and I caught it by contagion. I didn't know | of grief and shame: 'Her beauty led him into what it meant, nor whither tending; but I was feeling and believing something great or terrible in advance, and was prepared for the fact or fancy, when it should come. "When we reached the spot I bade you notice, I was electrified to the right point, and she knew it. She stopped suddenly, and turned full upon me, looking, I confess, grandly, - -a little too grandly, to be sure, but still it overcame me. Besides, she had taken advantage of the ground, and so had me in all respects just right for her purposes. "Brother Ashleigh,' said she, with a measured earnestness that made my heart beat, 'you love Elizabeth. I know it; nor do I wonder that it is so. She is an angel of beauty and goodness. I know her, as her cousin, her playmate, her friend and sister. I know her, as a woman only can know another; and I declare to you that I never knew her equal in every excellence of heart and life. Her childhood was purer, I believe, than any other, and she has lived a sinless life, if ever human soul did. Oh! she has borne the selfishness, the very sins of others, like a saint; she has borne mine, till I feel humbled before her. And if she had but an equal intellect, an equal sharpness and strength of understanding for her own defence, she would be the very paragon of the world; and, alas! would be as happy now as she is good and beautiful.' "Here she stopped, and looked me so pityingly in the face that I held my breath with fear. She saw it; and, clasping her hands upon her bosom, she turned her face toward heaven, with all her passions working into prayer in it, till it grew grand, and almost beautiful. I see her face now; I could paint it at a dash, if I were a painter; Í could stick it in the mist here as plain and palpable as life. Wherever I look, I see it; it repeats itself, like masks in a fancy dance, wherever my eye turns. The pearly tear that glistens so gracefully in her eye was upon duty, looking like a great rain-drop upon a leaf, with the sun blazing on it,—all but the innocency. An impressive moment she stood, wrapt in a seeming agony of supplication; then her face came down again from its high pitch to the tone of pity. She hesitated;-admirably the hesitation was done; she trembled, -the saint sank in the woman; she bent her head upon my shoulders, and sobbed out till I shuddered. Then she roused herself, dashed the tears out of her eyes, and spoke quick, and almost passionately: "Brother Ashleigh, the Doctor urged this engagement: he used all his art of persuasion, all his power, upon your noble confidence; and he abused your trust. While he seemed only to answer your wishes, he in fact started them in your feelings. I know it must have been so, or you could not have been so horribly deceived." "Well?" said I, turning my horse square across the road, and clutching his by the mane, "Well?" "Well, then she dropped her head again, and seemed really convulsed with grief. Her tears rained upon my shoulder, and 'My poor, poor, ruined cousin! my good, angel cousin! my heart's sister!' seemed to wrench her very life out in the utterance. A moment's silence, a strong shudder, and it came. Turning quickly from me, she stood droopingly, while she said, in the deepest tones sin, and he must find some one to marry her, for he was himself engaged, and could not; and, with a bound, she dashed down the hillside, and was hid from me in the thicket." "Ashleigh!" "Doctor!" I believe I did up as much hard swearing as might serve a pirate for a voyage, in the next thirty seconds. I saw the wretch's picture now as plainly as Ashleigh did, awhile before, and there seemed to me but one word in English profane enough to name it by,-that word was Nancy. It was an oath to me for years after. When I looked round next my friend was just in sight. I waited for him, and, when he joined me, he was humming a hymn tune, long metre, very solemnly. "Have you any more refreshing entertainment for me, Mr. Ashleigh ?" said I; "there is a relish about that last tit-bit that gives me an appetite. Why, what a gem of a gipsy we have among us! That girl ought not to be thrown away upon trifles; she is fit to plot for a kingdom. Among the fools and scoundrels of the great world, she would make a figure. But, tell me what you thought, and said, and did about it. Your first thought, first,-I'm curious." "My thoughts! I believe I did no thinking of any kind for an hour. My soul stood still, like a frozen cataract. I passed the night in a very quiet sort of stupor. The mere mechanism of the mind carries on one's life pretty well, you know; and, in the morning, I simply told Elizabeth that Nancy must not be invited to our wedding. That was all. And I never said a word about it to her till last week, when she urged me for my reason for the request." "And what did Elizabeth say, Ashleigh, after you told her?" "She held her breath till my story was finished, and sat astonished and speechless till I left her to recover herself. An hour after she came to me, and said: "George, I have poured out my thanks to Heaven, and I come to bless you, that you did not in any manner mention this to me before our marriage; for I never could have fulfilled my engagement with you, with that horrible pit opened up between us. Again the promise is fulfilled to me, Upon all thy glory there shall be a defence.'" The solution is easy. Nancy had wakened up with a surprise, to find the Reverend Mr. Ashleigh, a splendid preacher, a gentleman of rank and fortune, in love with her poor cousin! poor, in a sense, to Nancy, that took all the pity out of it; a spiritless, meek beauty, unconscious of her availabilities in the market, and stupidly devoted to silence, sacrifice, and duty. To be undermined, and, in some sense, defrauded, by so simple a sheep of the flock, was almost incredi ble, but it was not the less certain. And counting upon Mr. Ashleigh's softness, by the same rule which had already misjudged Elizabeth, ber plot was adjusted, with great skill to the case, and as well executed. But, the devil would be only a fool in heaven, and would fail to make the angels misunderstand each other, whatever other success his villanies might meet with; for the faith of a pure heart "tries the spirits," and discerns vital truth by its own instincts. PRAYER OF THE LILY. BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. UNRESTING Spirits, who aspire to climb,Not heaven's green slopes, amid sweet flowers and grass, And the clear streams, which, as they pass With flickering feet, to angel harps keep time,But through the unsocial rime Of frigid Pride, and utter Self's desire, Of world-renown; and ye, to whom the flare To the sweet asking of the vale's sweet Lily, Ye may not grudge one glittering curse the less, So to have learned the lore of heart's contented ness. Cradled in Summer's lap the suppliant grew, Drew the dark wealth in mellow earth that lingers, Pale with exceeding bliss, and fragrant with con tent. Four silver bells, as for some fairy temple, If it were sound, or odour,-feeling naught "Give me not much," she said, "Divine light-bearer, to whose glorious tread, Heaven's sapphire blazes, and earth's emerald laughs! From the gold edges of thy brimming cup, Whose overflowing each young budling quaffs, Pour down a little drop, Enough for me,—or, as it bubbles up, And fill my little thirst from thy large omnipre sence. But yesternoon, with double draughts o'erflooded "Beautiful Being, who distill'st the rain In thy veiled chambers, when the day, too warm, Oppresses earth, yet hidest thy fair form Save when thy hand unfurls the amethyst And gold tents of the morning; when awhile Oh, divine bearer of a cup divine, Or my drenched lips will shrivel, even with such. Filled to their need, my tiny pulses play, And waft fine odours to the heart of day, Till I am drunken, in a tropic ring As o'er the maid, whose loving shields me here, Of dizzying sweets, which round my breast I fling, Virtue, and Love's serenest thought, Out of her heart of hearts have wrought A holy light, a guardian atmosphere,― So blessed dew, and sweet sunshine, Have woven from this core of mine, A woof of odours for their warp divineA veil of loveliness my sure defence, More strong than burry hate, or stinging insolence. But when my heart, created For growing want, is sated,With sluggish throbs, the inactive blood Taints at the core of being, and a cold Corruption wastes me, every leaf and bud, Scentless, and shrunk, and prematurely old, I mourn the crushing bounty, and again Pray for the blessed need, which blesses thy cool rain. Dearer, with hunger, is the daily store Which falls like manna for our daily need, Than hoarding Wealth, whose burden more and more Blunts the keen sense, its scattered sweets should feed. God gives his loved ones, little gifts for aye, With an undying want, to make them sweet; If I should crowd my waxen blooms to-day, A swifter waste would trample them to clay, And give new Spring their fruitage incomplete. One silvern dew-drop, and one golden ray, One span of earth to bear my clinging feet, Make my whole life a luxury and bliss, My honied heart a veiled retreat For happy bees, a boon for loving eyes,A joy to faint-winged Zephyr as she flies With love-low breath, to meet my good-night kiss. And a clear well of odorous thought to her- And ruddy sunshine, press me not again With too much good, which maketh good in vain; A little cup my little thirst will slake. Heaven o'er me to a threefold sky, And the deep joy that blithesome heart can take In my small being,-God, who lovest such, I saw the Lily and her guardian maid, With fingers like those veinéd shells Of sun-imprisoning pearl, In which the amorous light hath kissed the living white Till it blushed faintly,-touch the silver bells, And breathe her dancing bliss in low-toned syllables; But yet I know not, if at any time It was her voice-with never a certain word, Yet musical as a brook,-made that sweet chime, Or if it were the silver bells, I heard; I only know the burden of that prayer, In rhythmic numbers through my spirit ran; And as the Lily perfumed all the air It could encompass in its odorous span, So filled my soul, that supplication lowly, Making, high over all, life's little blessings holy. HANS HEMLING, THE PAINTER OF BRUGES. AN ART-LEGEND OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. BY CHARLES G. LELAND. "We stood upon a lofty place, And gazed out on the plain; Ir was on the 16th of September, A. D. 1478, that the porter of the Hospital of St. John, in Bruges, admitted to the cares of its attendant nuns a poor soldier, bleeding from severe wounds, and exhausted with fatigue and exposure. But, despite his bare feet and tattered garments, there was somewhat in his appearance which betokened gentle birth, so that even the rude assistants who bore him to a couch, did so with a tenderness seldom shown to patients of such low degree. "A shrewd cut, this on thy head, my worthy fellow!" remarked Brother Jerome, the head friar-physician, while occupied in examining the soldier's wounds. "That gash, I trow, was never made with a riding-switch. And now I must pain thee a little longer with my needle. Canst thou endure it?" "ALS IKH KAN," replied the soldier, halfvacantly. And staring upward, he again repeated the Flemish words, "ALS IKH KAN,—-als ikh kan!" "Als ikh kan!" chimed in Frater Jerome, addressing himself this time to Sister Bertha, the youngest and loveliest of the nun-nurses; "ah! that is a sentence which I never hear without a sigh. It is the noble motto of the great and glorious artist JOHANNES VAN EYCK, who hath, of late years, brought into these our Low Countries the art of painting curiously in oil. And I sigh, my daughter, to think that, despite our most earnest effort, the Hospital of St. John as yet contains none of his pictures. Did not the worthy Heer Ward-Master, himself, offer to sell his gold chain and seal, to secure even the unfinished triptych of Our Lady, now in the Church of St. Martinus van Ypern? And even the chapel of The White Lady of Antwerp hath its picture by Van Eyck, while we of the first Hospital can show nought, save a barbarous Greek Christ, and HAUFF. two beggarly saints by Meijster Hugo van der Goes! Well! well! 'fortune, like marrying. cometh by tarrying.'" Sister Bertha paid, however, but little attention to the regrets of the worthy Frater. Her attention was too deeply absorbed by the features of the apparently half-insensible soldier. That face (reader, you may see its likeness to this day, in the same room where the poor patient then lay) was one of that rare description which indicated great firmness of character, combined with gentleness of heart. The embrowned cheeks and sternly-compressed lips spoke of weary wanderings in warmer climes,-of strife and toil. But the deep, quiet intellect of the brow, with the soft and almost childlike gleam of the eye, denoted a soul which no sorrow or suffering could change. Insensible as the soldier seemed, he had well marked the words of the Frater, and the great beauty of Sister Bertha. But the recollection of both was soon lost in the delirium which sneceeded, during which he was gently and softly tended by her. Soon he raved, at times in Flemish, at times in other tongues,-of strange adventures in many lands; of the broad whitefoaming sea, with its ships, which swept by like spirits at nightfall over the haunted plain; of the storming and sacking of lordly cities in Italy. of the screams of maidens, the burning of churches, and of the red gold which rolled over the chequered pavement, and slipped away from his grasp into pools of blood; of silent study, in cloisters far away; of drinking, and revelry, and dice; of the tinkling of mandolines, and the warm kisses of beautiful black-eyed women; of g's rious paintings with gilded grounds; of malachite I'll do my best,-comme je puis. vases, ivory crucifixes, and marble palaces, on whose every flight of broad stairs stood the cold white immortals; of orange-groves, and white towers reflected in the blue sea from cliffs whose base was red with coral. And at times he would burst forth into sinful songs, and wild peals of laughter. Yet, all unmoved, the sweet nun sat by him, moistening his brow with water, and giving utterance to deep and earnest prayers for the health of body and soul. When his speech became wild and wicked, she would lay her small white palm against his mouth, and say, "Peace, poor child, peace!" Then his voice would sink to a low murmur, like the distant hum heard afar in the forest when the stormwind has passed by, and, with tears, he would half-unconsciously join in her prayer to God. With the following morning, the effects of the fever had well-nigh passed away. And every succeeding day, to use a Flemish expression, "added fresh grapes to the vintage of his health." He was the favourite of all who knew him, though he very seldom spoke-he was so quiet, gentle, and uncomplaining. But for hours together he would fix an earnest gaze upon the beautiful eyes of Sister Bertha, whose favourite spot for needlework or prayer, when not otherwise engaged, was near his couch. To her quick woman's eye, it was evident that a great change was coming over the spirit of her patient. Her silent beauty had indeed touched his soul, and deep regrets for his stormy, sinful life, were daily mingled with the aspirations of a love, deeper and holier than any which he had before experienced." But with his gradually-restored health, it appeared that a time was not far distant, when he would be compelled to quit this haven of rest. More than one broad hint had been dropped by the Ward-Master, and unwillingly repeated even by Friar Jerome, that there were other sick in the world, and that his couch was wanted. More than once had an assistant inquired as to his future road, and begged to know if the "wanderpenny," or gratuity usually bestowed on those leaving the hospital, should be taken out for him. Until at last, one morning, summoning the WardMaster, he said gravely and earnestly "Heer Ward-Meijster, it little beseemeth me, who have here experienced at your hands kinder and gentler treatment than any I have ever before in my life known, to crave longer lodgment than is my due. It were a sin if the good Hospital of St. John de Bruges, which is famed for kindness and charity not only throughout the Low Countries and Germany, but even unto Italy and the Indies, should suffer by malapert indolence. You wish me forth-but I will not go until you are richly rewarded for your kindness. If this, my couch, be needed, give me, I pray, another room, where I may be alone and unheeded, save with some slight attendance, and if, in one month's time, every soul in this Hospital, with yourself at the head, do not beseech me to remain, I give ye leave to drive me forth like a thieving knave, with hounds and whips." To this modest proposition, the Heer WardMaster willingly assented, and that very day the convalescent was removed to a distant chamber, where he dwelt in strict privacy. Only the beautiful Bertha, his kind nurse, approached him, or seemed acquainted with the nature of the pursuit in which he was so mysteriously engaged. By her "He is perchance an artist," replied Brother Jerome. "It remembereth me that his first word in the Hospital was the motto of the excellent Johannes van Eyck. But nay-what artist ever dragged himself, like a vagabond soldier, to these gates?" "Ah!" replied the worthy Ward-Master, "Heaven grant that he be an artist, even as thou sayest. Ah, Brother Jerome, the name of Van Eyck is a sore, sore theme to me!" The Master was here interrupted by the beautiful Bertha, who bore a message from the soldier. "He desires," said she, "that on the morrow you, Heer Ward-Meijster, assemble the chief dignitaries of Bruges, and repair to the room where he now dwells." "A pretty business indeed!" replied the Master. "What! assemble his Highness the Lord Governor, with my worshipful- -Go to!" 66 Nay, but Father," replied the maiden, "it must be even as he saith. For I have seen that which he proposeth to set before you, and it were not fit that lesser eyes should be the first to gaze thereon!" Then it shall be so," replied the Master, for thou art a wise and discreet maiden, and speakest well. Therefore, Brother Jerome, bid the messenger, Lodewyk, summon them, even as Sister Bertha directs." "Gentle sirs," said the Ward-Master, on the following morning, when the chief noblemen and burghers of Bruges had assembled "if that which ye are to behold should prove a vain thing, I pray ye blame me not. On the word of a Sister-albeit a maiden of discretion-have I called ye hither. Let us now judge of her wisdom!" With these words he opened the door of the chamber wherein the soldier lodged. As they entered, a simultaneous cry of admiration burst from the lips of all present. Upon a high easel was placed a painting, the like of which no man there present had ever seen before, though there were those among them who had studied Art in distant lands. It was an altar-piece, in three divisions, the principal representing the marriage of St. Katherine with our Lord. In the centre was a Virgin, of wondrous beauty, seated beneath a flowing curtain, while over her floated two lovely angels, bearing a crown. To the right knelt St. Katherine before the infant Saviour, who placed upon her finger the betrothal ring, and behind her an angel more beautiful than the light, playing upon an organ, and near him, John the Baptist leading a lamb. Both the wings were filled in with scriptural figures-"the whole forming a work deeply inspired with sweet, mysterious, soul-refining poesy, and finished as to every mechanical detail, in the highest style of Art which the world had then beheld." "But where," inquired the Burg-grave Vander Kugler, Hist. of Painting, Vol. II. p. 66. Schilde, "where is the artist, who has thus com- | my youth! thou didst guide me in my travels and bined, in one work, all the excellence of the Italian, the German, and Flemish schools of this age? Where is he, who, by a single effort, surpasses all that even Johannes van Eyck, our Lord of Art, hath ever done ?" "Behold him!" said Brother Jerome, leading forth the soldier, who, advancing to the WardMeijster, exclaimed, "Art thou now satisfied, good sir, for the soldier's lodgment?" "Oh, my friend-my heart's friend!" replied the Master, his eyes dimmed with tears of joy, "be only our guest for ever. No noble shall be so cared for as thou. But oh!-who art thou?" At this question, the artist pointed to the edge of the frame, on which was seen the following inscription: OPVS.IOHANNIS. HEMLING DIT WERCK DEDE MAKEN IAN HEMELING IN BRVGGHE ANNO MCCCCLXXIX (The work of John Hemling. This work did make John Hemling, of the Hospital of St. John, in Bruges, in the year 1479.) "John Hemling!-Hans Hemling!" exclaimed the Burg-grave with astonishment. "Why, art thou not he who, three years since, under the name of Giovanni il Fiamingo, didst dispute so learnedly at the Universities of Padua, Cracow, and Heidelberg?" Nay," replied the Count Adolijn, "art thou not, rather, he who, as Jean le Flamand, didst so gallantly discomfit, at Calais, in fair duel, the roystering English blade, Harry Goreham, and then escape albeit from the very midst of King Edward's army?" "I have seen thee in Venice," added a graybearded Council-man,-" and in those days thou wert the featliest gallant that ever wore Genoa velvet, or trod corantos with the blonde Sioras of the Lagunas!" "Noble Sirs," replied Hemling, "it matters little what I have been, since I now, thanks to St. John, am that no longer. Art and Religion shall henceforward alone claim me. Of you, worthy Ward-Master, I crave only permission to tarry here awhile longer, that I may honour yet more, with my poor skill, the kind Hospital of Saint John, where I have so greatly benefitted both my body and soul!" And the artist remained-remained to paint those religious pictures which have inspired with the gentlest, yet most genial emotions, even the coldest French critics of this century. Pictures, which drew from Arséne Houssaye the confession, that "Correggio, though elevated above Hemling in grace of form, was infinitely beneath him in expression, and that compared with him as a master of religious art, Raphael was a mere heathen, who beheld only a Fornarina beyond the grave;" and even the stern and accurate Fortoul declares, that if ever painter merited the honour of being considered as a privileged interpreter of Christianity, this was the man; and, inspired with the subject, exclaims, "Pious master! by exciting in the depths of my heart that secret sadness which comes to us from God, and reealls us to him, thou wert the first to make me feel and comprehend Art! Melancholy star of studies! For it is first necessary to experience grief and suffering, and then resign ourselves to repose, to be able to conform ourselves to that ideal, which thou hast realized in thy calm and gentle saints, oh succouring friend, whom I have made mine for time and for eternity!" But though the artist painted on, for many months, in silence and prayer, his mind still hovered about this world. In all of his paintings, there is one face of almost unearthly beauty, yet calm and gentle as the evening breeze. That face is Bertha's-his consoler-his angel-his love! And in nearly every painting he was wont to repeat his own portrait, attired, not in the dark gown which he now wore, but in the long gaberdine and crimson velvet bonnet of the Fiorentines, which indicated clearly to the good Ward-Master, that his heart yearned again for the bright skies and happy scenes of Tuscany. Not long after this, it became known throughout the hospital and town, that Sister Bertha bad. by especial permission, been secularized, and returned to the world. And but a little time elapsed ere Hemling also quietly disappeared, leaving as a last gift, his greatest and most glorious work-a work for which kings have since offered their gold in vain-the Shrine of St. Ursula. And whither did he flee, and who was the companion of his journey? Never again on earth did man hear of Hemling, the soldier-artist of Bruges, or Bertha, the nun, save that in after years there appeared in Spain, in company with a wife of wondrous beauty, a great artist, known as JUAN FLAMENCO, or John the Fleming, whose paintings were inspired with that strange, unearthly loveliness, and were limned in the same sad, gentle spirit, which we find in the works of Hemling. Nor have those been wanting, even in the present century, who, inspired by the saintlike veneration in which his name is even yet held at the Hospital, have more than intimated that an unearthly mystery hung over the artist Of late years the initiated, in the school of Overbeck at Rome, speak admiringly of a stranger who sojourned but a few days among them, and astonished all by his miraculous familiarity with the art and artists of the olden time." And it also appears from more than one ancient chroni cle, that sixty years before his appearance in Bruges, a skilful painter bearing the same name and lineaments, had been employed as architect by the Cathedral of Bremen. But these ques tions I leave to the seekers into the marvels of antiquity. For the true enthusiast in Art, the true poet, or the true Christian, who, unheexing of name or sect, breathes forth a heartfelt prayer each night to God, that his spirit of gentleness, of love, of beauty and grace, may be poured forth over all men, and in every clime; no other in cation of the supernatural need be given, save that which beams from his every work, and inspires with a life of purity and holiness theat every feature. *This mysterious stranger of 1844. was supposed to be an Englishman or Swede. There is indeed a second cu rious mystery relative to Hemling remaining to be solved Consult the German Chronicles" of MENCKENTUS, từ 2 3 p. 806. "Quo tempore (A. D. 1520), D. Johannes H lingus architectus capituli Bremensis, in medio choro ee clesiæ cathedralis tumbam, in qua sex reverendiss, a> rum archiepiscopum ossa et cineres conditi erant, levava et innovavit." |