BTMEMiinmoniiii j| _ iWiMiMWI 1K ®Il 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.
