Not Great, But Happy
How pure and sweet is the love of young hearts! How little does itcontain of earth--how much of heaven! No selfish passions mar itsbeauty. Its tenderness, its pathos, its devotion, who does notremember, even when the sere leaves of autumn are rustling beneathhis feet? How little does it regard the cold and calculatingobjections of worldly-mindedness. They are heard but as a passingmurmur. The deep, unswerving confidence of young love, what ablessed thing it is! Heart answers to heart without an unequalthrob. The world around is bright and beautiful: the atmosphere isfilled with spring's most delicious perfumes.From this dream--why should we call it a dream?--Is it not a blessedreality?--Is not young, fervent love, true love? Alas! this is anevil world, and man's heart is evil. From this dream there is toooften a tearful awaking. Often, too often, hearts are suddenly tornasunder, and wounds are made that never heal, or, healing, leavehard, disfiguring scars. But this is not always so. Pure lovesometimes finds its own sweet reward. I will relate one preciousinstance.The Baron Holbein, after having passed ten years of active life in alarge metropolitan city of Europe, retired to his estate in abeautiful and fertile valley, far away from the gay circle offashion--far away from the sounds of political rancor with which hehad been too long familiar--far away from the strife of selfish menand contending interests. He had an only child, Nina, just fifteenyears of age. For her sake, as well as to indulge his love of quietand nature, he had retired from the world. Her mother had been withthe angels for some years. Without her wise counsels and watchfulcare, the father feared to leave his innocent-minded child exposedto the temptations that must gather around her in a large city.For a time Nina missed her young companions, and pined to be withthem. The old castle was lonely, and the villagers did not interesther. Her father urged her to go among the peasantry, and, as aninducement, placed a considerable sum of money at her command, to beused as she might see best in works of benevolence. Nina's heart waswarm, and her impulses generous. The idea pleased her, and she actedupon it. She soon found employment enough both for her time and themoney placed at her disposal. Among the villagers was a woman namedBlanche Delebarre, a widow, whose only son had been from home sincehis tenth year, under the care of an uncle, who had offered toeducate him, and fit him for a life of higher usefulness than thatof a mere peasant. There was a gentleness about this woman, andsomething that marked her as superior to her class. Yet she was anhumble villager, dependent upon the labor of her own hands, andclaimed no higher station.Nina became acquainted with Blanche soon after the commencement ofher residence at the castle. When she communicated to her the wishesof her father, and mentioned the money that had been placed at herdisposal, the woman took her hand and said, while a beautiful lightbeamed from her countenance--"It is more blessed to give than to receive, my child. Happy arethey who have the power to confer benefits, and who do so withwilling hearts. I fear, however, that you will find your task adifficult one. Everywhere are the idle and undeserving, and theseare more apt to force themselves forward as objects of benevolencethan the truly needy and meritorious. As I know every one in thevillage, perhaps I may be able to guide you to such objects asdeserve attention.""My good mother," replied Nina, "I will confide in your judgment. Iwill make you my almoner.""No, my dear young lady, it will be better for you to dispense withyour own hands. I will merely aid you to make a wise dispensation.""I am ready to begin. Show me but the way.""Do you see that company of children on the green?" said Blanche."Yes. And a wild company they are.""For hours each day they assemble as you see them, and spend theirtime in idle sports. Sometimes they disagree and quarrel. That isworse than idleness. Now, come here. Do you see that little cottageyonder on the hill-side, with vines clustering around the door?""Yes.""An aged mother and her daughter reside there. The labor of thedaughter's hands provides food and raiment for both. These childrenneed instruction, and Jennet Fleury is fully qualified to impart it.Their parents cannot, or will not, pay to send them to school, andJennet must receive some return for her labors, whatever they be.""I see it all," cried Nina with animation. "There must be a schoolin the village. Jennet shall be the teacher.""If this can be done, it will be a great blessing," said Blanche."It shall be done. Let us go over to that sweet little cottage atonce and see Jennet."The good Blanche Delebarre made no objection. In a little while theyentered the cottage. Every thing was homely, but neat and clean.Jennet was busy at her reel when they entered. She knew the lady ofCastle Holbein, and arose up quickly and in some confusion. But shesoon recovered herself, and welcomed, with a low courtesy, thevisitors who had come to grace her humble abode. When the object ofthis visit was made known, Jennet replied that the condition of thevillage children had often pained her, and that she had more thanonce prayed that some way would open by which they could receiveinstruction. She readily accepted the proposal of Nina to becometheir teacher, and wished to receive no more for the service thanwhat she could now earn by reeling silk.It did not take long to get the proposed school in operation. Theparents were willing to send their children, the teacher was willingto receive them, and the young lady patroness was willing to meetthe expenses.Nina said nothing to her father of what she was doing. She wished tosurprise him some day, after every thing was going on prosperously.But a matter of so much interest to the neighborhood could notremain a secret. The school had not been in operation two daysbefore the baron heard all about it. But he said nothing to hisdaughter. He wished to leave her the pleasure which he knew shedesired, that of telling him herself.At the end of a month Nina presented her father with an account ofwhat she had done with the money he had placed in her hands. Theexpenditure had been moderate enough, but the good done was farbeyond the baron's anticipations. Thirty children were receivingdaily instructions; nurses had been employed, and medicines boughtfor the sick; needy persons, who had no employment, were set to workin making up clothing for children, who, for want of such as wassuitable, could not attend the school. Besides, many other thingshad been done. The account was looked over by the Baron Holbein, andeach item noted with sincere pleasure. He warmly commended Nina forwhat she had done; he praised the prudence with which she hadmanaged what she had undertaken; and begged her to persevere in thegood work.For the space of more than a year did Nina submit to her father, forapproval, every month an accurate statement of what she had done,with a minute account of all the moneys expended. But after thattime she failed to render this account, although she received theusual supply, and was as actively engaged as before in works ofbenevolence among the poor peasantry. The father often wondered atthis, but did not inquire the cause. He had never asked an account:to render it had been a voluntary act, and he could not, therefore,ask why it was withheld. He noticed, however, a change in Nina. Shewas more thoughtful, and conversed less openly than before. If helooked at her intently, her eyes would sink to the floor, and thecolor deepen on her cheek. She remained longer in her own room,alone, than she had done since their removal to the castle. Everyday she went out, and almost always took the direction of BlancheDelebarre's cottage, where she spent several hours.Intelligence of his daughter's good deeds did not, so often asbefore, reach the old baron's ears; and yet Nina drew as much moneyas before, and had twice asked to have the sum doubled. The fathercould not understand the meaning of all this. He did not believethat any thing was wrong--he had too much confidence in Nina--but hewas puzzled. We will briefly apprise the reader of the cause of thischange.One day--it was nearly a year from the time Nina had become aconstant visitor at Blanche Delebarre's--the young lady sat readinga book in the matron's cottage. She was alone--Blanche having goneout to visit a sick neighbor at Nina's request. A form suddenlydarkened the door, and some one entered hurriedly. Nina raised hereyes, and met the gaze of a youthful strange, who had paused andstood looking at her with surprise and admiration. With moreconfusion, but with not less of wonder and admiration, did Ninareturn the stranger's gaze."Is not this the cottage of Blanche Delebarre?" asked he, after amoment's pause. His voice was low and musical."It is," replied Nina. "She has gone to visit a sick neighbor, butwill return shortly.""Is my mother well?" asked the youth.Nina rose to her feet. This, then, was Pierre Delebarre, of whom hismother had so often spoke. The heart of the maiden fluttered."The good Blanche is well," was her simple reply. "I will go and sayto her that her son has come home. It will make her heart glad.""My dear young lady, no!" said Pierre. "Do not disturb my mother inher good work. Let her come home and meet me here--the surprise willadd to the pleasure. Sit down again. Pardon my rudeness--but are notyou the young lady from the castle, of whom my mother so oftenwrites to me as the good angel of the village? I am sure you mustbe, or you would not be alone in my mother's cottage."Nina's blushes deepened, but she answered without disguise that shewas from the castle.A full half hour passed before Blanche returned. The young andartless couple did not talk of love with their lips during thattime, but their eyes beamed with a mutual passion. When the motherentered, so much were they interested in each other, that they didnot hear her approaching footstep. She surprised them leaning towardeach other in earnest conversation.The joy of the mother's heart was great on meeting her son. He waswonderfully improved since she last saw him--had grown severalinches, and had about him the air of one born of gentle blood,rather than the air of a peasant. Nina staid only a very short timeafter Blanche returned, and then hurried away from the cottage.The brief interview held with young Pierre sealed the maiden's fate.She knew nothing of love before the beautiful youth stood beforeher--her heart was as pure as an infant's--she was artlessnessitself. She had heard him so often spoken of by his mother, that shehad learned to think of Pierre as the kindest and best of youths.She saw him, for the first time, as one to love. His face, histones, the air of refinement and intelligence that was about him,all conspired to win her young affections. But of the true nature ofher feelings, Nina was as yet ignorant. She did not think of love.She did not, therefore, hesitate as to the propriety of continuingher visits at the cottage of Blanche Delebarre, nor did she feel anyreserve in the presence of Pierre. Not until the enamored youthpresumed to whisper the passion her presence had awakened in hisbosom, did she fully understand the cause of the delight she alwaysfelt while by his side.After Pierre had been home a few weeks, he ventured to explain tohis mother the cause of his unexpected and unannounced return. Hehad disagreed with his uucle, who, in a passion, had reminded himof his dependence. This the high-spirited youth could not bear,and he left his uncle's house within twenty-four hours, with a fixedresolution never to return. He had come back to the village, resolved,he said, to lead a peasant's life of toil, rather than live with a relativewho could so far forget himself as to remind him of his dependence.Poor Blanche was deeply grieved. All her fond hopes for her son wereat an end. She looked at his small, delicate hands and slender pro-portions, and wept when she thought of a peasant's life of hardlabor.A very long time did not pass before Nina made a proposition toBlanche, that relieved, in some measure, the painful depressionunder which she labored. It was this. Pierre had, from a child,exhibited a decided talent for painting. This talent had beencultivated by the uncle, and Pierre was, already, quite arespectable artist. But he needed at least a year's study of the oldmasters, and more accurate instruction than he had yet received,before he would be able to adopt the painter's calling as one bywhich he could take an independent position in society as a man.Understanding this fully, Nina said that Pierre must go to Florence,and remain there a year, in order to perfect himself in the art, andthat she would claim the privilege of bearing all the expense. For atime, the young man's proud spirit shrunk from an acceptance of thisgenerous offer; but Nina and the mother overruled all hisobjections, and almost forced him to go.It may readily be understood, now, why Nina ceased to renderaccurate accounts of her charitable expenditures to her father. Thebaron entertained not the slightest suspicion of the real state ofaffairs, until about a year afterward, when a fine looking youthpresented himself one day, and boldly preferred a claim to hisdaughter's hand. The old man was astounded."Who, pray, are you," he said, "that presume to make such a demand?""I am the son of a peasant," replied Pierre, bowing, and casting hiseyes to the ground, "and you may think it presumption, indeed, forme to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter. But a peasant'slove is as pure as the love of a prince; and a peasant's heart maybeat with as high emotions.""Young man," returned the baron, angrily, "your assurance deservespunishment. But go--never dare cross my threshold again! You ask animpossibility. When my daughter weds, she will not think of stoopingto a presumptuous peasant. Go, sir!"Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion. He had been weak enoughto hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, andgive him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter'shand. But this repulse dashed every hope the earth.As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servantfor Nina. She was not in her chamber--nor in the house. It wasnearly two hours before she came home. When she entered the presenceof her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not rightwith her."Who was the youth that came here some hours ago?" he asked,abruptly.Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer."Did you know that he was coming?" said the father.The maiden's eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remainedsealed."A base-born peasant! to dare--""Oh, father! he is not base! His heart is noble," replied Nina,speaking from a sudden impulse."He confessed himself the son of a peasant! Who is he?""He is the son of Blanche Delebarre," returned Nina, timidly. "Hehas just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit. There isnothing base about him, father!""The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach me and claimthe hand of my child! And worse, that child to so far forget herbirth and position as to favor the suit! Madness! And this is yourgood Blanche!--your guide in all works of benevolence! She shall bepunished for this base betrayal of the confidence I have reposed inher."Nina fell upon her knees before her father, and with tears andearnest entreaties pleaded for the mother of Pierre; but the old manwas wild and mad with anger. He uttered passionate maledictions onthe head of Blanche and her presumptuous son, and positively forbadeNina again leaving the castle on any pretext whatever, under thepenalty of never being permitted to return.Had so broad an interdiction not been made, there would have beensome glimmer of light in Nina's dark horizon; she would have hopedfor some change--would have, at least, been blessed with short, evenif stolen, interviews with Pierre. But not to leave the castle onany pretext--not to see Pierre again! This was robbing life of everycharm. For more than a year she had loved the young man with anaffection to which every day added tenderness and fervor. Could thisbe blotted out in an instant by a word of command? No! That lovemust burn on the same.The Baron Holbein loved his daughter; she was the bright spot inlife. To make her happy, he would sacrifice almost anything. Aresidence of many years in the world had shown him its pretensions,its heartlessness, the worth of all its titles and distinctions. Hedid not value them too highly. But, when a peasant approached andasked the hand of his daughter, the old man's pride, that wassmouldering in the ashes, burned up with a sudden blaze. He couldhardly find words to express his indignation. It took but a few daysfor this indignation to burn low. Not that he felt more favorable tothe peasant--but, less angry with his daughter. It is not certainthat time would not have done something favorable for the lovers inthe baron's mind. But they could not wait for time. Nina, from theviolence and decision displayed by her father, felt hopeless of anychange, and sought an early opportunity to steal away from thecastle and meet Pierre, notwithstanding the positive commands thathad been issued on the subject. The young man, in the thoughtlessenthusiasm of youth, urged their flight."I am master of my art," he said, with a proud air. "We can live inFlorence, where I have many friends."The youth did not find it hard to bring the confiding, artless girlinto his wishes. In less than a month the baron missed his child. Aletter explained all. She had been wedded to the young peasant, andthey had left for Florence. The letter contained this clause, signedby both Pierre and Nina:--"When our father will forgive us, and permit our return, we shall betruly happy--but not till then."The indignant old man saw nothing but impertinent assurance in this.He tore up the letter, and trampled it under his feet, in a rage. Heswore to renounce his child forever!For the Baron Holbein, the next twelve months were the saddest ofhis life. Too deeply was the image of his child impressed upon hisheart, for passion to efface it. As the first ebullitions subsided,and the atmosphere of his mind grew clear again, the sweet face ofhis child was before him, and her tender eyes looking into his own.As the months passed away, he grew more and more restless andunhappy. There was an aching void in bosom. Night after night hewould dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that thedream was not reality. But pride was strong--he would notcountenance her disobedience.More than a year had passed away, and not one word had come from hisabsent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day. Once or twice hehad seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a youngartist residing Florence, who was destined, to become eminent. Thepleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he wouldconfess, even to himself.One day he was sitting in his library endeavoring to banish theimages that haunted him too continually, when two of his servantsentered, bearing a large square box in their arms, marked for theBaron Holbein. When the box was opened, it was found to contain alarge picture, enveloped in a cloth. This was removed and placedagainst the wall, and the servants retired with the box. The baron,with unsteady hands, and a heart beating rapidly, commenced removingthe cloth that still held the picture from view. In a few moments afamily group was before him. There sat Nina, his lovely, loving andbeloved child, as perfect, almost, as if the blood were glowing inher veins. Her eyes were bent fondly upon a sleeping cherub that layin her arms. By her side sat Pierre, gazing upon her face in silentjoy. For only a single instant did the old man gaze upon this scene,before the tears were gushing over his cheeks and falling to thefloor like rain. This wild storm of feeling soon subsided, and, inthe sweet calm that followed, the father gazed with unspeakabletenderness for a long time upon the face of his lovely child, andwith a new and sweeter feeling upon the babe that lay, theimpersonation of innocence, in her arms. While in this state ofmind, he saw, for the first time, written on the bottom of thepicture--"NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY."A week from the day on which the picture was received, the BaronHolbein entered Florence. On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, hefound that every one knew the young artist."Come," said one, "let me go with you to the exhibition, and showyou his picture that has taken the prize. It is a noble production.All Florence is alive with its praise."The baron went to the exhibition. The first picture that met hiseyes on entering the door was a counterpart of the one he hadreceived, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it wasarranged, looked even more like life."Isn't it a grand production?" said the baron's conductor."My sweet, sweet child!" murmured the old man, in a low thrillingvoice. Then turning, he said, abruptly--"Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre.""With pleasure. His house is near at hand," said his companion.A few minutes walk brought them to the artist's dwelling."That is an humble roof," said the man, pointing to where Pierrelived, "but it contains a noble man." He turned away, and the baronentered alone. He did not pause to summon any one, but walked inthrough the open door. All was silent. Through a neat vestibule, inwhich were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed intoa small apartment, and through that to the door of an inner chamberIt was half open. He looked in. Was it another picture? No, it wasin very truth his child; and her babe lay in her arms, as he hadjust seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in herface. He could restrain himself no longer. Opening the door, hestepped hurriedly forward, and, throwing his arms around the group,said in broken voice--"God bless you, my children!"The tears that were shed; the smiles that beamed from glad faces;the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again; whyneed we tell of all these? Or why relate how happy the old man waswhen the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mateby her side The dark year had passed, and there was sunshine againin his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before. Pierre never paintedso good a picture again as the one that took the prize--that was hismasterpiece.The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is amunificient patron of the arts. There is one composition on hiswalls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could notpurchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but ababe and lay in his mother's arms. The mother who held him sotenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure youngbrow have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feelstheir gentle presence ever about him for good.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
