Still

they said, and they crowded on. dreaming, I went on, toiling after I knew not what, hoping for more than this poor world can give. Dreaming, yet dreaming, still on I went, and this fierce race ended in the maddest brain fever that ever poet had. I awoke from this ecstatic trance, to find myself nearly scalped by the Doctors, from which judicious treatment you will perceive that my poetic locks have not yet entirely recovered. I was food for leeches, and the peculiar delight of scarificators, for more than three weeks. Whether the leeches went off with my exuberant poetry, or it was taken off with my scalp, I am not prepared to say.'

"What a blessing, young man," said grandma, handing around her snuff-box, "that the doctors interfered before you made a ninny of yourself. You may regard it as a special providence, that attack."

"Poesy, my dear madam," said Dashwood, with a profound bow to grandma, "is defined by physicians to be a chronic congestion, or extravasation of the brain, occurring in persons of highly nervous and sanguinous temperament."

To be relieved by partial beheading," said Robert, laughing.

To be allayed by leeching, and antiphlogistics. Cases of long standing belong to the mad-house, the faculty think," said Dashwood.

"But you write acrostics occasionally, do you not?" asked Miss Blanton.

"It was an acrostic to this lady," said Dashwood, turning to Louise, which brought about those terrible results I have been telling you of. My physician advises me to beware of acrostics. considers them the most inflammatory and dangerous species of poetry."

He

Poor Robert laughed until he was ashamed of himself, at Dashwood's earnest countenance and unshrinking gravity. Miss Blanton had to give up all hopes of an acrostic, so she turned upon grandma, and began to question her. The reader can easily imagine that Miss Blanton immediately found herself in clover, as the saying is. She had only to ask the most trivial questions to set Mrs. Barbara's tongue in motion. She had only to suggest an idea, or gently to jog her memory, in order to provoke a perfect avalanche of anecdote. Miss Blanton had now aroused the right passenger. Mrs. Barbara straightened up, and proceeded to draw from the great storehouse of her memory, treasure after treasure. She reverted to one of her favorite topics, the burning of the Chatterton Theatre.

"If it hadn't been for that fire," said Mrs. Barbara, in a mysterious and im

pressive tone, "I should never have been a Rushton! I think it highly probable I should have been a Maddon !" "Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Blanton, thrillingly interested, 66 was Maddon burned?"

"No, but you shall hear it all, and then blame me if you can. You see, I was engaged to Maddon, and had discarded Rushton. On this eventful and destiny-destroying night," commenced grandma forcibly, "the management presented to the lovers of the drama a most attractive and enticing bill. We all determined to go to the play. My hair was splendid in those days, and at least two hands longer than Louise's. I had it arranged in the morning by a hair-dresser, who thought proper to saturate it with a kind of oil, which, to my horror, I afterwards learned was highly combustible. Maddon came to our house rather early, with tickets, and spoke rapturously of Mrs. Somebody -I forget her name,-who, he said, was going to electrify all Chatterton by her performance that night. We were sitting in our box, patiently awaiting the rising of the curtain, after the second or third act, when a whiff of smoke came from the stage, accompanied by a slight, crackling sound. I thought they were making their thunder and lightning you know, and was perfectly easy. Not so Maddon. He stood up, his eyes flashing, his nostrils dilating, and his lips compressed. Presently 'fire! fire!' was heard, and Maddon dashed over the railing upon the heads of the pit, stepped over the orchestra, and into the foot-lights upon the stage, leaving me unceremoniously to take care of myself, wondering what on the face of the earth was to pay. I hadn't sense enough to move hand or foot. The crowd writhed, and swore, and elbowed, and fainted, and trampled on each other, while I, absolutely petrified, remained glued to my seat. I could not budge an inch. People mashed me, and tore me all to pieces, and tall men stepped over my head, without so much as by your leave, Miss.' Finding that every body was making for the doors, I bethought me of looking out for a window. As soon as I began to move I found myself in a current of human beings, while crash after crash, and scream after scream was heard. I was pushed on by the crowd, until I stood before a window, and I hung on to my place. I heard somebody crying out to me from below. It was Rushton, calling on me to spring from the window. He placed a feather-bed upon the pavement, and, calling franctically to me, implored me to jump out. But I was paralyzed by fright. People were pushing me away, and jumping out like shot out

of a shovel. In the crowd below I recognized the deserter Maddon, with the actress in his arms, who had fainted in the street. Again Rushton screamed to me, and begged me to spring out upon the bed. I hadn't sense enough to move. Presently a flame licked me upon the back of my head, which, as I told you, was all saturated with a highly inflammable oil,—and I assure you, Miss Blanton, I sprang out with such superhuman strength, that I cleared the feather bed, passed over Rushton, and descended upon a large lot of household and kitchen furniture, belonging to Pratt & Brothers, next door above. People were astonished at me, and all eyes were turned upon me, as I reclined comfortably upon the household and kitchen furniture. I understand it was the greatest jump made that night. The tight-rope dancers didn't come near me. Suffice it to say," concluded Mrs. Barbara, with great gravity and importance, "that Mr. Rushton's gallantry, as contrasted with Maddon's shameful desertion, and devotion to the actress, caused me to become a Rushton!"

Grandma's maidenly choice was universally applauded. Every body thought she was right in discarding Maddon, and consenting to adorn, and illuminate, the Rushton family.

But about Robert's eccentric friend Dashwood. This handsome fellow was a perfect riddle to ordinary people. He had a way of flashing out sometimes, in a dazzling electrifying manner, and then subsiding into a man of less than ordinary pretensions. Sometimes people would begin to think him most extraordinary, destined for great things, capable of wonders, and suddenly he would put all such charitable notions to flight, by some unaccountable freak, which would have the happy effect of precipitating public opinion below zero. Robert alone, and perhaps Louise, held the key to his absurd whimsicalities. To Robert he was the most glorious and piquant of men. To Louise,-ah, what was he to Louise? More than mortal, more than lover, more than beloved. That he was pervaded by a poetic something, nobody could doubt. That he was lifted above his fellows, was beyond a question. That he had rare powers, glorious powers, every lady of any refinement and cultivation, of his acquaintance, was ready to admit. But, in the ordinary business of life-in buying and selling-making money, and the most of one's talents, our brilliant Dashwood was hopelessly inferior. He could assume, at a moment's warning, any character under the sun. Sometimes, for whole weeks, he was the man of business, going about

with a brisk manner, closely buttoned coat, and knit brows. During these business attacks, he would shoot ahead of the old stagers, throw a flood of light upon matters before shrouded in darkness, give quite a new turn to the old way of doing things, and after triumphantly proving himself eminently worthy of the counting-room or the desk, and blazing away to his own satisfaction, a complete reaction would take place.

The next thing you would hear of Dashwood, he would be idling about his lodgings, in gorgeous slippers, trailing robe, and jewelled cap, writing poetry for the magazines.

His

Again he would assume his profession of the law with an ardor and impetuosity, which could not last, make a crack speech, astonish the court, gain his suit, pocket his fee, and live like a lord, eschewing every thing but love, wine, and cigars. After this, he would take a trip off to a watering-place, or some fashionable place of folly, and smirk, and polk, and create sensations, until he was tired. Of course, after this, he would have a severe attack of dolce far niente, and then the usual return of otium cum dignitate. He did not care a fig for money, because he could generally contrive to make a little when hard pressed. He was not called a dissipated man, or a man of bad habits, but people called him an uncommon man, an astonishing man, a psychological riddle, a jack at all trades and good at none. varied talents, his brilliancy, his powers, ever obedient, and ready to rise equal to any emergency, his eloquence, his intuitive knowledge of almost everything, his splendid person, and flexibility of manner, gave him a position among men, from which no freak on his part could displace him. To confess the truth, people petted his whims, in order to secure the use of his talents. Generally, if a fellow-citizen had a very unpromising case on hand, which he knew could only be gained by a master spirit, or some legerdemain peculiar to lawyers, or some trick of oratory, he consulted Dashwood, who, if in the want of money at that particular time, or exactly in the vein, would take hold of the matter, turn the whole strength of his soul and body upon it, and make such an effort for his client as few men, even in Virginia, could make.

To love such a man as this, was to tie one's self to a wheel at once. To love Dashwood was perfect folly. But there are some women, doubtless, provided by Providence for such men, who exult in martyrdom; who, of all things, love to make living sacrifices of themselves; whose hearts are moved by wonders, and

astonishment, and who must have a demigod, for nothing short of a demi-god can fill up their capabilities of loving. The glitter and the glare of great personal beauty, astonishing powers, and irresistible manners, envelope them, and they are lost.

Louise, woman-like, first loved him, and then began to search about for reasons to sustain her. She loved him, first, because she could not help it, and because amid all his fickleness he was true to her. He was as steady in love, as he was unstable in every thing else. True, my sister was enough to fill a poet's eye, yet it must have been flattering to her, to see this man anchored, you may say, at her feet. He never swerved from her, or pretended to love another, or deigned to think there was any thing loveable in any other woman under the sun. Let him be politician, lawyer, poet, or dandy, his love for her remained the same. This was his great redeeming grace. What young lady of eighteen could withstand poetry, law, oratory, grace, fashion, great personal beauty, and most of all, constancy, combined? What southern beauty, spoilt by over-indulgence, never knowing the want of money or of friends, kept in seclusion, and guarded from all the ills that flesh is heir to, would not have loved this flashing Dashwood?

There are many, older and more experienced than our beautiful sister, who would have yielded to his power.

Tom Farren-upright, economical, wellbalanced, systematic, money-making, plantation-managing Tom Farren, detested our poor Dashwood. He would be ready to say "fudge" at the bare mention of his name. He could see nothing but folly and consummate assurance in all he said and did. He wondered how people could tolerate such a man, who was, in fact, no man at all. How Robert and, most of all, Louise, could listen to him him with any patience.

There had been a talk among the sovereigns who adored and petted Dashwood, of sending him to Congress, some day; but the neighboring gentry and landholders were in favor of Farren. Robert, too, who was a mighty man among the young girls and old maids in the neighborhood, and patronized incipient dandies, and carried on with old ladies and gossips at a high rate, was heart and soul for Dashwood. He declared Virginia hadn't given such a son to the world since she favored mankind with John Randolph, and always excused every vagary of his friend, by a dark and oracular allusion to the " tricities of genius." It was a rare frolic to Robert, this wheedling human nature, and enticing poor gullibility, to help Dash

eccen

wood up the ladder. He hadn't had any thing so rich since the old rebellion days at college. He flattered, and joked, and visited among the outsiders, and was seen gallanting some of the oddest dressed creatures to church-solely for Dashwood's sake, he said. He would take giggling country lasses on his arms, and supply the babies with gingerbread, and keep mammas posted up in the news, solely because some day Dashwood might need popularity. Of course, Robert upheld Louise in her preference for her brilliant and meteor-like lover; and he sustained her nobly, in trying times, when grandma and papa would call her to account for refusing Farren again and again. Grandma was really awed by Tom Farren. She never raised her eyes to him without thinking of three hundred negroes, five plantations, his uncle, Governor Farren, two dwelling houses, and perspective winters in Washington. Our dear mamma, though still and placid, and seldom obtruding her opinions before folks, had, nevertheless, a strong dash of romance in her composition, which all the Rushton practicability could not entirely eradicate. Papa had no more poetry in him than a vice; he had so ridiculed all such nonsense, so preached against novel reading, so railed against Byron, so laughed at Dickens, and so completely annihilated Thackeray, that mamma had to withdraw her opinions and retire within herself. She was forced to read her favorite authors in her own room, to weep over Effie Deans and Byron's sad effusions in secret. The timid woman took a mother's pride in seeing her own smouldering embers of poetry and sentiment burning defiantly and glowing intensely in the magnanimous Robert, and the tender Louise.

She nourished them with her treasured books, she imbued them with her poetry, she sketched for them the wonders of the realms of thought; she read to them of the inner life; she talked to them of cloudland and the yearnings of the heart; she held up before their eyes a beautiful world which they could make their own; she purified them from the dross, and bade them throw off the earthy particles with contempt; she aroused imagination, and beheld with delight the mighty giant rearing its magnificent head. She thought she was arming them for the battle of life; she thought there were moments of darkness and gloom for all, and that these treasures would lighten them; she thought, dear mother, of woman in her solitude, embalmed within her narrow, wearying sphere, of her long, dark, hopeless hours, of her isolation and loneliness, of the winter days and winter nights, after the gay

Scotchman who was present, was called upon for a Scotch song, and after explaining to the company when the chorus would begin, gave us "Auld lang syne!" In a few moments they had caught the air, and though there were only three or four in the room who could make any thing out of the words, carried it through with great spirit. It was amusing to observe Thorwaldsen. He was a passionate lover of music, giving himself up to it entirely, and so absorbed by any thing that pleased him, that, as he sat motionless and close to the instrument, with his eye riveted on the performer, and every now and then something floating over it, as if some new visions of beauty were just rising from out that sea of harmonies, you might almost have taken him for one of his own statues. But now the music was partly lost in the confusion, and the style of it was not of a kind to move him very powerfully, and all that he could do was to watch for the chorus, and then join in and play the boy with the rest of us, which he did with as good a grace and pleasant a smile as if it had been the most amusing thing in the world.

One of the pleasantest ways of meeting Thorwaldsen was at dinner. He was a hearty eater, and though moderate in his use of wine, knew how to season his meal with a cheerful glass, and grow all the more interesting for it. In winter he was too busy with great dinners and great folks, but in summer it was the greatest of treats to get him to come and dine with you when the day's work was over, and he could sit and draw out the evening-those delicious summer evenings of Rome-with music and talk. Just as the clock struck you would be sure to see him, the clay and dust carefully washed off, in his standing dress suit of black, and with the air of a man who is not afraid of fettering his spiritual wings, by letting dinner come in for its share as one of the pleasures of the day. Then, when the first dish was over, he was ready to talk; and nothing was easier than to bring him to the subjects you cared most to hear from his lips. There was nothing brilliant in his conversation. He gave his opinions simply and earnestly: told his anecdotes without any pretension: spoke readily and unaffectedly about himself: candidly of his cotemporaries: of the ancients with the firmness of a deep-set conviction; occasionally with somewhat of humor; and upon one or two subjects with an asperity which showed that, if occasion called for it, a vast deal of fire might be found under the calm and placid dignity of his general bearing.

On one of these occasions we happened

to be speaking of birth-places and ages. "Oh," said he, "when any body asks me when I was born, I always say in 1796." "Why so, Signor Commendatore ?" his usual title. "Because it was in 1796 that I came to Rome, and that is the true date of an artist's birth." "Bartolini, you know, does not accept that doctrine, and says, that if nature has marked you out for an artist, it makes no difference whether you were born in the midst of Florence, or in the midst of a forest." "Nonsense. Before I left Copenhagen, I had modelled a number of little things, as well as I knew how, with the little help that I could get there; but I had no idea of art." Suppose, however, you had staid there till now ?" "What should I have done? Made a few dry bas-reliefs and bad statues; been appointed president of the academy, and director, perhaps, of some museum, and never produced a single thing worth looking at."

66

We spoke of the ancients. "I don't know what it is," said he, "but there is something in the antique which no modern has ever equalled. Canova never did, and I never did. What it consists in I cannot tell; but I never look at an old statue without feeling it."

I had been to a studio with him a few days before, to see a new statue before it was cast. The hips were too large, and after the first glance, he stepped up to the stand, and drew the true outline upon the clay with his thumb. It was the work of an instant-a single glance-a rapid, firm movement of the hand, and there was a line which would have served as well as Apelles' own to tell who had been there. I reminded him of it, and asked him whether he had always had the same feeling for proportion. "No," said he, "it is all hard study. I have had to work for it; but now a fault of proportion grates upon me like a discord in music."

Some allusion was made to his early struggles. "It was all up hill," said he, a slight touch of irony mingling with his usually good-natured tone. "At first they would not allow that I could do any thing. Then they were for cutting me down to bas-reliefs-Thorwaldsen for bas-reliefs, and Canova for statues. And now, they allow, I believe, that I can make statues too." His rivalry with Canova had been long and bitter; and though the question itself had long been decided, the bitterness was not yet all gone. I had occasion to observe this in speaking of a torch-light visit to the Vatican. "Yes, that is one of Canova's ideas; but there is no light for a statue like pure daylight."