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VOL. i.
DEATH.
mr ZBV. AB BAM J. ST AIT.
Ont of the shadows of sadness,
Into tlio sunshine of gladness.
Into tho light of the Blest-
Out of a land very dreary,
Out of the world of the weary,
Into tho liapturo of Beet
Out of to-day’s sin and sorrow
Into a blissful to-morrow,
Into a day without gloom—
(hit of a land filled with sighing—
Lftnd of the dead and the dying—
Into a land without tomb.
Out of a life of commotion,
Tempeot-swopt oft as the wean,
Dark with tho wreck drifting o’or ;
Into a land calm and quiet;
Never a storm cometli nigh it;
Never a wreck on its shore.
Out of tho land, in whose bowors
Perish and fade all the flowers—
Out of the land of decay—
Into the Eden wherelfairost
Os flow’rets—and sweetest and rarest —
Never shall wither away.
Out of tho world of the wailing,
Thronged with the anguished and ailing.
Out of tho world of the sad ;
Into the world that rejoices—
World of bright visions and volcce,
luto tho world of tho glad.
Out of a life ever lomful,
Out of a land very mournful,
Where in bleak exile we roam ;
Intoajoyland above us,
Where there’s a Father to lovo us—
Into “ ou£.«ym , -A\u.ut lioihti.”
».®..
[Translated from the Gorman.]
FORGET-ME-NOT |
Or, The Picture that was Never Seen.
The Lord Chamberlain, who had just
returned from Italy, had become the sub
ject of the greatest attention with the
brilliant but not extensive circle which
the Queen was accustomed to assemble
around her, in the King’s secluded summer
residence.
The narratives of the Count's travels
served to shorten an unpleasant, stormy
evening, which visited the shady park
surrounding the castle with gusts of rain
and hail, interspersed with streaks of
lightning and heavy re-echoing claps of
thunder. The imagination of the Queen
revelled in the recollections which the
stories of the Count awakened ; but the
King, more interested in business of state,
interrupted the speaker suddenly, with
the question as to whether anything new
had transpired in the capital city, which
he had passed through on his return ?
he Lord Chamberlain praised the quiet
and elegance of the city, not neglecting
to extol the wisdom of the sovereign to
whom all this prosperity must be attribu
ted, and closed with the assurance that,
excepting the exhibition of industry and
ai t, the inhabitants of the city were occu
pying themselves, at present, with nothing
out their own homes and amusements,
flic Princess Eliza inquired interestedly
concerning the success of that institution
which owed its existence to her sugges
lion, and the Count, passing slowly from
one thing to another, ran easily into the
enumeration of the articles exhibited in
the tasteful gallery, lie left till the last
what he considered the crowning glory
oi the collection—the paintings by r the
native artists—and described with the
versatility oi a cicerone all the pictures
oi Madonnas, pictures from every-day life,
historical pictures and portraits, which
ft ere worthy oi attention. Having come
to the end he interrupted himself sudden
ly* as it rebuking hiinseli, and said :
‘‘ 1 had almost forgotten to mention a
picture, which, although anonymous, and
very unfavorably placed, deserves to be
named as the gem of the gallery, both in
idea and execution. I have seen nothing
more wonderful in my life, and even now,
wnen i speak of it, all the details of the
striking picture appear clear and decided
before the mind, so that I can give them
without omitting anything essential.”
This preliminary was calculated to raise
the greatest curiosity, and the queen,
with the company, formed a narrow circle
around the narrator.
Imagine, your majesties, a medium
sized tablet divided into two parts, of
which each represents a single picture,”
began the Lord Chamberlain ; “ the con
ditions of space divide this picture in
form ; the character is one and the same.
In the first, the principal figure is a maid
en in the full blooming freshness of youth.
The flowing drapery flutters lightly in the
wind. One foot already* rests upon the
edge of the barge which wavers in sus
pended dance, and which the stream, curl
ing up into foaming waves, seems about
to drive from the shore, without rudder
or anchor. The eyes of the maiden look
longingly into the distance : in her fea
tures lies romantic enthusiasm. On the
shore, which the mariner leaves, stand
sympathizing friends. An old man, with
silver hair, waves a farewell: a group of
maidens, blooming as she, and familiarly
clinging to each other, wave handker
chiefs and ribbons after the departing : a
youth, handsome and earnest, folds his
hands together, and out of the clouds, a
friendly, loving, sorrowful countenance
looks down upon her. Luxuriant roses
signal from the beautiful shore, and form
a rare contrast to the lurking, green-haired
water-lairies who swim under the mirror
- • MM • ill'* * l|,in >■** ..—-nirm
oFtlie water in scarcely defined outlines,
and seem to pull the frail boat forward.
The maiden, it is plain, goes hence on a
dangerous journey ; but a tender, shim
mering cloud-figure, doubtless the ever
young Hegenione, hovers near her, and
by solicitous glance and imploring ges
ture, seems to express admonition and
prayer, Whether the mariner shall he
saved by the grace of this guardian angel,
or fall by the wiles of the waiting fairies,
is the question with which the gazer un
willingly leaves the charming picture to
its companion piece.
“ In the picture which we now consider,
the principal figure is a young man with
walking-staff and traveling-bag, who pass
es rapidly away from the narrow doorway
of a house, and stops out boldly on the
broad highway, lie breathes freely, and
an earnest satisfaction speaks from his
eyes. Joyfully starting out to meet life,
he takes notice neither of the noble matron
who would hold him back, nor of tho affec
tiouate maiden who longingly extends
her hands to him, nor of the faithful dog
that, although fastened by the chain,
nevertheless raises himself entreatingly.
From the windows of an inn may be seen
a waiter, standing at a counting table and
swinging his hat; a Jew stands in the
way and holds out a paper, which the
wanderer refuses; at the well in the
foreground a thoughtless maid nods sauci
ly and piquantly to the youth ; and so
far the picture represents a gay scene, a
little saddened by the quiet grief in the
background ; but, before the wanderer,
who looks carelessly around, gapes an
abyss, in which is suspended a frightful
dead body*, with a severe but honest
countenance. Its eyes are shut, but it
raises the right hand warningly toward
the approaching youth, while the left rests
on the breast in quiet consciousness.
“ And so,’* continued the narrator, “the
picture is finished.”
A short silence reigned in the compa
ny. The King rested gloomily* in his
chair; while the Queen, on whom the
affectionate daughters were leaning, at
length replied :
“ The picture is finished, and we have
an obscure allegory, to find the key to which
will not be difficult. Man and woman
going from the narrow home-circle to enter
upon life, leaving behind them the shel
tering paternal roof, and the innocent
joys of childhood ; tho youthful desire to
toss upon tempestuous waters, or to jour
ney on the parched highway ; these are
or my feeling must be very much at
AUGIJSTA, GA., APRIL 25, 18G8.
fault—the subjects which the poetical
painter wishes to represent.”
“ Your majesty’s penetration is equal
to tho solution of the most obscure enig
ma,” replied the count; “but in the at
tractive double picture lies still more, if
one leave not out of notice that it is sur
rounded by a wreath of forget-me-nots ;
that the mariner wears these flowers in her
hair, and the wanderer on his bosom.
The artist thought to give the significa
tion of the harmless little llower, and how
well he has succeeded in paintin r »’ its
characteristics. The departing £ for
those remaining behind a forget-me-not;
but even those who remain on the spot
which the loved one leaves, desire to im
press their remembrance on the bird of
passage just as firmly. 1 Forget-me-not!’
call after her the silver-haired father, the
youthful friend, the play companions of
the maiden. ‘Forget-me-not!’ whispers
the glorified mother out of tho clouds, and
the protecting spirit hovers over the
waters. Well for the mariner if she fail
not to hear the warning voice. Weil for
the youth, if tipi forget-me-not of the
mother, the bride, and the creditor, cling
long to his heart: he will return, true and
noble, scorning tho temptations on the
way of life, and remembering tho pater
nal honor, which, through the «dumb
mouth of the dead body, calls to him
“ Forget-me-not!”
The Queen rose hastily, nodded, as it
seemed, overcome by tears, to the narra
tor, leaned upon the arm of her daughter,
and apparently struggling to hide her
emotion, left the room. The King threw
a disapproving glance after her, which
finally met that of the Count, who stood
transfixed in the middle of the hall, with
out knowidg how cr why so peculiar a
circumstance had transpised.
The courtiers had fallen back, and were
whispering among themselves.
“ Will your majesty * condescend to
point out to me whether any indiscretion
ot mine has caused the present event, or
whether it may be attributed to an unfor
tunate coincidence,” said the Count, timid
ly. Instead of answering, the ruler gave
those standing around the signal of de
parture, and commanded the Count to
remain. Being called nearer, and per
mitted to sit opposite to the King, he
waited impatiently for the discourse
which his commander should direct to
him.
“ Your ignorance is excused,” com
menced the latter, in his usual short
manner of speaking, “ but the Queen is
unpleasantly affected by the name Forget
me-not. It is an old wound that has to
day been opened afresh, and hence the
strange scene. It is, perhaps, nineteen
years since I undertook the rule of this
state. The care of it called me into the
field against the enemy formed by the
exiled royal family. 1 was but just mar
ried. In order to acquaint my aged
father-in-law with the fortunate result of
a battle, I sent to the capital a young
ordnance officer. He returned to the
camp at the time designated, but at the
same time came secret dispatches from
my zealous agents, who noted the dispo
sition of the people and kept guard on
the actions of the crown-princess, my
wife. The ordnance officer, who had long
loved my wife in secret, had, in special
audience, received from her hands, a
bouquet of forget-me-nots. My jealousy
knew no bounds. In the next tourna
ment, the officer found his death, and—as
it is said—on his breast lay the fatal
flowers. After I had returned as victor,
it became clear that mv wife had intended
this present for me, and that she was un
acquainted witli the feelings of the un
safe messenger who had retained for him
self the love-gift of a Queen. But now
it was too late. Mother and sister
mourned on his grave, and the tender
heart of my wife was so shocked by such
a catastrophe that even to-day, alter so
many years, her grief has again been
manifested.” The King was silent, and
leaned bis head on his hand. The Count,
overcome by the unusual confidence of
his sovereign, and feeling himself inade
quate to console, did not venture to reply.
The King, instead of dismissing him, re
mained in troubled thought, while a bitter
smile played around his mouth. “Final
ly,” he continued, “my position at that
time was difficult. My zealous tempera
ment was bent on vanquishing the obsta
cles in the way of my successful career.
My motto was, 1 Onward !’ The people
were dissatisfied that a man not of royal
descent should have the audacity to claim
the crown. 1 had, by the force of arms,
held the old King on his throne, banished
the pretenders, and rescued the people,
the property, and the church.* I had
shown that no one understood better how
to readjust the disorganized affairs of state;
but when the eyes of the old man closed,
and I seized the sceptre, according to
agreement, then arose a cry of conster
nation. The fools had believed that I
would give the house that I had built up
to the alienated Merovingians, and myself
he satisfied with the position of major
domo. A conspiracy was formed. You
remember that the flower forget-me-not
passed for the symbol of rebellion. The
faction of the refugees have not yet for
gotten the day on which I gave the com
mand which the times demanded. The
first name which met me upon the list of
those seized was Albo. The family of
that officer bore this name. I knew that
the Baronness had hated me irreconcil
ably since the death of her son ; that her
daughter hated me not less, and that a
determined ally’’ of the exiles was about to
offer his hand to tho latter. Now burst
the bombshell. In the house of Albo
were said to have been held meeting’s.
The Ba roness was said to have sworn to
give her daughter to the one among her
countless suitors who would take the
most prominent part in my overthrow.
My sternness passed the sentence of death
upon the women; but the entreaties of
my wife—to whom it had been repre
sented that the accusations which had
been heaped upon the mother and daugh
ter were only the work of envy and pri
vate hatred—disarmed my sentence. I
banished the women, and confiscated their
property. The bridegroom died in prison ;
and so the fate of that family was mourn
fully fulfilled.” The King then continued
in a monotonous tone : “ I will not deny
that later I have thought of these poor
women who must wander in exile, with a
certain unwilling pity, and that still later
I made inquiries concerning them. No
trace of them could he found. But I sec
that I have allowed myself to say more
than is customary for me. We will pass
to something else. Who is the painter
who executed tho picture of which he has
spoken ?”
“ Sire,” replied the Count, “I. do not
know. He cannot, however, be unknown
to the inspector of the gallery. I know
only that he is not one of your majesty’s
subjects, and that he begged permission
to exhibit the double picture for a few
days. For the present he remains in the
capital.”
“ Yes, yes,” replied the King ; “ noone
but Cremato can have created this picture;
his power alone manifests itself in such
allegorical compositions ; and the allusion
to the forget-me-not—yes, yes, watchful
man, we will make peace, and thy pride
of art shalt melt in the sunshine of my
favor. I wish to see the painter, Count.
You will take pains to bring him here.
He will not willingly obey, but an auto
graphic command shall place all authority
at your disposal. Depart as early as pos
sible, and the day after to-morrow I shall
expect to sec the painter. Good night,
Count!”
The Count departed, and the King re
treated to his cabinet. After a few fruit
less struggles, he overcame the melancho
ly which clouded his soul, and went to
the table, on which lay in great numbers
the reports and dispatches just brought
by the courier. lie sought impatient
ly among the letters for one, which, when
found, he broke with anxiously suspended
breath ; but after the first line, the rest
less expectation vanished from his features;
cheerfulness spread over them, and with
alight “Good, good!” he took up the
silver candlestick, impatient to share his
satisfaction, and opened the tapestry door
which led into the corridor connecting his
rooms with the Queen’s. As he ap
proached the door, he heard voices, and
upon entering found the Queen sitting in
an arm-chair, and leaning, in pleasant
resignation upon Eliza’s shoulder. At
their feet, on an ottoman, sat Sophia, the
younger Princess, resting her smiling
face on the mother’s lap. The beautiful
iamily picture charmed the King, and he
commanded the ladies, who would have
risen in his honor, to remain in their po
sitions. The group remained, but the
former spirit was gone; and the King
himself, after a few moments’ thought,
broke the restraint.
“ I forgot,” he said, as he gave his
daughters a sign to leave their places, “I
forget that my wishes serve only to gov
ern the actions of my family, but cannot
charm away a grief. I cannot approve
of the tears which I see in your eyes,
madame. You have given to the court a
spectacle, the cause of which is too anti
quated to render it any longer excusable,
and too unimportant to have been entrust
ed to your daughters, as I must imagine
has been done.”
“ You err, sire !” replied the Queen,
drying the last traces of tears from her
eyes; “ the tenderness, not the curiosity
of my daughters has comforted me.”
The Princesses kissed the Queen’s hands
caressingly, and the King replied :
“ Bight; that I must commend ; and
to prove that it pleases me to give pleas
ure, I will confide to you what gladdens
my heart and somewhat lightens my
paternal cares. This letter from my am
bassador in a neighboring kingdom makes
the heavens look joyful. The dissen
sions which have for so long a time thieat
ened to separate that country and mine,
are peacefully settled, and l hope to see
soon at my court an ambassador with in
structions for Eliza’s hand. So I have
finally succeeded in entering fully into
the band of sovereigns. The fortunate
soldier is forgotten, and hereafter Kings
will speak to a King, and make room in
their ranks whom fortune raised to their
level. My name and the remembrance
of my deeds will not pass away with my
body. If lam blessed with no son, my
grandchildren will wear my crown, and
enjoy the fruits of my labors.”
The Queen gave him her hand softly,
and spoke :
“May fortune still further attend you,
gracious sire. Your wife willingly sub
| mits to your wisdom, and your daughters
will fulfill tl io duties which your position
imposes upon them.”
“ Have you not taught me early, be
loved mother, that renunciation and offer
ing is our destiny ?” said Eliza calmly,
but sighing softly. “ I will obey iny
royal father without objection, without
complaint, if—”
“ If the Prince do not disappoint the
j ideal that a maiden’s heart is accustomed
jto create,” said the King. “Be with ,ut
fear, my daughter; the Prince is renowned
as a second Bayard, whose braverv goes
hand in hand with the most pleasant cour
tesy*. He is not remarkably beautiful, as
1 understand, but moderately so, and pos
sesses all those brilliant accomplishments
which pertain to a royal education. At
least you will be able to boast of a better
I suitor than your mother, whom I, having
! neither the advantage of beauty nor of
birth, but grown up in the rough customs
|of the camp, won by the power of my
sword, to the astonishment of her father,
j Ihe brazen age ruled in the land then,
| and my sword must cut out for your grand
| lather the royal robe that he had taken
; from his cousins, as the people demanded.
INTo. 6.