QUENTIN METZIS;

OR,

THE BLACKSMITH IN LOVE.

IN the year 1470, there was at Antwerp a celebrated blacksmith, who employed many industrious and ablebodied workmen, and whose forge rang daily to the sound of the hammer, and glowed in the fierce red light which imparts so fantastic and strange a character to every object that it illuminates. Amongst his workmen was one who seemed never to have been destined by nature for so laborious an employment. He was one of those exceptional beings who afford striking evidence of the power of the will, united with physical debility; for in this young man, who was no other than Quentin Metzis, it was moral energy that supplied the place of strength. He felt that it was art and not labour for which he was qualified; yet he had patience to resign himself to his destiny, and a spirit of emulation which taught him to excel even in this laborious profession. He was the blacksmith's best workman, and his master loved him, despite the apparent singularity of his character; for, wardly conscious of a capacity for better things than st. king the anvil or shoeing a horse, he did not share the habits of his comrades. It was not that he despised them; but they wearied him, and when once his task was done, he liked better to be alone with his own thoughts than to drink with them.

One evening that the smith's workmen were going to a neighbouring tavern, they invited Quentin Metzis to accompany them. He thanked them kindly, but declined.

"What is the matter with him?" asked one of the workmen of his companion, when Metzis was out of hearing.

"He is in love," was the reply.

'Well, what does that signify? That is no reason for not drinking; but rather the reverse."

"Very true; but he is sad, and it is that which prevents him from drinking."

"Then he must see love in a wrong light: for I am in love too, and I am merry.'

"Yes; but you are not in love with a girl who is too rich and too handsome for you, and that is what has happened to our poor comrade, who is madly in love with the daughter of a man who will only bestow her upon a painter; and as no one can make pictures with a hammer and anvil, the poor fellow is quite out of heart; and unless the father changes his mind, which is not likely, Quentin Metzis will probably never marry his sweetheart."

And the two speakers returned to their bottle, without troubling themselves further about the sorrows of their comrade.

As to Metzis, he had, as we have said, left his companions, and, his eyes fixed on the ground, had turned down a well-known road, under the guidance of his heart rather than of his will. Suddenly he stopped before a door which he had no right to open, and concealing himself in the shade, waited with his eyes fixed on one of the windows of the house for that which he similarly awaited every evening-for that which gave him strength for the toil and burden of the morrow. Then, when he

had seen the window open-when, as in a celestial vision, a silent gesture had answered his gaze, and after this long-desired moment of happiness the window had closed again, he retraced his steps, repeating to himself, as he did every evening, "She loves me!" and on these three words he based all his visions of the future. Sometimes a gleam of hope shot across his soul; but when, on quitting some church where he had been praying, he contemplated the chefs-d'œuvre of the period, and reflected that he must do as much before he could gain his object, the momentary hope vanished, and he felt that it was impossible.

Returning home after this transient happiness, he found his mother, whose constant prayers were for her son, awaiting him. He embraced her affectionately, saying— "Good evening, dear mother."

"How are you this evening, Quentin ?" "Quite well, thank you, mother."

And embracing her once more, without perceiving the tears which rose to her eyes, he retired to his chamber, where he was alone with his dreams.

Hence arose the long, feverish hours of watching, in which the workman dreamed of art, the humble blacksmith of glory, the unhappy lover of love; hours which consumed half of the night, and left him sadder and more powerless than before.

There are sorrows which can be held under sufficient control to conceal them from the eye of strangers, but cannot be hidden from a mother's love; and every morning, when Metzis went forth to the forge, his mother gathered from her son's pale face how many sleepless hours he had passed. Without ever having learnt it from his own lips, the poor woman fully comprehended that her affection was no longer sufficient for her son, and she waited till he was gone to let her tears flow without restraint.

One morning, however, he was so dejected, and looked so deadly pale, that his mother would not let him go out; and in the evening, at the hour when he was wont to seek the spot where all his happiness was centred, he was too feeble to leave his bed.

The reason of this was that despair and discouragement had at length overpowered the strong will which had struggled against them, and that his scanty hours of sleep had given place to utter sleeplessness. He was a prey to one of those illnesses which, varying in form and name, are the same in fact; which waste the frame, dim the eyes, and wear out the heart.

It is in moments such as these, when all hope forsakes us, that we cling to the blessings which still remain; and Quentin Metzis, unable any longer to seek the daily solace of a glimpse of his mistress, turned for comfort only to his mother's love.

He opened his whole heart to her; and the poor woman, who had nothing to give but her own life for that of her son, perceived at once that, unless it pleased God to work a miracle, that son must die.

One of his brother workmen, who often came to visit him, reached his door one day, at the very moment that a procession in behalf of the sick was passing along the street; he held in his hand one of the wood-cuts which were distributed by the members of the brotherhood. "Well, Metzis, how are you?" asked the blacksmith, on entering.

"Much the same, thank you."

"I have brought you one of the woodcuts given by the brethren."

"What for?" asked the sick man.

"To cure you," replied his friend. "The procession in behalf of the sick has just taken place, and some of these wood-cuts have just been distributed; and as I know what wonderful cures they effect, I have brought you one."

"But there are illnesses which they cannot cure," said Metzis, "and mine is one of those."

"Why should you be so discouraged? It is that which does you harm. Try and divert your mind, and you will get well. If it only serves to occupy your thoughts a little, it will do some good. Take it, and amuse yourself with copying some of these figures of the blessed saints; it will help to pass the time, and that is something when one is ill.""

The blacksmith then shook hands with him and went away, leaving the miraculous wood-cut on his bed.

When Metzis was alone, he relapsed into his usual reverie, without appearing to remember his friend's words. His mother, absorbed in prayer, was watching beside him like a guardian angel; but, at length, perceiving that he was falling asleep, a rare blessing for him, she rose and left the room.

When he awoke, he found the wood-cut still lying on his bed, where the blacksmith had left it, and took it up mechanically, saying, "It is not that which can save me!" Yet he no longer looked at it with indifference, but contemplated it first with devout attention, and then with prayer, till the tears filled his eyes, and it seemed to him as if these quaint figures of saints smiled upon him, and whispered to him the words of hope to which in suffering we are all so eager to listen. He dashed away his tears, regarded the wood-cut with increased attention, then rose from his bed, went to the table, seated himself, and began to copy the figures of the saints, whose countenances still smiled upon him. He appeared rather like a somnambulist, obeying the dictates of some hidden influence, than a waking man acting in accordance with his own will, so immoveably fixed were his eyes, so low and feeble was his breathing. Yet an occasional smile gleamed upon his face, for now his copy began to assume form and likeness to the original-his own saints began to smile encouragingly upon him. seemed as if the miraculous cure foretold by the blacksmith were really in process; for Metzis began to perceive with his own eyes the goal of which hitherto he had only dreamed. At the end of half an hour he stopped; drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead, as upon that of a man awaking from an agitating dream. He looked at his work

It

The likeness was perfect-the joy had well nigh turned his brain!

His poor old mother, bending over his chair, had understood all his sufferings, entered into all his dreams, and doubtless, while her son had worked, she had done her part in prayer. Certain it is, that when his task was done, and Metzis arose, he met the eyes of his mother beaming upon him through tears of joy-they had no need of words to understand each other, and were soon locked in each other's arms.

At this moment his visitor of the day before made his appearance. Metzis hastened towards him, and to his surprise embraced him eagerly.

"You have saved my life," said he. "How so?"

"With your wood-cut."

23

"Ah! I knew that-and so you will come back to the

"Yes, I," and with these words Metzis left the room. "I see; the illness has taken a different form, and touched the brain. Your son is out of his mind," said the blacksmith to Quentin's mother.

"God is great and merciful, and he has had pity upon him," said the old woman, "that is all."

"We

shall see," replied the man. "I shall wait till he comes back;" and he sat down beside the table at which Metzis had been working, and on which he perceived both the original wood-cut and the copy. He was struck dumb with amazement, the miracle was obvious and palpable. He waited with impatience the return of his friend, the cause of whose sudden departure he did not understand, and was curious to learn.

Half an hour later Metzis reappeared.

"Where are you come from?" asked the blacksmith. "From my father-in-law's house." "Are you married then?"

"No; but I soon shall be."

The blacksmith reverted to his original idea that his friend was mad. He, however, wished to be sure of the fact before he left him, and asked him whom he was going to marry.

"A young, rich, and beautiful woman, who was to marry only a painter. I have just offered myself."

"But a long time must elapse before you are qualified to paint a picture, and, perhaps, in the meantime your wife may grow tired of being the widow of a future husband."

"She will wait for me."

'Well, but what have you done?"

"I went, as I have told you, to the father, and asked of him his daughter's hand, which he refused me." "Very naturally."

"He told me that he had promised her in marriage to a painter, and could not give her to any other, unless he were a better artist, and when, on his asking me what I had done hitherto, I told him that I had worked in iron, he laughed in my face."

"And what did you do ?"

"I merely said to him, 'Give me six months' time, and if I do not then bring you a better picture than your son-in-law elect, you may give him you daughter.' He went on laughing, and challenged me to do it. I accepted the challenge, and I am going to set to work immediately."

"You are quite right there; you should strike while the iron is hot," said the blacksmith, who borrowed his figures of speech from his profession.

"And now many thanks to you, my good friend, for it is to you that I owe all this. In six months' time you will come to my wedding."

And the two young men parted, the one to go and tell the news at the forge, the other to commence his task. Then began an obstinate struggle between the artisan

and artist, which, as it became more arduous, entailed many an hour of deep discouragement, in which the poor votary of painting gave way to exhaustion and despair on beholding how little he had effected, and how much yet remained to be done. He had not, indeed, mistaken his calling so strangely revealed to him by the wood-cut, but so much study and labour were required in order to attain his end, that but for his undying love, for the gratification of which renown was an essential condition, he would have abandoned his design as impracticable. But time rolled on, and Metzis, absorbed in the pursuit of his object, disappeared from his accustomed haunts, or only came forth occasionally to take breath before renewed efforts. At length he reappeared amongst men, pale and wan from victory, as others are from defeat, but with a glance of triumph in his eye, beaming with the consciousness of power unalloyed by pride.

Six months had completed the miracle foretold by the blacksmith, and he now knocked eagerly at the door before which he had so often kept his hopeless watch.

"Oh! is it you, Metzis ?" said his future father-inlaw, on beholding him. "Your six months are passed, and you come to acknowledge yourself beaten."

"You are mistaken," replied the artist, "I have still a fortnight before me; but, with your leave, I had rather be beforehand."

"Is not that presumption ?" said the father.

"No; it is only very natural impatience to secure the prize I have laboured so hard to gain, now that I have won it."

"Won it ?"

Yes, indeed. The proof of it is too large to bring hither, or I would on no account have troubled you; but if you will have the kindness to come with me, you can give me your opinion of a picture which I purpose to present to the church in which I am married." The two men went out together, and a week after Quentin Metzis was married, to the great wonder and admiration of all the smiths of Antwerp, before an altarpiece, of which the centre compartment represented the burial of our Saviour; the right-hand one the presentation of the head of John the Baptist at the table of Herod; and the left-hand one St. John in the cauldron of boiling oil. This painting is to be found in the Sistine Chapel of the Church of Notre Dame at Antwerp, and is one of the best performances of Quentin Metzis. In front of the same church, which contains the first effort of the painter, is to be seen the last work of the blacksmith: a well, of which the wrought-iron decorations were shaped with the hammer and not with the file.

The singularity of his marriage, his previous profession, and, above all, his indisputable talent, acquired a great reputation for Quentin Metzsis. It is always an attraction to the public if there is something strange or poetical to shed a romantic interest over the man whose works they admire or seek to purchase. The English have this taste in a peculiar degree; thus Quentin Metzis has become a great favourite with them, and so many of his pictures have passed into their hands, that now, with the exception of two or three, it is difficult to say what has become of the productions of the painter-blacksmith.

Amongst them, we may, however, specify, besides the painting before which his marriage took place, his own portrait and that of his wife, both of them to be found in the Florence Gallery, and two scenes from the life of our

Saviour the Virgin and Child, and the Christ and his Mother-full of the poetry of religion.

His other works are so scattered that it would be impossible here to give a list of them.

Such was the life of the blacksmith Metzis, thus epitomised in the Latin verse upon his tomb:

"Connubialis amor de Mulcibre fecit Apellem."

Quentin Metzis died at Antwerp at the age of 79, in the year 1529.

He was first interred in the Church of the Chartreux de Kie, and his body was afterwards removed to the foot of the tower of the cathedral, where his monument now stands, with this inscription:

IN the year 1761, and for many after years, there existed in Dublin a public garden, the resort of the fashionable world at that period, called Marlboroughgreen. It occupied the ground on which Lower Gardiner-street, and, I believe, part of Beresford-place now stand. In that year there arrived in Dublin, on a visit to his family, a Captain O'Reilly, of a cavalry regiment in the Austrian service. Walking one day in the garden of Marlborough-green, in company with some ladies, a gentleman passed, in uniform, I think, for he was a cavalry officer, whose spur caught the gown of one of the ladies, and tore it. The offender apologised, and each party continued their promenade. When they met again, a similar circumstance occurred. O'Reilly, now becoming angry, used some strong expressions, which were haughtily replied to, accompanied by a challenge to decide the matter on the spot. They stepped accordingly into the Green, and drew. O'Reilly had never fought with a small sword. He knew that his antagonist was Lord Delvin, eldest son of the Earl of Westmeath, and equally well known as one of the most accomplished swordsmen of the day. He knew, therefore, that in a rencontre of any duration he was sure to be killed, and accordingly the moment their points met he threw himself with all his force on his adversary, and ran him through the body. Lord Delvin fell. He was carried home, and died next day, enjoining his family and friends not to prosecute his antagonist, whom he confessed he had purposely provoked, but why I have never heard. O'Reilly, alarmed for the consequences of this act, left Dublin that night for the county of Meath, either to seek shelter with his friends, or to make provision for an attempt at escape from Ireland. He walked the entire distance to Kitts, between thirty and forty English miles. On his arrival there next morning, his hair, through agitation, as was believed, had, from auburn, become as white as snow. He was pointed out to me in Dublin some thirty or forty years afterwards by the name of "Delvin " Reilly, in allusion to this unfortunate duel.-Reminiscences of an Emigrant Milesian.