Newspaper Page Text
VOL. I.
[For tlic Banner of the South.]
Mizpah.
BY INGLESIDE.
Watch, Father, watch between us when apart,
Note (lay by day,
The upward yearning of each human heart,
To'find Thy way.
While 'midst the billows of Life’s stormy sea,
Show us the reef;
And if we strike, teach us to look to Thee,
For sure relief.
Life is so up-hill. Here and there are rocks
Our feet must tread;
Let them not be, oh (Tod, rude stumbling blocks,
But helps instead.
Kind helps, tho’ rude, that makes us stop and think,
How dear the prize
Reserv’d for us, beyond this earthly brink,
Iu Paradise.
Make us true and strong that each shall find,
Howe’er the day
May break or wane, something so dear and kind,
To do or say.
Thus may the time of our brief pilgrimage—
A few short years—
Pass sweetly on, until Thy golden age
At last appears.
Selma. Ala., 18CS.
'
From Putnam’s Magazine.
Itiree Pictures and One Portrait.
o
The picture gallery of the Baron von
P ,at Stuttgart, though small, is one
of the choicest and most valuable of
those private collections which, by the
generosity and public spirit of their own
ers, are thrown open to the general public
in that charming little capital. Twice a
week, namely, on Mondays and Thurs
days, from the hour of ten in the morning
til! six in the evening, visitors are ad
nutted to feast their eyes upon its treas
ures, which include a “Triumph of
Venus’’ by Rubens, one of Paul Potter’s
marvelous groups of cattle, several fine
Rembrandts, and two or three portraits by
Vandyke. One of the latter, a small but
charming specimen of the great portrait
painter’s skill, is considered the gem of
the collection, and has been frequently
copied and engraved. It is a half length
portrait, considerably less than life, and
represents a young and beautiful girl.
By some whim of the sitter, or some
fancy of the artist, she is portrayed with
the customary attributes of the goddess
Diana. A crescent-moon sparkles among
her loosened chesnut curls, she holds a
bow in her right hand, and her graceful
form is simply attired in a flowing pale
green robe. But the slender, girlish
figure, the blooming countenance, and the
mirthful curve of the rosy lips, seem
scarcely fitted fur the representative of
the cold celestial huntress. And in the
brown eyes there lurks an expression,
strange, attractive and indescribable, at
once cold and fascinating, alluring and
unsympathetic. The fair face is that of
Hebe, but the wondrous eyes are those of
t iree. Few have paused before that
singular yet lovely portrait without ask
jug, “Who was she? What was her
history ' ’ But on that point tradition
uud history are alike silent; the name
aud the destiny of the beautiful original
are unknown, and the picture is designa
ted only by the title of the “ Vandyke
Diana.”
stormy afternoon in March, two
persons were stationed before the paint
llly Wo have just described. One was an
man > with bent form, silvered locks,
ai j e J es dimmed by years and sorrows,
10 stood with folded hands, gazing upon
{]Q Poured lace with an expression of
.'earning and sorrowful tenderness. The
':’ t ler - a young artist, sat at his easel, be
01e the hiana, and was employed in
it. Handsome, but pale and
\ i Jere£ d*looking, with large melancholy
'■'te eyes, and masses of dark hair pushed
' d j bom his broad white brow, be re-
s ' 4 , ! l ( ‘d nothing so much as the portraits
t,,e youthful Schiller. His counte
‘j dIKv Wol ’c the same pensive sweetness,
1 11 wme impress of inspiration and ge-
Mu \ the same look, too, of
■ health with which we are fainil
-111 Ihe likenesses of Germany’s great*
est and noblest poet, lfe was working
at his copy with earnest diligence, but it
differed greatly from the original. Be
neath his pencil, the bright youthful face
had been transformed to that of a woman
more than thirty years of age. The large
eyes wore a look of melancholy, the
beautifully curved mouth, so smiling in
the original, told of uneasiness and suffer
ing in its every line, and a waxen oallor,
indicative of failing health, replaced the
roseate bloom that tinted the cheek of
the Diana. It was the same face, but the
brightness of youth had departed, and
the shadow of pain and sorrow brooded
there instead. It was as if the painter,
in depicting some fair landscape, glow
ing with the golden sunlight and rich
hues of summer, had chosen to represent
it with the gray clouded skies, the with
ering foliage, and the faded flowers of au
tumn. lie had altered, too, the costume.
For the bow and crescent and woodland
robe of the original, his pencil had sub
stituted a cloud-like drapery of black
lace, enveloping both head and figure,
and whose semi-transparent folds formed
a background for the pale, pensive coun
tenance. One slender hand, on which
sparkled a diamond, held the floating
drapery over the bust; not the rosy, dim
pled hand of the Vandyke huntress, but
the fragile fingers of a suffering invalid.
It was, as I have before said, a stormy
day. No intruders had as yet distubed
the fixed and sorrowful gaze of the old
man, or the busy pencil of the artist.-
But suddenly the great door at the other
extremity of the gallery was thrown open,
a step resounded on the floor, and a tall,
dark, handsome man came towards the
spot where hung the Diana.
“ Good heavens! what a likeness,” he
he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon the
picture.
The old man started, the artist looked
up from his work.
The new-comer gazed long and in si
lence on the Vandyke. At length, draw
ing a long sigh, he turned, and seemed
about to depart; but pausing before the
young painter’s easel instead, he examined
the nearly completed copy with great
interest.
“ May I ask, sir,” he said, “ why, in
copying this picture, you have altered
the expression and hues of the counte
nance and the fashion of the dress ?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the artist,
courteously, “I have copied this picture,
not on account of its great intrinsic mer
its, but because it bears a strong acci
dental likeness to a person I once loved,
and who is no longer living. I never
knew her in her days of youth and health;
when first we met she was a delicate suf
fering invalid, already sinking under tiie
ravages of the malady which was des
tined soon to deprive her of life. It was
her face that I wished to reproduce, not
the blooming beauty of Vandyke’s lovely
huntress.”
“ Strange! the original picture is
marvelously like a lady who was once
very dear to me.”
The old man turned eagerly towards
the speaker.
“ Oh, sir!” he cried with clasped
hands and kindling eyes, “this picture is
like Roschen, my lost Roschen. Did she
whom you know bear that name ? Was
she a young village girl, with large
brown eyes and dark hair ? Oh, tell me,
sir, in heaven’s name, where is she?
where can 1 find her ?”
In his excitement the old man grasped
the stranger’s hand convulsively.
“Did you, indeed, know the Countess
Orlanoff!” asked the young artist.
The new comer looked from one to the
other in astonishment.
“The person of whom I spoke, he an
swered, “was neither a village maiden nor
a noble countess. Years ago, I knew and
loved Ida Rosen, a ballet dancer at the
Imperial House at Prague; and when I
look upon that picture, l behold her
again.”
-A-TTGrUSTA., GA., JAJVTJA-RY 23, 1869.
The old man extended his trembling
hand towards the portrait.
“So looked my Roschen when last
she stood before me.”
“And so looked Madame Orlanoff the
night I last beheld her,’’ said the young
painter, pointing to the canvass on his
easel as lie spoke.
A short silence ensued. Each of the
three men was absorbed in the sorrowful
memories of the past. The wind howled
more wildly without, and a fine sharp
rain dashed noisily against the windows.
Hie last comer was the first to speak.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “our adventure
is a curious one. By a strange coinci
dence we have all three met at this spot,
led by a common purpose, and united, it
may be, by a common sorrow. I confess
I am curious to learn the histories you
both doubtless have to relate; and, in re
turn for your confidence, if you will
gratify me so far, I will give you my own.
I will tell you how I first met Ida Rosen,
how I woed her, and how I lost her.
What say you to adjourning to my rooms
at the Hotel Marquadt ? There, over a
glass of fine old Marcobrunner, we can
converse sociably and at our ease; and,
perchance, the very act of telling our
troubles may cause them to seem some
what lighter. But, ere you answer, let
me introduce myself. My name is Theo
dore Halm, and I am the leading tenor of
the Royal Opera House at Dresden.”
“And I am Franz Meissner, artist, at
your service,” said the young painter,
rising and shaking Halm’s proffered hand
with cordiality.
“ I am Johann Keller, organist,” said
the old man, bowing as he spoke.
“ Well, friends, what say you? Will
you accept my oiler and become my
guests?”
“ With great pleasure,” said Meissner,
preparing to put aside his palette and
brushes.
“ Certainly, sir, if you wish it,” sighed
old Keller.
Half an hour later, the three compan
ions sat around a small table in one of
the pleasantest rooms in the Hotel Mar
quadt. The stove glowed with a genial
heat, the Marcobrunner sparkled like
molten topaz in flask and glasses; and,
under the cheering influences of the wine
and warmth and pleasant companionship,
old Johan Keller visibly revived. A faint
red tinged his withered cheek, his sunk
en blue eyes gained something of anima
tion and sparkle, and, without hesitation,
though in a faltering voice, he commenced
his narrative.
THE ORGANIST’S STORY.
I was born, gentlemen, in the little
town of Heldensfeld, in Saxony. My
father was the organist of the Marien
Kirche, and, at his death, I succeeded him
in his post. I inherited from him, too, a
small house near the church, where we
had always lived; and after his death I
continued to reside there. I led but a
lonely life; my only companion was an
old woman who lived with me, and who
took charge of all household matters. But
iny church duties kept me constantly oc
cupied ; and so my days passed away
peacefully enough.
Nearly thirty years ago, however, an
incident occurred which disturbed the
tranquility of my life. I was coining
home, late at night, from a lonely even
ing’s practice with the choir. We had
been trying to get up Leopold Hillberg’s
Graud Mass in li Minor for an approach
ing church festival; and, as it is very
difficult, we were forced to have a great
many rehearsals and very loug ones. So
it chanced that, on this very particular
night, I was coming home very late,
which was far from being my usual habit.
Just before 1 reached my own door, 1
stumbled over something lying in the
pathway, which looked like a large bun
dle. Judge of my astonishment, when,
on stooping to remove the obstruction, a
faint cry was heard, and I discovered
that the seeming bundle was a little child,
about eighteen months old, wrapped in a
dirty blanket, and nearly lifeless. To
pick it up, to carry it into the house,
and to call Dame Bertha, was but the
work of a moment. The poor little crea
ture was almost dead, but a warm bath,
some bread and milk, and the tender
cares of old Bertha soon restored life and
animation to her limbs. Ah! how pretty
she was, the little brown-eyed creature,
when Dame Bertha brought her to me,
wrapped in an old shawl, and sitting
erect and saucily upon her arm, that I
might see how strong and lively 7 she
looked.
I have always thought that she had
been left behind by a party of wandering
Bohemians, who, tho day before, had
passed through our town, on their way
to one of the great annual fairs, where
they go to sell trumpery bits of garnet
jewelry and glassware, and to pick up
what money they can by dancing and sing
ing. Certain it is that no one ever
claimed my little foundling, and she bore
no marks by which her parentage could
be traced. 1 called her Roschen, she was
so fresh and rosy 7 and sweet, and she
speedily became the idol of both Dame
Bertha and myself. Many persons ad
vised me to send her to some charitable
institution for the care of orphans or
foundlings; but I eould not bear to part
with her. My means were small, it is
true; but I knew that, by care and in
creased economy, I could contrive to meet
the extra expense.
The years went on, and the pretty babe
changed to a merry child, and then to a
wild, romping girl, and at last a fair
maiden of sixteen stood before me. I
had taught her reading and writing and
music, and old Bertha had instructed her
in all housewifely art; and all who knew
her praised her beauty and intelligence.
But as she outgrew her childhood she
seemed to leave content behind. The
calm monotony of our life seemed to
tret and fever her; she wearied of all
occupations, and passed long hours in
walking up and down our little strip of
garden, with clenched hands and hurried
steps. And I, too, had lost the calm
contentment which had filled my life
with peace. I realized that, old as I
was, I loved—loved for the first time,
and madly—the fair young creature
who had been to me as a daughter. And
though I tried to stifle this insane passion,
I felt that all my efforts were in vain. I
loved Roschen, and I even hoped (how
wildly and vainly I now realize) that she
might return my love.
One day our quaint little town was
startled by the announcement that a
travelling dramatic troupe of great excel
lence was about to give a representation
at our public hall. Roschen at once ex
pressed a strong desire to witness the per
formances; and I, always anxious to
call up one of her rare and fitful smiles,
at or.ce consented. Never shall I forget
that evening. The entertainment con
sisted of the usual medley of songs, dances,
and detached scenes from plays; but it
was the first performance of the kind
which Roschen had ever witnessed, and
she was nearly wild with excitement and
delight. The soft-rose line of her cheek
deepened to a vivid scarlet, her eyes
flashed and sparkled like ii\ ing gems,
and under the influence of the hour, her
beauty seemed to have acquired a more
dazzling radiance.
That evening, after we returned home,
my carefully-guarded secret escaped me.
I forgot that I was fifty-five years old,
and that she was but sixteen; and I told
her that I loved her. 1 pictured to her
how peacefully and happily our lives
might pass together, and how my love
would ever encircle and protect her.
And then I tried to tell her how well I
loved her, but I could not; I could only
fall at her feet and implore her to say
that she would become my wife.
She drew away the small hands which
I had clasped in my eagerness, and only
answered, smiling upon me as she did so,
“It is late, and lam so tired. Let us
talk about it to-morrow.”
I would fain have detained her, but she
vanished up the stair-case, calling’ in
a laughing tone, “Tomorrow, to
morrow !”
The next day she did not leave her
room at the usual hour. Old Bertha
went to call her; but she was gone. She
had left me—had fled from me—whither
I did not know, I have never known, for
I have never heard any tidings of her
since.
The old man paused. lie bowed his
head upou his hands, and for several mo
ments he remained silent. At length he
continued :
My story is ended, gentlemen. I
sought long and vaiuly for my lost dar
ling, but I was poor, and my heart was
broken, and I lacked the means and en
ergy necessary 7 to make my search suc
cessful. Some years ago I received a
letter from a lawyer in Vienna, telling me
that a distant relative, whose name even
I had never before heard, had died, and
left me a small annuity. I sold my little
property; and, having been told by a
friend that there was a picture in the
Baron von P s collection that resem
bled my Roschen, I came to Stuttgart
to see it. The resemblance was so striking,
and I found such deep though mournful
satisfaction in gazing on it, that 1 felt, to
leave Stuttgart and that painting would
be to lose my Roschen a second time. So
I remained here. I have a little room in
the house of an old friend who lives at
Cannstadt, and two days in each week I
can delight my eyes by gazing upon the
pictured face that so vividly recalls to
me the fresh, bright beauty of my lost
Roschen.
The old man ceased. Halm and
Meissner leaned forward, and each clasped
one of his hands. No word was spoken,
but the simple action was eloquent of
kindly sympathy and friendliness.
After a short pause, Halm refilled the
glasses, and laying aside his cigar, said :
“As the eldest of us three has com
menced the series of our recitals, I
presume that mine should be the next in
order.”
THE SINGER’S STORY.
About ten years ago I was engaged to
sing, for the winter season, at Prague. I
arrived there one cold November even
ing, and after a hurried meal in the
cheerless dining-room of the Hotel d’An
gleterre, I strolled to the theatre to pass
away there the hours of an evening
which seemed else to threaten to be in
terminable. The performance had al
ready commenced when I entered. The
piece was a ballet, entitled, 1 believe,
“ The Four Elements,” and stupid and
senseless as ballets usually are. I re
mained for some time, but growing
heartily weary of the uninteresting evo
lutions of the corpx de ballet, I was about
to retire, when suddenly the music
changed to anew and lively strain, and
an outburst of applause from the audience
greeted the entrance of the representa
tive of Fire. At once I resumed my seat,
fascinated by the first glimpse which I
obtained of the brilliant face and exqui
site form of the dancer. I need not de
scribe her beauty, for you have but late
ly beheld the picture whose loveliness is
a faithful though feeble transcript of that
which I then looked upon. Her dancing
was a perfect representation of the flame
whose characteristics she sought to repro
duce—as light, as graceful, as sudden in
its changeful movements. But in her
large brown eyes there sparkled a more
fatal lire than that she sought to repre
sent. When her dance was over, 1 re
tired, strangely agitated, and with my
heart throbbing with anew and powerful
emotion.
Connected as I was with the theatre, I
soon learned all that was known about Ida
Rosen; for such was the name of the
beautiful dcinseuse. 1 was told that she
appeared to lead an irreproachable life,
No. 41.