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r<f . - ■■■ '' ' ' ■ ~ VOL. T. For the Banner of the South. Last W ords of Goethe. HEHMTSE. “1/1 the light enter,” said the dying poet, For Death’s cold seal was on his eyes; •‘L‘ t the light enter”—for the heavenly portals Were dim between him and the shies. ■ I. t the light enter” —for his mind was darkened, y. ver ray from Heaven shone there, Ai:;i yet unconsciously his pale lips muttered At nice an order and a prayer. •L. • the light enter”—for his soul was nearing Tbe. borders of the land ignored; Darkness was deeper; terrified and trembling, “L 't the light enter,” he implored. •■Lei the light enter! That was mist and darkness Which once my soul mistook for light: i; . t the strange shadows lengthening ever ’round me Fa e nothing in them fair or bright.” He new not that the golden sunlight, streaming Thro' the wide windows by his bed, Warmed the damp dews upon his forehead standing, And formed a halo round his head. Darkness was only in the mind’s proud temple, Unlighted by a ray of Grace, Whose lamp alone can light the soul departing, And make Death wear a radiant face. •‘Let the light enter”—still the soul, entreating, Asked for the Faith it had not known; And the last spark of life, left dimly burning. For one brief moment brightly shone. And the dying Atheist, weak and trembling, AH his powers seemed to centre, While from his lips the earnest cry came slowly, ■•Let the light, the bright light, enter!” It was too late !. No voice of loving mercy, th e passed his spirit into night, V ) r'-d, amid the darkness hanging o’er him, The blessed words, “Let thebe be light!” And Goethe, with his spirit blind and erring, Passed out to seek the unknown shore; But tidiugs of the unillumined vessel Were heard by mortals nevermore! From Putnam’s Magazine. Three Pictures and One Portrait, 0 [concluded.] At last came the instant, when Robert, overcome by Helena’s wiles, receives her in hi> arms, and presses his lips to hers. Then, tor the first time, 1 held in my arms the woman that I so wildly loved; 1 clasped her to my heart, and it was no slight stage salute, but a long and pas donnt* kiss that I pressed upon her lips, while, m hoarse, broken accents, I mur mured—“l love you !” The remainder of the opera passed off like a dream. Ido not know how I got through it; but it ended at last. As I was preparing to quit the theatre, the iallet-rnaster addressed me. A superb piece of acting that between ’ou and Ida in the churchyard scene,” ' e -aid. “What a pity it is tha; we have lost her.” ‘ Lost her ?” I cried, grasping his arm. Ws, I fear she has quitted Prague by l u> Line. She canceled her engagement yMoiuay, and only danced to-night on account of the accident to Cortesi.” 1 ! Mind, half mad, scarce conscious "Ht 1 did, I rushed from the theatre, ; lnc ! ook mechanically the road that led t 0 |, ' a s ! od ging in the Anton Strasse. It v>as a bright, moonlight night, and ere I reached the house, l saw a cloaked and '•’-L.i figure issue from it, and enter an 'w’gant traveling carriage, which was before the door. The vehicle started at a rapid pace, and my uterv, “Ida ! Ida!” was unheard. 1 b ar ml events, unnoticed. L vanished Ida Rosen. Never since ' f !,1 4t have I beheld her, and all my ' to learn any tidings of her fate ;", ruitles9 * The people who kept , ‘V u ' e e0,, 1d tell me nothing more ' ] 11 ; ut a tall gentleman, wrapped in a I', i, A ° f ak -’ katl occasionally visited her, u! *d old Martha had disappeared. -ars have passed since then, but I ‘Ve never forgotten the fair vision that a entranced me. i } * !ave . 11 eve r loved since—l shall never , e .n 2ain ’ The image of my lost Ida !n unfading freshness in my heart, f i V a,lll °t yet hear the music of the “ °1 “Robert le without and ban o’ * 1 c* A tew weeks ago, I chanced to see an engraving from the Vandyke Diana, in the portfolio of a friend. Struck with its resemblance to Ida, I asked where the original could be found; and, on learning that it was to be seen in Stutt gart, I took advantage of mv first leave of-absenee from the opera to journey hither to behold it. I have seen the pic ture. I have gazed again upon that love liness, whose living brightness shall gladden my eyes no more, and the old wounds throb afresh, and with a sharper pan). I shall quit Stuttgart to-morrow, and I trust forever. Friends, my story is ended. Fill up your glasses; and now, Meissner, last speaker of the three, your turn has come, and we wait for your history. The young artist looked up, and a faint, melancholy smile flitted over his lips. He spoke as follows : THE ARTIST’S STORV. My sorrow is of recent date; and mine will prove to be the saddest tale, as it is the last. I am, as you know, an artist, and I may venture to say that I am a successful one. I am a native of Stuttgart, and I am fre quently employed by the great bookseller, Baron Cotta, to design illustrations for works which he intends to publish. Two years ago, whilst I was studying in Italy, I received an order from him for a num ber of sketches of the scenery around Naples, to he used in preparing an illus trated work on Italian scenery. I conse quently took lodging in Naples, and spent my days, with pencil and sketch-book, among the exquisite scenery of the neighborhood. 1 had scarcely any ac quaintances in the city, and my only inti mate associate was a young Russian gen tleman, the Baron Alexis Z , who, like most of the educated men of his nation, was an accomplished and intelli gent gentleman, and a most agreeable companion. He was passionately fond of music and the drama, and often prevailed upon me to accompany him to see Ristori or to hearken to the very indifferent singers who shrieked through Verdi’s noisiest strains at the San Carlo. One evening we went together to wit ness Ristori’s representation of “Mary Stuart.” The house was crowded, and the audience was unusually brilliant; so that, between the acts, I surveyed the auditorium with less interest thau I had bestowed upon the stage. Suddenly my eyes fell upon a face that riveted my wandering gaze at once. Half hidden in the dim depths of a curtained box, and enveloped in cloud-like draperies of black lace, sat a lady, whose dark shining eyes and pale, finely-cut features attracted me, less by their weird and singular beauty, than by their resemblance to some face, long ago familiar to me, but whose, or where seen, I could not at that moment recollect, She sat leaning back in her chair, with a listless and pre-occu pied look, and it was but a careless gaze that Hie vouchsafed to the movements of the great actress But, towards the close ot the third act, the marvellous genius of Ristori aroused her at last from her seem ing indifference. Then she leaned for ward with parted lips and earnest eyes : a sudden crimson flushed her cheek; and, as I looked upon her beauty thus trans figured, the resemblance which so haunted me ceased to be a mystery. “Tbe Vandyke Diana !” I exclaimed, involuntarily. My companion turned, and looked at me in astonishment, “Can you tell me the name of that lady in black lace, who is sitting in the fourth box to the left ?” I asked, unheeding his surprise. He raised his opera glass, and looked in the direction which I had indicated. “Certainly,” he said; “she happens to be a countrywoman of my own. That is the Countess Orlanoff, the wealthy Russian widow, who has taken the Villa Maneini oi the winter. She is said to be in very AUGUSTA, Gj\., JAXI L\ I I Y so, 1860. delicate health, and I am told that her physicians have advised her to spend her winters in Italy.” “Is she a Russian by birth ?” I asked. “I do not know. Count Orlanoff was a very eccentric man. He married late in life, and very mysteriously; and imme diately after his marriage lie took his bride to his immense estates in Southern Russia. He never afterwards quitted them, and never received visitors; so that nothing whatever was known about his wife. There was a rumor that lie in curred the displeasure of the Emperor by his marriage, and tha his exile was not altogether a self-chosen one. He was just the man to have contracted a iincscit liance in a moment of infatuation, and to nave repented of it bitterly forever after. 7 ’ “Has he been long dead ?” 1 asked. “No; I heard of his death but little more than a year ago.” Madame t hlanoff is lovely enough to excuse any amount of infatuation.” ‘‘Aes, she is singularly beautiful, al though it is reported she is a confirmed invalid. L have an idea tjiat her married life was not a very happy one. She quitted Russia immediately after her hus band’s death, and spent last winter in A ice. She visits no one, and receives no one, and seems to l;a>e inherited some portion of Orlanoff’s eccentricity.” For weeks after, that pale, cold, beau tiful face filled my thoughts by day and haunted my dreams by night. I fre quented places of public resort and amusement with unwonted devotion, hoping to behold Madame Orlanoff again. Twice was my search rewarded with suc cess. I saw her once, seated in a luxu rious carriage, on the Chiaja; and once, blazing with diamonds, in the curtained recesses of a box on the ground-tier at the San Carlo. One evening I was busied in comple ting a sketch of a picturesque little nook of the bay. I had taken my seat on a rock which lay on the shore, and had woiked undisturbed for some hours. The sun was setting, and I was about to lay down my pencil, when 1 heard a faint rustle of silk near me; an odor of verbena filled the air: and, looking up, I beheld the Countess Orlanoff standing at my side. I started up, surprised and agitated. “You arc Herr Meissner, the artist, I believe ? ’ she said, in German. “Such is my name and profession, madame,” I stammered. “I am forming a collection of sketches of Italian scenery; and 1 would like to give you an order for several drawings of the views around Naples.” “That is a commission which I can easily execute,” I answered, regaining my composure with a violent effort; “for, I am already at work on a series lor Baron Cotta, the celebrated publisher.” “Indeed ! Then the one you have just finished is for him, I presume. Will you permit me to examine it ?” I placed the sketch in her hands. She looked at it long and carefully, making, as she did so, comments on it and criti cisms, that showed a cultivated and re fined taste in art. We conversed together for some time, and when she left me to re-enter her car riage, which was stationed at a short dis tance, she gave me her card. “Come to the A ilia Maneini to-morrow evening,” she said, ‘land bring your sketches. I may wish to possess dupli cates of some of those which you have executed for Baron Cotta.” Such was the beginning of my ac quaintance with Madame Orlanoff. My sketches formed the pretext for some of my first visits; but I soon cast all excuses aside, and found myself, every evening, by the side of the fautueil in which the fair invalid reclined. How vividly do I recall those evenings ! Madame Orlanoff always received me in a small room, half library and half re ception room, which opened out of the grand salon. It was crowded with rare trifles and costly toys; books, medals, gems, small paintings, antique bronzes, portfolios of engravings and drawings filled its every corner. We used to con verse about all the events in the world of art and literature—the last new poem, the latest opera, the rising singers of the day, the newest picture, or the artist last arrived. I brought her my sketches, and told her what my ideas were respecting the large picture on which l was at work; and she, in return, would lay open for me her stores of rare engravings and antique gems. As I speak, I seem to inhale again the mingled odor of ether and per fume that always pervaded the atmos phere; 1 see once more the little room, with its wilderness of art-treasures, its gayly-frescoed ceiling, its soft subdued light, and its one fair, spiritual-looking occupant, reclining amid the cushions of her luxurious couch. But often as I saw the Countess, and long and freely as we conversed together, she scarcely ever made even the slightest allusion to her past life. Once, when I made some remark about her name of Feodora, she said that she had not always borne it. “ I was received into the Greek Church on my marriage,” she said, “and was then baptised by that name.” On another occasion, when I spoke of her fondness for art and literature, she an swered, “They were my only solace during many years,” and then instantly changed the conversation. Once, too, while she was displaying to me some drawings by Gustave Dore, she pointed out one which she said had been designed by him at her order. “I call it my portrait,” she added, with a faint smile. The drawing, though small, was wonderfully spirited, and the singularity of the de sign, combined with the excellence of the execution, caused it to make an indel ible impression on my memory. It represented a veiled female figure ex tended on a couch. Around and above her fluttered a host of little weeping Cupids, each bewailing some mishap that had belallerf their weapons, some trying to sharpen their blunted arrows, while others strove to refasten their broken bow-strings. In striking contrast to these airy forms, a mocking fiend stood besido the lady. With one hand he upheld the veil from the leftside of her bosom, while the other pointed with clawed and hideous forefinger at the dark void hollow visible beneath the shapely bust There was no heart there. The winter passed away; the warmth and brightness of an Italian Spring re turned to gladden the earth; but the health of the Countess diu not improve with the change of season, as she had hoped and expected. Her breathing was much oppressed, and her voice at times became utterly instinct. Still, though always suffering, she never seemed to bo really ill, and she always spoke of her re covery as certain, though unaccountably delayed. One evening, as I was about to enter the A’ ilia Maneini, I found Dr. Leverrier, Madame Orlanoff’s physician, in the act of quitting it. lat once resolved to know the truth respecting her health. “Doctor,” I said, “may I speak a word with you ?” “You may, if the word is a short one and briefly said, for I am in a great hurry,” answered the solemn looking Frenchman, drawing on his gloves as he spoke. “Is the Countess dangerously ill ?” The Doctor looked fixedly at me for a moment. “If you have any influence over her?” he said, “persuade her to send lor her relatives or friends, for she has not long to live. Her disease is not of the lungs, as she fancies, but an affection of the heart of the worst type. I cannot tell her of her condition, for the agitation at tendant upon such an announcement would kill her instantly. But, in any event, she will die suddenly, without a moment’s warning, before many months nay, it may be before many weeks elapse.” He left me; and I, rushing wildly from the house, fled to the deserted sea shore, and there, prostrate on the sands, I wept out the agony that possessed my soul. It was then, in that moment of supreme anguish, I realized that I loved the Countess—l, the poor, almost un known artist, loved her—but with a passion as vain, as hopeless, as unre quited, as ever filled a hapless soul with despair. Time passed on; the spring days grew brighter, sweeter, longer, and the health ol Madame Orlanoff seemed visibly to improve. She was stronger, suffered less, and her rare, sweet smile hovered oftener upon her lips. So marked was the change, that I sought Dr. Leverrier again, in the hope of hearing a reverse of his former opinion; but he merely reit erated what he had already said; and I left him with my new-born hope dying in my heart. It was afteiij this interview had taken place that 1 came to the desperate resolu tion of avowing my love to the Countess. I was perfectly well aware of the social gulf which existed between us, and which separated so widely the wealthy widow of Count Orlanoff from the poor and almost unknown artist; but I was half frenzied at the idea of the woman I loved dying alone, among strangers, and tended only by menial hands. “She may hearken to me,” 1 argued ; “and in that case I gain the right of a husband, or of a betrothed lover, to watch over the last days of her life, and to soothe the suffer ings she may yet endure.” A strange, sad prospect for a young lover, was it not ? yet such was my last, my fondest hope. One beautiful evening in April, I sought her presence, with the avowal of my love trembling upon my lips. I found her, as usual, in the reception room, seated in a half-reclining attitude on a low couch covered with scarlet satin. A volume of Victor Hugo’s poems lay open before her, but she was not reading; her clasped bauds rested on the open page, and the vague fixedness of her glance be trayed that her thoughts were far away. She started when I entered, as though aroused from her reverie, but smiled and welcomed me with all her customary courtesy and grace. We conversed lor some little time; but her answers were vague and distraite ; and, at last, she said : “I am but a dull companion this even ing, Herr Meissner. My thoughts have wandered to the past; and, do what I will, I cannot induce them to return.” “Shall I leave you, then, gracious Countess V 1 stammered, half rising; “1 fear that my presence annoys you.” “No, oh no! Remain with me, for I W’ould fain speak to you of many inci dents whose memory haunts me ” She remained for a few moments as if lost in thought, “Mine has been a checkered life,” she resumed, “and cursed with granted prayers, i have been ambitious; but I never formed a wish too wildly aspiring to be realized ; and each wish, in its fulfilment., brought a curse. I had youth, beauty, genius; I staked them all in one desperate game, and I won—what ? The right to choose the spot where I shall die, and the power to wear such baubles as these,” and she touched with a light, disdainful stroke one of the great solitaire diamond ear-rings which she habitually wore. “Are you ill, gracious Countess?” I inquired, anxiously; “your relations— your friends—” She interrupted me with a smile. “1 have no relations,” she said; “and, like Schiller’s Mary Stuart, though I have been much loved, unlike her, I have never loved—never; so I have no friends—un less it be yoursel£ my kind Franz.” It was the first time she had ever so called me by that name. I would have ISTo. 46.