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You made my life a burden-you took away al should be over. So she waited four days from me all that I cared for in this world, but longer, and then, when all reason for delay was I pity you in this hour when your sin has found at an end, she took the packet from her desk, you out, and I forgive you. I will pray for you and was going to dispatch it to Nelson Guthrie. to the God whose love is infinite-whose com- As she stood with it in her hand a doubt sugpassion is boundless. Your soul is not lost. gested itself for the first time. Should she send You shall not die without hope."

it? Had she a right to clear herself in his eyes “You forgive me? You are sure ? You at the risk of recalling so many old memories ? can ask mercy for me of God? He will hear He had loved her once well and truly. Should your prayer-yours, whom I have injured. I she revive the spell, if that were possible-make will hope-O God, is it not too late ?"

him discontented with the present~stir his heart “The promise fails not, even at the eleventh with vain longings ? Would it be just to his hour," Miss Letitia murmured, with a solemn wife—the wife to whom in this whole matter no sweetness in her voice,

blame could attach - whose sufficient misforJust then a strong, firm step sounded in the tune it was that the man who married her had, yard, and the sick woman started eagerly. at best, no fond freshness of first love to give

“It is the deacon," she said ; “he is com- her? ing, and we shall have but a moment more. Miss Letitia was just, to the heart's core ; Go to that desk in the corner—the key is in it. and she was, besides, self-forgetful and resolute. You will see, in the little drawer at the right, What mattered it, she thought, whether or not the packet directed to Nelson Guthrie. Take he understood her now ? Let him go on.

Let it away and read it.

It will make all the par- whatever domestic happiness time had fostered ticulars clear. When I am dead send it to him, at his hearth-stone still grow. When the end and then he will understand us both."

came would be time enough for her to stand beTrembling in ercry limb Miss Letitia did her fore him justified. So her mind was made up. bidding, and went back to the bedside with the She wrote him a few lines, explaining simply packet in her hand.

how the confession came into her hands, and “Yes, that is it ; and there is the Deacon's the motives which deterred her from sending it step on the threshold. He loves me--surely it to him at once. Then, in her turn, she folded can not be wrong to give him the consolation and sealed the packet, and directed it on the of believing me worthy of it. Once more, be- outside : fore you leave me, oh let me hear you say that “To be given, unopened, into the hands of Nelson you forgive me!"

Guthrie, after the death of Letitia Mason." “Fully and freely, as I hope myself to be That was all. Last week she had believed forgiven," Miss Letitia answered, solemnly; and her lover of other days recreant to all trụth and then, moved by a divine impulse of tenderness loyalty. Over the grave where his memory lay and pity, she bent over and pressed her lips to buried she had dared to drop no tear-plant no the feverish brow.

blossom. Now she knew that the wrong had Going out, she met Deacon Parmelee in the not been on his part; and the thought that he room beyond, wearing a face on which anxiety had not given her up voluntarily was balm to and watching were graving stern lines. her self-respect. So she took up her old life

She went into the gathering twilight. The again, with something less than the old burden sad wind was wailing still—the leaves rustled, to carry. the crickets chirped mournfully; but a star was Years came and passed noiselessly. Slowly rising already in the cast, while yet the crimson silver threads grew into the brown, shining autumn sunset burned above the western hills. hair, and the delicate, youthful color faded a “We have seen his star in the east,” she mur- little. She scarcely realized how time went on mured. "There is hope in the heavens.” until her fortieth birth-day found her. Then

That night she read all the long confession, she began to feel how many the lonely years , and understood on just what rocks the hope of had been. Twenty-two years ago that day the her life had stranded and gone down helplessly. note had come from Nelson Guthrie which gave After all, there was a certain sweetness in the her back her troth-plight, and since then she had knowledge that the man she loved had been never experienced one flutter of womanly vanity neither false nor fickle, but only, like herself, or anticipation. Life, to all selfish intents, endwronged and deceived. She could never be ed with her that spring day, she thought. Since any thing more to him in this life; but it was then, as more than one whom she had comfortsomething to be sure that he had once loved cd could have borne witness, she had been doher. When the life going out in that house ing the Master's work. She felt a little sad on across the fields was ended, she would send him this day of all days in the year. Memory was the packet, and then-reinstated in his esteem- busy, and the path before her, leading on to old she could bear to go on alone through the rest age, perhaps, stretched out bare and bleak. of her pilgrimage.

It was in the middle of the long forenoon The next morning news came that the Dea- that a wagon stopped at the gate, and a man con's wife was dead.

whom she recognized as the near neighbor of She thought it would not be seemly to send the Guthries — who lived at the other end of off the dead woman's confession until the funer- the town - dismounted and came up toward

the house. A subtle, prophetic instinct told have shared it with you. But God knew best her his errand before she met him at the door. by what path to lead us both home. Margaret Her old lover had sent for her — was dying, has been a true, good wife. Letty, will you care probably.

for her and comfort her when I am gone? Yon " Mr. Guthrie is sick," the man began, ab- are stronger than she, and she will be quite ruptly, “and they say he has not long to live. alone.” He took a bad cold about ten days ago, and “If she will let me I will be her friend-I inflammation of the lungs set in, and they've will take her as your legacy." given up all hopes of him. He says you were “Call her, please, and wait for her in anothan old friend, and he wants to see you if you er room. I must make her understand how are willing to go."

near was the tie between us." “I will be ready in five minutes," she an- She went out and sent his wife in. swered, with apparent calmness, but she turned Was it all over, she thought, and over so back into the house, her heart throbbing strange- calmly? Standing on the threshold of the ly. Now, after all these years, her time had grave, how quietly he had received the tidings come-now she had a right to justify herself in which had stirred her own soul seven years ago his dying eyes.

to its depths. But he understood her now-he She took the packet she had kept so long, knew that she had been true.

For the rest, put on her bonnet, and went out. They rode death calms the wildest pulses. in utter silence over the three miles of dusty After a while Margaret came out. She had road which lay between her little cottage and been weeping evidently, but she came up to LeNelson Guthrie's house. She noticed, as one titia and kissed her. in a dream, how blue the sky was, and heard “He has told me all,” she said, “and I know the spring birds sing, and the full brooks mur- that you, not I, ought to have been his wife. mur. At last she was there.

But he loves me a good deal, I think; and he It was pitiful to see how so brief an illness has been very kind to me, and made me happy. had shattered the forces of that strong man's It is almost over now. Will you stay till the life. Pale almost as he would be when they last? He wishes it." should put his grave-clothes on he was now, his “ Till the last” was not long. The third day face worn and wan, his heavy black beard mak. the summons came which called home the tired ing it look yet more ghastly. His wife had soul to forget all sorrows, all failures, all met Miss Letitia at the door with a whispered pointments in the blessedness which is infinite. welcome, and as if by previous arrangement led And by his bedside the two women who had her into the sick man's room, and left her there. loved him watched and wept, while his lips grew

“I wanted to look yet once more in this cold, and his proud, passionate, true heart world upon your face,” he said, faintly, his eyes stopped beating. kindling a little as he saw her at his bedside. Miss Letitia had learned to suffer quietly by “I wanted to forgive you."

the discipline of long, sad years. The wound. “You never had any thing to forgive," she in her heart was. deep, but it bled inwardly. answered, quietly.

Outwardly she was calm, and supported Mar“Never! Letty!"

garet by her steady, undemonstrative courage. "Never. For seven years I have had in my When the funeral was over Margaret clung possession Grace Anderson's confession - the still to the friend in whom she seemed to find confession of the wrong-doing which separated rest and strength. They scarcely knew on which. us. I did not mean that you should see it un-side the proposal that they should live together til I was dead. But your time has come first, originated; but it was carried out before midand you must not die until you know the truth, summer, and they were both settled in the litand have forgiven Grace."

tle cottage where Miss Letitia had lived alone He put out his hand with an eager gesture. so long. “Read it, Letty !” he cried.

And then time went on again, and the grass word of it. I think my soul could almost linger grew green on Nelson Guthrie's grave; and his at the gates of death to hear such tidings.” widow's passionate grief subsided into gentle re

She read it plainly and clearly, every word. gret and tender memory. Regret so gentle that When she was through she waited for him to its shadow failed to affright a new wooer; and speak.

Mistress Margaret, fair and sweet still at a lit"Did you forgive her, Lettyyou, with your tle past forty, went out of Miss Letitia’s cotlonely woman's heart, your solitary life ?” tage into another home. And again Letitia was

“I forgave her-I prayed for her-I believe all alone. God heard me.” Her voice came clear but very Alone, but never lonely; for now she dreams low.

that when Margaret shall go, resting on her later “Then I, too, forgive her. Letty, I loved you love, to the country peopled by shades, she herin those days—we belonged to each other. It self, true through all, will have the right to stand would have made my life a different thing to proudly at Nelson Guthric's side.

" Read every

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AMERICAN STUDIOS IN ROME

tion of the representative American traveler in

regard to our compatriots' studios in Rome was AND FLORENCE.

owing solely to imputed grace.

On our way NCE upon a time, as my maternal grand- thither we met the author of “Harper's Guide

father was hugging his knees complacently Book," who solemnly assured us that there were over the fire, in the delicious abandon of a well- two individuals in Rome whom it was desirabeloved pastor's Sunday evening, he broke forth ble to see“first the Pope, then Mrs. Dr. G.” in laudation of some well-put point of his morn- Now, it happened that to the latter little epitoing homily.

me of all charity and hospitality we are indebt“That may all be very true, my dear, but ed for much of that which makes us still cry hadn't you better let somebody else praise with Shakspeare, you?" was the conjugal counterblast to this

" Was't not a happy star flourish of Pharisaism.

Led us to Rome" "Somebody else ?' No indeed!" quoth the and being there, to Numero tredici via Condotti! trumpeter ; " the poor coots don't know how It was her generous ire which spurred our suto put it on in the right place.”

píneness around the circle of American artists Doubtless the artists whose ill-fortune opened in the Eternal City, and even in remote Flortheir studios during the last winter to my crude ence. criticism may class me under like ornithologic- The pity is that this should be a notable inal condemnation with the sermon-critics of my stance of esprit de corps and de esprit de paysprogenitor. But during my residence in Italy that every American resident of position abroad I was so impressed by the fact of the neglect by should not feel a fraternal interest in the sucAmerican tourists of the studios of their coun- cess of American artists around him, and make trymen and women that I determined, at my of himself a conscience for the admonition of first opportunity, to pipe a little against this is thoughtless tourists from their native land, with norance and indifference before three or four de- hearts or purses to be touched. serving doors in Rome and Florence.

I understand that Mr. Jarves has pronounced will not dance I shall at least have relieved my William Story to be unappreciated in Amerspirit.

ica. However true this may be in regard to It is a lamentable truism that the represent- untraveled connoisseurs, I think the representaative American traveler prefers an indifferent tive American traveler is least likely to neglect bust or picture by an Italian or English artist this among all American studios in Rome. Does to the best which his compatriots can achieve. not Murray indorse Mr. Story's handiwork as

Going forth from the artistic atmosphere of “much noticed" at the great London Exposian average American circle, strong in the faith tion of 1862? This Anglican baptism is surely that Squire Jonathan's portrait in oils, and his almost equivalent to British birth. Moreover, it boarding-school daughter's monochromatics and is quite safe to give loose rein to one's adjeccrayons are the ne plus ultra of art, he enters tives and notes of admiration in the presence of his first European gallery to depart a sadder, the Soul, the Sappho, and the Sybil, and all the but scarcely a wiser man. “Ichabod” is more because there are sure to be among the thenceforth written not only upon daughter carriages which wait on the Saturday receptions Mary's thrilling sea-fights and gay beauties in in the Via di San Nicolo di Tolentino an Italian pastel, but upon all American art. His self-coronet or two, and some well-quartered British conceit in its sloughing leaves no atom of con- escutcheon. fidence in aught which his land can produce. We had the privilege of entering the innerYet his converse admiration of foreign art must most studio, and seeing the sculptor, mouldingnecessarily be indiscriminating, since he retains stick in hand. Even in its immaturity and in the complacent belief that no jackanapes with soulless plaster we saw in the Medea a grander his technical jargon can teach him what to ad- statue than those apt fingers had previously mire. Not he! He hasn't called Ruskin a created. The artist is said to have followed madman and Jarves a fool, in snubbing Mary's Ristori like her shadow, and has appropriated raptures, to go to them or any other critic for in- the great tragedienne's inspiration as a spiritual struction. Accordingly he stocks his gallery, body for his own. It was a sad pleasure to see as he would disdain to do his shop, with foreign also in this inner sanctum that which is prowares, of whose origin, intent, and worth he nounced by Mr. Browning, and her brother Mr. is utterly ignorant, only making sure that no Barrett, the best of all the many essays to render "Yankee trash” is included.

the drooping head and pathetic face of Elizabeth He carries home in triumph a blear-eyed Bc- Browning. This bust was chiseled from the atrice Cenci, a leering Madonna della Sedia exc- artist's memory of the poet (with whose personal cuted by a Roman sign-painter, a medallion por- friendship he was privileged), and its creation trait of himself chipped out in the putty-relievo was trammeled by no lying portraits or superfiof a third-rate English artist, and a family-group cial photographs as a model. cannily altered for the occasion from a Niobe But why do we linger here where my pipe is and her Children, which had long cumbered absurdly superfluous ? Were all America bethe appartemento of some Italian sharper. sides silent in his praise, Mr. Story might well

Our own escape from the sin and condemna- rest content with Hawthorne's crowning.

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Miss Hosmer also is too well known in Amers through the same studio, paused before a bust ica by means of her peripatetic Zenobia, and her of Cicero. “Such wonderful concentration as stationary Statesman, together with fascinating all your American faces have!" said he. “Now traditions still rife about Boston Common and I should know that to be a countryman of yours the Piazza di Spagna in regard to youthful es- had I chanced to see it in a Japanese artist's capades and maturer deeds of prowess, to be studio. Ah, there is no mistaking the Amerioverlooked by the representative American trav- can type!” The blushing sculptor courteously eler. She, too, has the prestige of British pa- allowed the citizenship of the novel Yankee to tronage through her master Gibson, whose char- pass unchallenged, and the undaunted physiogacteristic dictum, “Yes, yes, true art should be nomist passed on to further criticism. descriptive !" engraved in stone, is appropriately One day Mr. Rogers was exhibiting his pretty the legend of her studio.

Nydia to a deaf spectator., We approached this celebrity with inward “What did you say her name was ?". trepidation, on one of her weekly reception-days. “Niydia, Bulwer's Nydia." Unlike Mr. Story, she does all her visitors the “You don't say! Why she looks quite inhonor of receiving them in person, and it was telligent for an idiot!" pleasant to find a bright, piquant woman instead We had the pleasure of seeing in clay Mr. of the Amazon, bustling with weapons offensive, Rogers's conception of Isaac kneeling upon the which our fancy had conjured from the shadowy Altar of Sacrifice. The face of the young marrealm of gossip. Her style of conversation is tyr is marked by exquisite beauty of expression. rather crisp than brusk, and she enters cord-One could judge of the popularity it was desially into her guest's admiration of her work. tined to obtain by the fact that two copies in With kindly patience she told over and again in marble had already been bespoken, although the our hearing to successive visitors the story of model was by no means complete. The freher brazen door, which, with its twelve bassi- quent duplication throughont the studio of comrelievi representing the hours of night, is to shut panion statuettes representing an Indian Hunterin the treasures of an English nobleman's art- Boy and Fisher-Girl recalled comically to our gallery. But little Puck, rollicking little elf, memory the nursery ditty which dwells upon won our hearts most of all among Miss Hos- John Brown's proprietorship in “one little, two mer's marbles; and this not alone because the little, three little Indians," and so on through millennial state, wherein a little child shall lead the digits. all captive, has already begun with us, so that At Mr. Mozier's we found the celebrated every thing fair, dimpled, and infantile attracts Wept of Wish-ton-Wish, sculptured at the mo

Puck seemed to us altogether the most ment when memory is struggling with time for spontaneous of the artist's works. A captive the recollection of the cradle-hymn her Chrisqueen she never saw even in her dreams, but a tian mother used to sing. We saw also, in clay, mischievous morsel of humanity or fairyhood is the dawning of his ideal of Il Penseroso. But native to a woman's fancy.

in the colossal group of the Return of the ProdiMr. Rogers, who shares with Rheinhart the gal I thought I saw, what I understand is not honor of completing the doors of the national universally admitted, a wonderful rendering of capitol from the design of the lamented Craw- the blessed old idyl. It may be, for aught I know, ford, had just executed a colossal statue of anatomically incorrect, or like somebody's statue a Union soldier, gun in hand, for Cincin- in this thing, or somebody's else in that; but to nati. In spite of the amusing account of the me there was great pathos in the utter repose of sitting with which the artist entertained us, we the son as he lays his sinful, sorrowful head on could but regret that the model of the statue had the old man's heart, having let go at once all been a brave Celt, who, however, seemed from his old life and old self. It seemed to me that the story to have been prouder of the distinction such a sermon in stone set up in a church-chanof being “brother to him as married owld Bo- cel, or by the wayside, might touch some obduker's daughter" (the hero of a New York parlor rate heart to whom the pulpit had been voiceand coach-house romance of several years ago) less. than of any personal perfections or valor. Still In the studio of a young American woman, there he stands, grim and war-wom, but un- whose genius with no adventitious aids has alflinching and invincible. An English lady ready won her an enviable position, we found chanced to enter this studio, and being told that in clay a lofty embodiment of the poet-artist's in this statue she might see a brave of the ideal of Jeremiah the Prophet. A well-known United States army, remarked eagerly, “Ah, Boston clergyman visiting this studio the day yes. It is Stonewall Jackson, I suppose;" he before ourselves, exclaimed as soon as the moist being the only hero among his cousins of whose napkin was removed from this superb medallion : exploits John Bull permits his unsophisticated “Ah, one of the old prophets has risen from family to read. "No, Madam, on the con- the dead !” trary,” replied the loyal sculptor, with distinct “Which of the prophets is he?” asked the enunciation, “this is the man that shot him!” artist ; "you being a divine are supposed to

Any successful artist must accumulate vast know them all.” stores of ana from the lips of garrulous visitors. “Jeremiah, of course. Who could doubt it?"

Another Briton, wandering superciliously Who, indeed, who felt the majestic sorrow of

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that face, the eloquent grieving of heavenly wis. In Miss Foley's studio there was also still in dom over human folly. This medallion realizes clay - fine bust of the son of the sculptor Crawvividly Heine's description of Jehuda ben Hale- ford, as also various medallions in different vy: “Down to his breast fell, like a gray forest, stages of progress. A small bust of Theodore his hair, and cast a weird shadow on the face Parker, who gave her frequent sittings while in which looked out through it, his troubled, pale Rome, and with whose face in its vigor she had face with the spiritual eyes.” More than all been most familiar, is far more satisfactory than recalled the infinitely pathetic cry those lips once the Socrates of Mr. Story, or any other attempted uttered, “Is it nothing to you, all ye who pass likeness of that most brave and intolerant phiby? behold, and see if there be any sorrow like lanthropist. His old congregation should order unto my sorrow.”

a colossal copy of this authentic bust for their The sculptor of this superb medallion is Miss Assembly Room. Margaret Foley. She has worked her way brave- During a brief visit to her native land the ly up to fame and success, winning peculiar hon- past season Miss Foley modeled several admiors from Italian and English critics as well as rable medallions, among them fine profiles of her own countrymen. She has been forced to Mr. Longfellow, Charles Sumner, and Julia confine herself too closely to portrait medallions Ward Howe. This artist has also long been to allow the freest development of her genius. distinguished for her superiority as an artist in It is an epoch to her when she dare take a free Cameos. breath and evoke from the marble a kingly head No American tarrying in Rome should fail like that of the Prophet of Lamentation. And to visit the appartemento of the Freemans. Here yet her portraits are true creations of art. Mr. Freeman plies his accurate, conscientious

Ye who think that while sculpture in the round brush, devoting as many hours to the perfecting is a wonderful art, all that is required for the of a few threads of drapery as would many artproduction of a bas-relief is a flat surface of suf- ists to the execution of an entire picture. Here ficient thickness to allow chippings ad libitum, Mrs. Freeman wields the chisel skillfully, and go to the Villa Albani and study the Lotus- here their niece paints charming cabinet piccrowned Antinous; or, what is next, compare Miss tures and copies successfully. Foley's medallions with those which pass un- Living in a beautiful apartment, far up, like challenged from the studio of many a distin- Hilda in her tower, we found Miss Church, a guished sculptor.

young Vermonter, if I mistake not. One of But I forget an oracle recently uttered: bassi- Claude Lorraine's luscious landscapes, copied relievi are not statuary! It remained for an as in the Louvre, was just receiving her finishing tute sitter at the New York Customs to discover touch, it having been purchased by Mr. Le that a case of medallion portraits and ideal heads, Grand Lockwood, whose wealth has blessed sent to America by Miss Foley in execution of many a deserving artist and many a distressed various commissions, did not come under the countryman abroad. Three little pictures pleased Act for the protection of American artists in us best in this studio. Two views (standing and foreign countries, and were therefore subject to sitting) of an obstreperous little Roman with an a duty of 50 per cent. in gold! And all this irresistibly jolly face. This little imp of a modwhen a case of mere stone-mason's pedestals el regards the confinement incident to his vopassed the same Custom-house frec. Various cation with disgust, and is therefore always acappeals were made by indignantly sympathetic companied by his father, whom he mercilessly artists and friends against the absurd decision snubs. "What time is it, old father?” “ Ten of this Art-Dogberry, but several months later and a half, my gentle little son.” “No, old fawe heard that the case was still in durance vile; ther, you lie—it is long after mezzo giorno !the purchasers of the sculpture being naturally Then turning his weariness toward his picturunwilling to pay the unrighteous tax, and the esque costume, he cries, stormily, “Look here, artist threatened with the return of her handi- old father! I must have new clothes ! Why work unless she herself discharged it.

don't you dress me like the little Francesi on In the benign face of Bishop Whipple, of Min- the Pincio! I shall buy clothes for myself herenesota, Miss Foley found an irresistible tempta- after." tion, and with one or two sittings from the good The third picture is the portrait of an equally missionary she created in clay at once a perfect irresponsible little chiccory-girl, who is attired portrait and an admirable ideal of St. John the in all the pretty absurdity of a Roman peasant's Beloved.

This was immediately appropriated costume, with the heavy folds of the panno on (with other of her marbles) by Mr. William As- her graceful little head. This little mother of pinwall, to whose generous and yet discrimin- Gracchi in prospectu declines to favor the artist ating patronage American artists abroad and with a sitting of her august presence without a art-lovers at home are so deeply indebted. We head of her favorite vegetable with which to beheard a sculptor say of him, “He is the only guile the hour, meditatively devouring the tough visitor to my studio who doesn't make me trem- mass of vegetation. Accordingly, there she ble by touching my tools: he knows what to do stands in the picture, chiccory in hand, and is a with them.” Adding, with amusing commisera- bewitching little figure for one's drawing-room. tion: “It is such a pity he hadn't been poor, he Our visit to the pleasant home of the cheery would have made a true artist !"

sisters, the Misses Williams, brought upon us

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