Sacramento daily record-union. [volume] (Sacramento [Calif.]) 1875-1891, 1880-08-07
THE UNIoNJ
SET In A SILVER SEA
ROMANCE BY B. L. FARJEON
o holland"

Had you possessed these quallJles, you
would have shone in the world with even
brighter light than you have shone in
private circles. For it hss~5een said of you
frequently that you are an artist of di-
vine mold, and that you belong, of your
own force and power, to the race of those
who have made art religion. You have
in you the true fire, and the world would
have hailed you as prophet inspired.
Your Incidence stopped the way of your
advancement. The world has lost lead
er your friends have been the gamers "
'You are generous in your praise; give
me further exhibition of your gener-
osity."
81 can deny you nothing, Harold.
"Thank you. You will, then, present
me with the group of Rant and Evange-
line, which, indeed and in truth, is re-
proach to the art l worship. Let me be
judged by what believe is worthy of me,
not by what l know will tend to lower
me-"
IF art workers were their own critics,
they would condemn their most perfect
productions. You would destroy your
child !"
cit is crime, and 1 do not care to be
perpetuaily reminded of it."
"Pardon the seeming indelicacy Of the
remark I paid for the group, Harold. F"
The sculptor WINGED, as though a lash
had been laid across his shoulders. :" You
paid me literally, Mauvain.' ~
SIT is mine, therefore, and am its
owner, judge, and critic. You have a
perverse sensitiveness. You have done
nothing as fine as this. No. Harold, 1
cannot give it you. ;"
"Sell it to me, then, sid Harold, with
earnestness.
81 am not, said Mauvain, somewhat
haughtily, and yet with a touch of amuse-
ment in his tone, ga dealer in curiosities,
l cannot sell the group. Dismiss the sub
jew SOhO WIN " VIZ oNioOAi, "dN
assist me in my letter to the islanders. !"
The ship lay at anchor that night. The
sailors sang their sea-songs, the rough
melody of which became softened as they
fioated over the waters. With the moon
light on it, the isle looked like fairy isle
the soft waves tapped the shore, along
which sauntered here and there couple
in their springtime. The future was theirs,
and their hearts were light no shadows
rested on their lives Harold remained
upon the deck, gazing on the isle, and
thinking of the past. His thoughts trav-
eled in these grooves:
"Conld we but tear some leaves out of
the book Or, better still, could we de-
stroy the book itself Turn over the
pages, Harold. What do you see?
"Wasted days and nights; misspent
endeavor masses of violent color; har-
mony robbed of sweetness beauty out of
proportion such as weak-brained esthetics
love to draw; tangles of artificial flowers
painted women; men with the souls of
walters; false protestations.
"What tumble of disturbances Strug-
Cling one with another, not for the purpose
of arriving at some sort of order and
decency, but for the purpose of asserting
an enjoyment of the hours which becomes
pain when the tombstone of true manli-
ness is applied to it. Even at the time its
worst pages were written, some glimmer-
ing of this entered my mind.
GA witch's revel The beauties of ma
ture distorted and insulted, and mud flung
upon purity. Miracles on every side.
Springs tenderness summers perfect
ness; autumn's peacefulness winters
white loveliness; all Knocked, derided, be.
Titled (if nature can be) by false refine.
ment or coarse indulgence.
ga creditable production, such a book,
for mortal endowed with reason, imag.
nation, and an indolent affectation Of
ideaiity. If this life were all, it would
but be adding wasted time to wasted time
to occupy the moments in regret and self.
reproach In such belief, every hour
should be made to yield its measure of en-.
joyment it would be an intellectual exer.
else of opportunity to exact this tribute
from time which flies or lags according to
our humor. But it is not all we are
something higher than beasts of the field.
Herein lies the appalling shadow. The
phantom Of your higher self rises before
you, and with sad eyes demands an &C.
count.
''I render it. Not mine all the fault.
Ny boat has drifted on, and / have not
striven to direct its course. l am wrong
there was time when spirit on the shore
seemed to say, There is in life an earnest,
lovely field before you ; there is in life a
sweetcr hope, in whose light your higher
aspirations shall be realized; love shall
give you earnestness and courage. But
the voice / seemed to hear was Of my own
creation. The spirit stood before me, but
its tongue was mute; its heart never re-
sponded to mine.
$50 much for the past. Let it go. Re.
tain only what is pure and sweet. The
future still is yours.
"How many years ago is it since Wis
tied this fairy isle? have kept no count
of time. The memory of the few hours /
spent upon its shores fingers with me like
a pleasant dream. The child I brough:
hither, in strange uncongenial society, is a
woman now, fair and beautiful. There is
no doubt of it. Princess of the Silver
Isle, kiss your fairy fingers. My very
words come back to me. She gave me her
hand, with natures true grace, and SO /
left her.
"Were / painter, l would draw the
picture. The child, the hunchback, and
/. The islanders standing little apart,