Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1856-05-13
EVEN ING STAR.
THE PICTUEE AND THE FACE;
Or, the Artists Ideal.

poetry had been relumed by Dante; Cimabue
| had dipped her pencil again in gold her mu-
sic had been revived by Cosella The young
| artist, therefore, was born into an age prolific
of genius. Vistss Of infinite and varied hope
| opened before him. Ambitious yearnings i'm
polled him to travel through the cities of his
native land, where all the sculptured and
| pictured beauty of every polished age gave
| its inspiration TO his mind.
The proud art and prouder learning of the
| south then blaEed like the pharoahs of a new
civilization. But the peace of Italy was
broken by feuds her commonwealths strug-
| g,ed together; her republics, born of virtue
were enfeebled by treason and intrigue, be-
| cause men, with those black passions which
originally made tyrants, existed among others
with those bad qualities which next mado
| slaves.
Angiolo thus, in a season of great turmoil,
| found himself in TIE Tuscan state when many
| factions wounded the bosom Of liberty. 1t
was at that period in which the Mongrel Med
lei accomplished their first treason. Angioli
ee-hearted and magnanimous, offended those
| golden conspirators, and, belonging to an i'm
| portant family, was therefore considered dan
gerous. He was thrown into prison, though
allowed to have abundant materials for his
art, and then, amid the conflict Of houses and
factions was totally forgotten; 90 solitary;
| captive, half broken in spirit, he remained
alone, and all the wide horizon of his hopes
| dwindled to the limits of that desolate cell.
| The vigils of his clustered thought were
| sometimes mourGful as the tomb, sometimes
| bright as heaven. A poet painter, he dwelt
on his art with poeticsl love In imagina-
| ton he visited the galleries Of lovelier Flor
ence, and the churches of nobler Rome, and
| then, to sOOthe mis- fOrlorl en5Ut, he sought to
make gallery of his dungeon. This was
| large, lofty chamber, with pannelled walls
| and ceiling of stuccO; so he illuminated 1t
| with fanciful and mythic scenes, and made the
| sweest enchantmeDt to delight his soul
Long, long his pencil was untiringly mingling
vermillion with blue, and rose-tint with vic
| let, and amethyst with green, until it seemed
| to viyify a miniature creation around him -
Here the sun melted its burning gold over
lakes and soft plains. Here the moon of Tus.
cany gazed on her fairer daughters Here
the stars of Egypt beamed on her pale tenn
rles and pearl white sands. Anon, the cedarS
Of Lebanon shaded her " statelier maids"
and near them the damsels of SaphOra danced
under polnegranste-treeS in ZebulOn. Then,
stately cities rose to wed the virgin beauties
of the earth-a COrinth Of arches and domes,
a Babylon of palaces and bowers And the
dawn blushed over hills, and twilight fingered
on the sea, and sorrow bent her head, and
mirth raised her laughing face TO the sky
Even AngiOlos pencil touched into life the
favurite fables OF love-Of him who nightly
slept with unclosed lids on the mountain top,
that goddess might wonder at the brightness
of his eyes; and OF him who wooed the marble
till it warmed and melted to mis- appeal, and
brcathed consent to be his bride
And next he sought to reflect from his soul
its type of beauty, the sweetness of n wOman's
face-that mystery which, in forms endlessly
various, all art, all poetry, all fancy, all
thought, through every century, has desired
to interpret, whethor on marble or on canvas,
or by the richer oracles Of song. He had seen
it hallowcd by Rafacle' touch he had seen
it blush with Titian's love, and pale softly
with Salvi's angelic thought. He had gazed
on Guido's swcet-faced Magdalen, penitent
and tender, and smiled with GiorgiOnes blue
eyed bride. And he had looked upon the
mother of ftears-Niobe, that marble sorrow,
with upturned countenarce, utteriDg no curse,
no cry, no prayer, but, yOicelesS and deSolate:
appealing to the pity Of eternal ages. To
rival these, to sit among the immortal, had
been the long dream Of his youth; and now
he was shivering in acell-shivering, for Chill
Ion is as cold in Florence as in the never melt
ing north.
On an evening in summer, Angiolo' thoughts
had flown to their own paradise, far away,
recalling the strayed, regaining the lost, and
he never noticed how the last streak Of the
sunlight had Withdrawn, and his spacious dun
geon was in gloom. The soft Italian eve had
floated into the softer night Through the
high window, blocked and barred, his eye
gazed OH two or three stars, which hung like
low famed cressets in heaven. confused
murmur was in the streets, but the vision of
ADgiolos fancy had left all things indistinct,
and though conscious of the darkness, all ex-
istence seemed to dissolve when it came within
the circle Of his mUsing thought. Suddenly,
there was a magic sOund-a human voice
Only had he for long months heard that of his
savage janitor, who daily insulted the loneli-
ness of his dungeon, and eyed jeeringly, half
admiringly, the paintings on the roof and
walls. But this was net Pietro's voice. 1t
was a woman's. 1t was in a scng-a rich,
trembling, passionate voice, laden with some
some Tuscan melody, laden with some pure
longings, laden with sweetness and sorrow,
musically blended and flowing in long liquid
thrills, into the night. Angiolo listened. The
sound was near. 1t came from the next cell.
He hushed his breath, and pressed bis face
against the window grating, for evidently some
captive in that castle was painting against the
prison bars, and in this secret hour soothing |
her heart with a melancholy song.
Not for long months had he heard gentle |
voice, and never such voice as that. 1t |
seemed eloquent with the deep-born yearn-
ings of her soul and some youthful creature, |
he knew-sOme more innocent Cenci, perhaps, |
was imprisoned there.
The lady sang awhile and ceased. No |
sooner was tnere pause tnan hHSlolo pOureu
our lyrical song, answering to the thoughts /
of her own. She was perfectly still. He |
knew she was listening. When he had fin |
ished, he struck the wall and was heard. He |
inquired if she was a captive. She said, |
g Yes, she was the youngest sister of power
full Florentine, who had shut her up for fs-
voring the escape of hereto. Under the in
fuence of the priest he was implicable, and
she expected to die in that horrible seclu
SION" The painter related his own story |
and from that hour, through morning, day, |
and eve, they conversed
Their place Of confinement was a square !
tower, with long wide galleries rising one |
above the other, and divided into separate |
chambers by thick paneiled walls. Thus An
giOlo was enabled to speak TO this young girl,
his half companion, and she to listen to him.
What wonder that they cheered their loneli-
ness by conversation! To both it was as
mercy, for they stood within the magic circle
of sympathy; they shared a mutual sorrow
they suffered a kindred wrong.
Who will not know this communion grew
into friendship and bloomed into loveE They
had never seen each other; they knew not
each othsr's faces hut thew could speak-and |