Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1856-05-13

/ hcaIl, its guiulng light OF hope, Its delicate
| affections, its aspirations, were known 20 him,
and these he would express in a countenance
OF kindred holiness and grace. He painted
the picture. 1t was irradisto with beauty,
rich with the bloom of ripened youth, serene,
modest, with all sweet charities beaming as
from the face OF 4" young-eyed" angel. The
pencil seemed TO rejoice in its art the ver-
| million frightened 10 rival her lip; the rose
tint was more soft on her cheek the blue
seemed to melt and mingle with light in those
| orbs by which her soul expressed its heavenly
| thoughts be made her smile, for he remem-
| bered her loving; yet her lashes cast PEN
| sIve shade, for he could not forget she was
wronged He told her be had drawn her, and
| when the picture was finished, never could he
cease with delicate touches, spiritualizipg, en-
| Ilchlng, sOftening its beauty, till it breathed
| from the canvas, pure as snow, vet redolent
with love, and seemed instinct with the subtle
| and eyer-varying and volatile essence Of life.
| anu SO this delicious interchange of wish and
| feeling went on between these two voces-for
each to the other was nothing more In the
| mornings and the evenings, and through the
| day, their sweet converse was the channel Of
two streams Of limpid thought. Their love
scared higher and sung more cheerily upon
every winged word. Pleasant were these
| sounds These were their yespers, and their
mathis were these, and they knew each other,
and waited only for the day, when they might
| embrace, and mutually smile the affection
which they had so freely told
Cns morning Angiolo called TO Giannins,
and she did not answer. He called and again
| called but there was silence. She had gone
gone without one adieu-gone, perhaps, for
| ever, and he was left alone. And Loneliness
now was more terrible than before, for solitude
| is never felt until the heart has loved. Like
| a flame bursting in his breast the sense of an
| guish smOte him. To his inquiries no COM
| torting answer was given. Glannina was in
Y o,l L. IL
night, probably 10 another prison. "Will she
never be brought here again ?" asked AngioIo.
whose words were rather an ejaculation than
an inquiry. The jailor said, :" No; never
mOre.' And he slammed the ponderous frame
of planks and iron which shut out from Angi-
olo the life of the world. And the loud slam,
| and the tread of his feet along the floor, and
| the heavy dropping Of bar, seemed with re.
| morseless echoes to repeat his sentence,
| Never moro unnatural to the ear mis-
erable and Implying, the syllables of Never
more W They fall like the cold drifts Of win
ter. They chill like sepulchrsI walls They
are as the face Of death, that seem eternally
dumb and calm.
And now how saddened was the hue of life
What change was wrought in every shape and
color OF the world, for Angiolo looked around
MS prison room and saw the walls glowing
with magically blended tints-sunsets burn
ing IN Asia, soft green fields sparkling with
dew, revelry dancing on the cedar floor, deep
lights playing upon mosaic pavement through
oriels richly painted. There spread his plains
of promise there rose his cities Of ambitious
thought; there frightened the mirage Of his
mind, Tor every fancy and every hope had a
form and hue which he had realized there.
And last, he looked upon a beautiful city with
colonnsdes whittier than sculptured snow, and
gilded dOmes which famed like q city Of the
sun. And, behold, ii seemed pOpulOus with
the images Of his formerly-imag gined joys,
And palace opened TO his dream-gaze, and
he heard the rustic Of gentle throngs, and
music breathed to them in its sweet summons;
and clusters Of crystal stars, liquid and bril-
liant, hung dazzling under the roof, and the
figure Of one beloved appeared, with fair
counter lnce, and large calm blue eyes. And
the vision melted away. And then a sound Of
iamontation came out Ct the palace, and went
into the temple, and the mOurners brought
forth bier-forth from the Rome of his
nopes-fOrth along the Via Dolorosa Of his
tears-forth to the sacred ground where sor-
row has its limpid source in marble memo
rial urn.
Angiolo after a long, sorrowful solitude,
pillowed his sick love upon those reveries On
a morning Of the Tuscan June, the little win
dow let in a ray of golden light. So balmy,
so pure the air, so sweet with the breath Of
flowers, that the captive received into his
heart some Of its lightness and Joy. He gszed
drawn only like a sun picture, struck by the
rays of his love-and Giannina's soft, heav-
enly eyes smiled on him.
There were shouts in the street-a din Of
music-a roll of the loud belabored drum
the blowing Of horn with its mellow, far
heard echo melting along the palace-bordered
way. Then rose a chorus Of songs, and a cry
of "The People. the People! let tyranny
fall :" told the recluse that Italy was alive,
and the family faction overthrown.
Next, in the tower below, a confused noise
was heard. People approached along the cor
ridor: the door opened Giannina!
Surely an enchantment played in fantastic
bewildermcnts before him. Gianuina, never
seen by his eyes, stands there in the doorway,
breathing; and there near the window she is
faithfully painted-every tint Of life reflected
by art, every lineement traced, every sOftness
moulded as by a magical touch. She has
been there the mute companion of his loneli-
ness. She IS there now the messenger Of re-
lease, deliverance, liberty-his invisible be-
trothed for the friends Of Florence are VIC
torious, and the pedestal of usurpation is
thrown down. She was not long at the door,
for she bounded TO Angiolo, and Angiolo took
her to his bosom, and by that embrace they
ratified their vows of love.
stranger to his eyes How, if not by the
light of the heart which knows its own? He
knew her soul, her secret thoughts, her inmost
nature; all the features Of her mind were
stamped on his; and so perfect was the knowl-
edge, that in his moral sight it grew pic
ture, and this be reproduced with his pencil.
Yet there are many who say that this was
not the true explanation, and in Florence their
words are believed. Angiolo Dolci. as they
tell, looking upon the face, forgot the picture;
and when his eyes turned to the canvas, so
full were they Of the countenance Of her be
loved, that they saw the semblance perfectly
reflected there. All memory Of the imagined
beauty faded from his mind, which henceforth
knew but the one image, beloved and loving,
at his side Let those who would explore to
their she'll and sand, all sweet mysteries Of
nature, inquire whether AngiOlo painted her
face from knowing her seul, or forgot the face
he painted when the living countenance met
his eyes. For US, We are content to hoat on
the surface of these waves, and surely they
will throw up their pearls, while the rugged
stones remain buried below. No further then,
need we tell, that, bright as was the world,
profuse of beauty, which Dolci's fancy had