
Irving’s studio also perished in the flames.
Yet that .night was to Irving the fatal hand
that pointed to his future greatness.
There is in one of the ancient poets —in
a tragedy of Sophocles I believe—a very
sublime passage when he speaks of the
news of the destruction of Troy flashing
from town to town until it reached the
home of Agamemnon in Greece. It re-
minds me of the fate of Irving—how the
flames of war caused him to wander in the
vast metropolis -of the North, and his
genius caught up a light that blazed and
dazzled so that we of his State afar off
could look and see the glow of his great
ness.
But, oh ! the sadness of that glory, the
tears and the crushing anguish that it en
dured.
Impoverished and unknown, he begun
WILD FLOWERS. (See page 8.)
anew his profession in New York city.
Unceasingly he worked, and put best
thoughts into his pictures, but they would
remain on his dim walls, or be sold for a
trifle, not that they were unequal to those
that decorated the galleries of the Stewarts
or Astors, but because influence or wealth
had not stamped their name upon them. It
is generally known that there is but little
individual taste or opinion possessed by
art collectors. A small canvass, with a
glare of eolers, with the name of Turner or
Burstadt jn the corner, will be seized at a
fabulous price, while the grandest concep
tions of a master mind’ will die ignored,
because the name upon them has not been
seen in places of influence and wealth. It
was this that galled the pride and the sen
sitive nature of Beaufain Irving, for he
realized that merit alone could not stem
the tide.
Years passed and he continued to work
in vain, and the partition in his home that
stood between his family and the gaunt
[SO Cts. per Year.
face of starvation was wearing thinner
every day.
Discouraged and almost crazed he sat in
his studio, weary in mind and body. It
was near the close of the day, the last rays
of the setting sun fell in bars of gold across
the unfinished picture before him like art*
omen of light that he did not heed. His
head was bowed, and his hands clasped. He
was brought face to face with facts. All the
landmarks of his faith were gone. All the
hopefulness of his nature was crushed—all
was cheerless around him, his mould pic
tures looked down upon him like sentinels
of misery. Suddenly there was a rap at
the door. In an instant the poor abject
artist was transformed into the elegant
gentleman with the old Southern hauteur
so characteristic of him. The door was
opened and he was broughtface to face with
one of the millionaires of New York, and
a generous patron of the arts. He had
seen Irving’s pictures, and recognized the
merit of them. He determined to seek the
artist and secure his works to ornament
his gallery—which was one of the finest in
America. It is useless to particularize the
conversation that followed, or the deep
friendship that arose and-
- T ,*,
ei,' • J*en ninge
on whichv. ZTs destiny was
opened from darkness into light.
Soon the fame of Beaufain Irving was
established—he became the rage in art cir
cles. He was called the “American Meis
sonier.” Art dealers sought him, and he
received orders for his pictures more rapid
ly than he could execute them. Like the
upward flight of a bird from the miasmatic
blackness of the swamp into the flush of
the morning sky, so our brave artist arose
from the gloom of obscurity and want.
Once while in New York I visited Irviflg
in his studio. He told me of his struggles
and his triumphs, and how at last his efforts
were rewarded, how fortune had smiled
upon him and emptied gold and fame upon,
him. Yet there was a look in his face of
a man who had won the battle, but was
weary. “Yes,” said he, “ I have reached
what the world calls greatness. lam not
old. Yet it seems that all has come too
late. I feel it; I know it.” And
with these words a sadness shad
owed his face, that I shall never for
get. That handsome patritian face, with
its steel-like coldness looked worn and
weary. Then I did not realize the mean
ing of his words but I think now, that he
must have seen through the soul of his
genius the pale face of death, with a har
vest of withered laurels dipped in tears,
standing near him. It was only a short
tim£ after my visit to that great and good
man, that the vast city proclaimed, that
‘‘ Beaufain Irving is dead.”
The wealth and fashion of the great
metropolis paid homage to his name and
laid laurels on his grave, but the wail that
the winds swept through the pine and oak
forests of his own loved Carolina, until it
surged out with the ocean waves with the
requiem, “ Too late, too late,” was sweeter
and sadder to his dying ear than all the
rattling golden bells that pomp and fashion
rang.
Mother; home; heaven—three grand words.
KATE GARLAND, Editress.
