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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
Jin Jllustratcir iUrekltj Journal of Belles-Cettres, Science anlr tl)c Jtrts.
WM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
Original JjJcctq).
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE STATESMAN.
BY W . GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.,
Author of ‘Guy Rivers,’ ‘Yemasee,’ ‘Atalantis,’ &c.
Well, if it be that Fortune’s sun is setting,
And friends that cheer’d thee in thy happier day,
Turn from thy griefs, thy glorious gifts forgetting,
And faithless prove when faith had been thy stay;
Vet not all hopeless in thy heart, —forsaken
Os those alone who came when day was bright,—
Thou bear £ st a soul that storms have never shaken,
And resolute will to tread the path of right.
And this is still to con quo,', though we perish !
’Tis no defeat, when, steadfast in our hearts,
We still, o’er all, the sacred purpose cherish,
Though all the hope that grew with it departs;—
The will that moves us to the strife unquailing,
Still keeps the faith unchanging it believes ;
Tho’, in the hope that dream’d of conquest, failing,
The future still avenges and —retrieves!
And, to thyself still true, in every fortune,
The very foes must honor, who o’erthrow;
Talm, steadfast, firm —O ! why shouldst thou impor
tune
The fate, whosy seasons still must come and go 1
Thou hast no loss in ever-losing struggle,
Because thou strivest still in Duty’s cause:
Rejecting still the bauble and the juggle,
True to thyself, the virtues, and the laws.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE TWO GRAVES.
BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ.
Where the soft and solemn moonlight
Falls, like a silver veil, ’
On the graves of two young infants,
Wanders a mourner pale.
On one, a grass-grown covering
The hand of Time has spread ;
The damp earth on the other
Reveals a new-made bed.
There, side by side, they slumber,
And never more will wake,
Till the trump of the Archangel
The realms of Death shall shake.
And who art thou, pale mourner,
Whose stilly footsteps roam
In the pale and solemn moonlight,
Beside each infant tomb
Methinks a low voice answers:
“ I come to mourn my dead ;
Oh ! none, beside a mother,
Such tears as mine can shed.
“ These arms have been their cradle
Their pillow, this fond breast;
And now on earth’s cold bosom,
Their cherub forin3 must rest.
1 One, from my heart was taken
In beauty’s morning bud
hre Sin could mar its whiteness
Transplanted by its God.
“ Another, on the ruins
Bloomed, a celestial flower,
And gilt, with hues of heaven,
My late deserted bower.
“ My boy, my pride, my treasure
My beautiful, my fair!
Oh God ! what weight of sorrow
she human heart can bear !
Day after day I watched him
Languish and writhe in pain,
Without the power to bid him
Look up and smile again.
1 saw his cheek of roses
lo waxen whiteness turn,
And his eyes of dove-like softness
M ith hectic splendour burn.
l ’ * met his dying glances,
I caught his last chill breath,
And saw around him falling
The grey, cold ehades of death.
“ I saw, and did not perish
Though could life-blood save,
I would have sheed it freely
To snatch him from the grave.
“Father! forgive these murmurs,
I kiss the chastening rod
And own the hand that smites me,
Tho mighty hand of God.
“ I thank thee, oh, my Saviour,
That I, a child of earth,
Have given for thy own glory,
Two spotless angels birth.
“ For thou, when once incarnate,
Such little ones embra; ou,
And on their brows of beauty
Thy hand in blessing plaeed.
“ Then take the priceless treasures
Committed to my trust:
Thine be their ransomed spirits,
But mine their sleeping dust.”
—Heaven bless thee in thy sorrow,
Thou mother of the dead ;
May the dew of heavenly mercy
On thy blighted heart be shed.
And when thou wanderest lonely
In the pale and silver light,
May the angels thou hast given,
Come through the stilly night.
And rustling softly o’er thee
Their young and glorious wings,
Breathe in thy soul a blessing,
Lent from the King of kings.
©rtglnal Sranalatlons.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE ARTIST’S DEATH.
A SKETCH FROM THE GERMAN.
BY WM . N . WHITE.
As the epoch of the revival of learning
produced men the most remarkable, and
learned men of the most energetic genius,
so also, at the time when the art of Painting
went forth as a Phoenix from her long quiet
ashes, flourished those men most noble and
eminent in their art. It is regarded as the
artist’s true heroic age —and one may sigh,
like Ossian, that the strength and greatness of
that heroic period have departed from the
earth.
Many have existed, in many places, who
have elevated and distinguished themselves,
solely through their own inborn strength: their
lives and their labors have weight, and are
well worth the care of being transmitted to
posterity in ample chronicles, like those we
inherit from the hands of the contemporary
worshippers of art; for their spirits were as
remarkable as are their bearded heads, which
in the admirable collections of their portraits
we still contemplate with admiration and awe.
There occurred among them many unusual,
and indeed, now, incredible events, for the
enthusiasm, which now Only glimmers as a
faint rush-light, in that golden age inflamed
the whole world. Degenerate posterity doubts,
or laughs at, as fabulous, so many true nar
ratives of that age, because the divine spark
has wholly vanished from our minds.
Among the remarkable narratives of those
times, and one which I could never read with
out astonishment—but which still, in my
heart, I have never yet been able to doubt, is
the description of the death of the old painter,
Francisco Francia, the father and founder of
the school of painting, existing in Bologna
and Lombardy.
This Francisco was the son of a poor me
chanic, but through his own unwearied
energy and ever aspiring spirit, raised him
self to the highest pinnacle of fame. In his
youth he was first a goldsmith, and formed
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1848.
such ingenious things of gold and silver, that
all who saw them were astonished. He also
for a long time engraved the dies for medals;
and dukes and princes made it a point of ho
nor, that their own heads upon their coinage
should be of his engraving. It was then
still an age, when all the nobles of the land,
and all the fellow'-citizens of the artist, vied,
with their loud applause, to make him proud.
An infinite number of great personages came
through Bologna, and neglected not to obtain
their portraits from Francisco, and afterwards
to have them cut in metal, and stamped upon
their coin.
But Francisco’s ever active, fiery soul,
stretched towards anew field of labor, and
the more his ardent ambition was gratified,
the more impatient was he to strike out some
new and untrodden path to glory, Already
forty years old, he entered the portals of a
new art. With unconquerable patience he
devoted himself to the pencil, and directed his
whole attention to the study of composition
in genera], and the effects of color —and it
was extraordinary how soon he produced
works which were held in admiration. In
truth, he became a distinguished painter.—
Even then, when he had many rivals, and
when the divine Raphael painted at Rome,
they always justly numbered the productions
of our artist among the most remarkable;
since surely beauty in art is not so poor and
beggarly a thing that one man's life is able to
exhaust it—£nd her reward is not a prize
which falls only to a single elected one; her
light rather radiates in a thousand streams,
the reflection of which, in the manifold styles
of the great artists, whom Heaven has placed
in this world, is thrown back to our enrapt
ured eyes.
Indeed, Francisco lived in that first genera
tion of noble artists, who enjoyed the great
and uncommon distinction of founding, amid
the wrecks of barbarism, anew and splendid
realm; and in Lombardy he was truly the
founder, and as it were, the first prince of the
newly established empire. His skilful hand
perfected an innumerable multitude of mag
nificent paintings, which were scattered not
only through all Lombardy, (wherein no city
would allow it to be said that it did not pos
sess at least one proof of his labors.) but in
the other States of Italy; and all those, whose
eyes were so fortunate as to behold them,
loudly published his praise. The Italian
princes and magnates were eager to possess
portraits by him; and eulogiums upon him
flowed in from all sides. Travellers published
his name in the countries they visited; and
the flattering echo of their reports came back
to his ear. The citizens of Bologna, who
frequented Rome, praised the artist of their
father-land to Raphael, and he, who had seen
ana admired some of his productions, made
known to him his regard and affection in a
letter, written with his own gentle and pecu
liar courtesy. The writers of his age could
not contain themselves; his praise is in all
their works; they directed the eyes of pos
terity upon him; and with grave countenan
ces narrated that he would hereafter be hon
ored as a god. One of them is daring enough
to assert, that at the sight of his Madonna,
Raphael left oil the dry and barren manner
which adhered to him from the school of Pe
rugia, and took at once a bolder style.
What effect Could these repeated plaudits
have upon the mind of our Francisco, but j
that his active soul should raise itself to the
noblest pride of art; and he began to believe j
that a heavenly genius dwelt within him.—
Where now do we find this elevated pride I
We vainly seek it among the artists of our !
own time, who are vain enoii,gk of themselves,
but they are not proud of their art.
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 5.
Raphael was the only one of the painters
of that age whom Francisco at all allowed to
be considered his rival. Meanwhile, he had
never been so fortunate as to see a painting
from his hand; for he had never travelled far
from Bologna. Yet, after many descriptions,
he had formed in his mind, a fixed idea of
Raphael’s manner, and was fully persuaded,
(and especially so by Raphael’s modest and
very deferential tone towards himself,) that
in most of his pieces he equalled, and in some,
perhaps excelled him. It was reserved for
his old age to see with his own eyes a picture
of Raphael’s.
A letter, wholly unexpected, came from
Raphael, which communicated to him the
news, that the writer had completed an altar
piece of St. Cecilia, which was destined for
the church of St. John, at Bologna; and he
added that he would therefore send the piece
to him, his friend, and begged Francisco to
do him the favor to see that it was properly
adjusted in its place; and if in any way it
were injured by the journey, or if beside, he
discovered any fault or oversight in it, he de
sited him to correct and retouch it. This
letter, wherein a Raphael placed the pencil
in his hand, made him beside himself; and
he impatiently waited the arrival of the piece.
He knew not what was before him.
Once, while returning home from his walk,
his scholars hastened to meet him and told
him with great joy, that Raphael’s picture
had come, and that they had already placed
it in the best light. Francisco, overjoyed,
rushed in.
But how shall I describe, to the men of this
age, the sensations which this extraordinary
man then felt rending his soul. It was to
him as to one who wished to embrace a broth
er separated from himself since childhood, and
saw, instead, an angel of light before his eyes;
it was to him as if he had sunk upon his
knees, in the full contrition of his heart, be
fore a higher existence.
He stood there thunderstruck. His scholars
thronged round the old man—supported him —
asked him what had happened; and they
knew not what to think.
He partially recovered and gazed, ever mo
tionless, upon that truly divine form. How
had he at once fallen from his height! How
heavily must he atone for the sin of having
too arrogantly raised himself to the stars, and
placed himself ambitiously over him , the in
imitable Raphael! He bent his grey head,
and wept bitter, painful tears, that he had
wasted his whole life in vain, ambitious toils,
and he had only made himself, by them, ever
the more foolish; and that now, finally, he
must look back upon his whole life as a mis
erable failure. With elevated countenance,
he lifted his eyes also to the holy Cecilia—
showed to heaven his wounded, repentant.
heart, and humbly prayed forgiveness.
He felt so weak that his scholars were o
bliged to place him in bed. At the door of
his chamber, several of his own paintings met
his eye—particularly his dying Cecilia, which
still hung there, and he almost swooned with
pain.
From that time his spirit was in continual
agitation and they remarked in him almost
always a certain absence of mind. There fell
upon him the weakness of old age, and the
lassitude of a mind reacting, which had been
so long exerted, with ever-strained activity,
in the creation of a thousand varied forms.
The house of his spirit was shattered to the
ground. All the innumerable and manifold
shapes which had affected him in his artist
soul, and which, in lines and colors, had
passed into reality upon his canvass, now
rushed with distorted features through his