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Some years ago, a large
packet of letters was placed in my hands, by a young artist, who was about
to visit Italy, in order that he might further himself in his profession.
I was his nearest and dearest friend; the packet contained many valuable,
and, to him, interesting memorials of affection, which he was not willing
to destroy, yet could not conveniently carry along with him; and I
received them, under the promise to peruse them only should I hear of his
death. He was young and enthusiastic in his profession, and he left
Scotland under the most favourable auspices—a wealthy merchant, eminent
for his liberality and patronage towards art, having most generously taken
the poor student under his protection. My young friend was the son of an
industrious mechanic, who had given him a good education, and had, with
all a parent’s fondness, encouraged him, from his boyhood, to direct his
talents, which early developed themselves, to become a painter. He was
indulged in his favourite pursuits to the utmost of his father’s means,
and had made considerable progress as a landscape painter, before
proceeding to roam beneath an Italian sky.
I have said that I was the
artist’s dearest friend. There was one individual still dearer to him than
me—a young lady, with whom he had been in love for about three years
previous to his departure. From my own knowledge, I was aware that his
passion was sincerely returned; for never was a being more devoted to
another, than Mary Williamson to her ardent lover. Her parents, however,
although they admired my friend’s talents, and, in common with all who
knew him, respected his amiable and upright character, were understood to
be averse to their daughter’s marriage with a poor man. They were
themselves in highly comfortable circumstances, and it was but natural
that they should wish their child to be equally so, in the important
matter of settling down in life. His visits to the family, therefore, were
rather tolerated than openly encouraged; still, his fascinating manners
and conversation were such, and so conscious were they of the state of
their child’s affections, that they, to themselves, acknowledged that
poverty in him was the only barrier to what they would otherwise have
looked on as a happy union. It was under this understood impression that
the young artist set out upon his journey; animated with double hopes of
rising to fame and eminence in his profession, that of securing an
income that would enable him to support his beloved one in a station equal
to that in which she had been educated.
I wish I could paint the beauties of
mind and manner half so well as my friend could delineate the beauties of
landscape; for then would I attempt to show a specimen of a lovely woman
in Mary Williamson, which would interest every reader in her fortunes. In
the ordinary affairs of life, she was an unostentatious but careful
manager; and her "soft, low voice—an excellent thing in woman"—was that
sort of music which it is so delightful to hear reigning over the
household details of a rich, as well as a poor man’s dwelling. I cannot
believe that my friend knew half her excellencies; for, in his presence,
she was subdued, as it were, "to the very quality of her lord." He was a
man of strong mind, great penetration, and decisive judgment. He was apt
to form a decision on the instant; and Mary would sit and listen to the
outpourings of his masculine character, as if it would have been like
falsehood to hint a contradiction—or something like a sin to utter her
poor opinion on anything that he had, as she deemed, thoroughly discussed.
In a moment of confiding affection, she has acknowledged that she could
speak with perfect freedom before anybody but her father and her lover.
And such was the fact; for her assents were all smiles to them, while,
with others, she could give her "yea" and "nay" with becoming latitude.
But it was the perfect simplicity, the winning kindness of her manner—the
sincere, unobtrusive charity— and the love of virtue and goodness, for
their own sake, which she possessed—that acted like fascination on others,
and made her be looked on almost as a little saint by her relations. I
have seen her, in a group of laughing children, the happiest of the happy
of the little band. I have seen her, at a lively evening party, the
liveliest there. In the merry dance on the green, or in the lighted hall,
her spirits were ever the most buoyant, "stealing and giving odour." But
my friend saw none of this; for, although he was the one object in the
world dearer to her than life, his presence would at once have converted
her from mirth to seriousness—seriousness no less becoming than her mirth,
and, I should think, infinitely more flattering to her lover, although, on
her part, unwitting. Often has she, in her innocent love—thinking that
what gave her pleasure, must have been gratifying for him to know—wrung
his heart with anguish, by descriptions of some pleasant little party,
where she was so happy. He was not there—he
was poor!
The lovers parted, as
thousands have done before, with tremblings, and tears, and lingering
embraces—and faint hopes, and strong and sudden fears, and confiding
acknowledgments of unalterable love. The delicate charge of transmitting
letters through the post, from the one to the other, was left to me. It
was a task which I would rather have avoided; but it was forced on me, and
I was strong in my friend’s integrity. Several letters arrived, sent by
him during his first month’s absence. They were addressed to her, for my
care; and I, of course, delivered them safely. It was no secret to her
parents that Mary was keeping up a correspondence with the artist; for,
indeed, she was incapable of holding such a thing a secret for a single
hour. Nor were they displeased at it, no visitor being so welcomc as
myself; for that which gave their only daughter pleasure, could not be
indifferent to them. But how can Mary’s reception of me on such occasions
be described? She knew my step in the lobby, and would run to meet me the
moment she heard it. Then, what a mantling of smiles was on her glowing
face, and how her eyes beamed so lustrously, as she watched my slightest
motion, till I pulled forth the expected letter! And how she would dart
away from me, like a young fawn, to her own little room, leaving me to
stumble into any other room I pleased! But seldom had I to wait long until
she was again with me. What! not an apology for leaving me so abruptly?
No. I knew how she loved him—and how could she think of idle ceremony at
such a moment? Had I taxed her with abruptness, she might have blushed,
and I should have been ashamed.
The last letter which I
thus delivered reached me about three months after my friend’s departure.
I had occasionally received a letter from him for myself; and I was sorry
to see, from the general tone of his correspondence, that he was not only
in bad health, but that he was oppressed with fears as to his future
success. As, from all I could gather from Mary’s conversation, he seemed
to breathe nothing of this in her letters, I did not feel myself called on
to allude to his supposed situation or condition in her presence; but I
called upon his father, and informed him, regularly and faithfully, of the
contents of my letters. The old man’s concern for his son was not lessened
by my statement of my fears; and it was with tears in his eyes, he told
me, that a warm climate had already been fatal to one of his family, his
oldest son, who had died in the East Indies of the fever peculiar to that
country.
On visiting Mary’s abode,
with the last communication, to which I have just alluded, she was alone
in the house. It was on the occasion of some public rejoicing, and the
rest of the family had gone forth to enjoy the sight of a military review.
I presume she had been looking over some old letters from her lover; for
she hurried several, on my appearance in the room, into a little cabinet
that stood beside her. I never saw her look so pleased or so happy. She
had dressed herself for the review; but, on some sudden recollection, she
had stayed at home. She confidently told me, that she knew I would call
that very day wtih a letter and that she could enjoy nothing out of doors,
when a packet of good news might be lying for her at home.
"Well," said I, "I hope
this does bring you good news," handing her the letter.
"I am sure it does," she
replied; "and so I shall not be in such a violent hurry to read it, as to
forget my good manners. Pray, be seated, and pardon my absence for a few
moments. You are a very great favourite of mine, and I’ll allow you to
take a peep into his sketch-book; only you must not read anything
you may see there." So saying, she left me.
I will not disguise the
fact—I was afraid of her return. I suspected that my friend had buoyed her
up with pictures of what he deemed he could once be, rather than of what
he was; and that he had studiously avoided hinting at his delicate state
of health. Now, I feared the worst. I trembled lest he should have lost
all hope, and, in the language which was natural to him under
disappointment, expressed himself with a sincerity which might be fatal to
the peace of his mistress. She had not been absent many minutes, when she
returned, and, with an agitated air, handed me back the letter, requesting
me to read it aloud, adding, that it contained no secrets—at least, none
that I should not be acquainted with. I complied with her request, to the
best of my ability; but I could scarcely get through without tears. She
threw herself on a sofa, and turned her face from me while I read. It was
a letter to make a stranger weep. It talked of sickness, and suffering,
and broken hopes. How fondly had the young artist set out to visit the
land of his dreams—to drink deep at the fountains of art! There he had
confidently anticipated that his spirit would be inflamed to rivalry, by
gazing at the glories of the antique world. Alas! he had wept himself
almost blind, in looking at the splendid triumphs of genius that were
strewed like flowers in his way—that man could never imitate. He saw, he
trembled, he shrunk abashed—he could paint no more. The pencil dropped
from his hand—he dared not think himself an artist; and he had come thus
far, to be so taught the sense of his own insignificance? Was it the
ever-sunny clime that made him sicken, and haunt the temples of fame with
fever at his heart?—or was it not rather the despair of intolerable
disappointment that filled his bosom, and dispelled for ever his brightest
dreams? He stated that he was now lying on a sick-bed-—he hoped his
death-bed—and that he would never work more. He implored his mistress to
forget him—at least, to forgive him for having, in the heat of youth,
engaged her affections—engaged them to worse than a beggar.
"He will die, he will
die!—and must I not be near him! Oh can I not go to him? Yes, yes. He must
not die; and I will cheer him. He will not die when I am beside him!"
Such were the exclamations
of poor Mary, as she arose and threw on her bonnet, and was making for the
door.
"Where will you go, Mary?"
said I. "Do not leave the house in this state."
"Where should I go," she
replied, through her tears, "but to him? He is my William; and he is ill,
and I here! Oh come with me; let us go to him!"
And most cheerfully would
that devoted being have set forth on a pilgrimage to the bedside of her
dying lover, Her heart was bound up in him; and I can conceive of no
greater state of suffering than for such a woman to survive the object of
her affections. The gentleman who had supplied my friend with the means of
prosecuting his studies in Italy, was applied to; and he immediately wrote
off letter, full of kind assurances and encouragement, to his protege
recommending him to take care of his health promising that, if he
would come home, he should provide for him in some other way. He also
despatched a letter to a commercial correspondent, recommending the most
assiduous attention to the welfare and comfort of his young friend. In the
course of a few months, I had again the pleasure of folding my old
companion to my heart. He was sadly altered—in appearance a perfect wreck.
Poor Mary was little better
than her lover. She had suffered much since the receipt of his last
letter. Her blooming complexion was gone, and a few months of illness had
given her the appearance of as many years. When she heard of his arrival,
she hurried to his father’s to see him and never did that amiable girl
look so like her real character, as when speaking kind words to the
hopeless, under the humble roof of the old mechanic.
The artist got better; but
he was an artist no more. "I shall begin the world again," he said, "and
try some more humble calling. I will be assiduous and industrious; and
should fortune prove propitious, I may, perhaps, win Mary to leave her
father’s lofty mansion for an abode in a more humble dwelling." He did set
to work in earnest. His former patron did not desert him, but put him in a
situation under himself, where he speedily established himself by his
attention to business, punctuality, and other good behaviour.
One day, I was so impertinent as
break open the seal of the package of letters that had been left in my
keeping by the quondam artist. The loose ones were all of my own writing;
but there were some tied up and sealed apart. On the wrapper was
written—"To be delivered to Miss Williamson only on receipt of my death."
This little parcel I had the pleasure of giving to Mary on her wedding-day
and, when she read the superscription, she pinched the bride groom’s ear,
and said he deserved to die for fearing that
he could die before marriage. |
