Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1889-09-25
From the New York Tablet. ]
The Last Painting.
BY EMMA HOWARD WIGHT.

There dwelt once in a stately castle
beautiful dark-eyed boy, the last of noble
race, and fair, golden-haired lady, his
mother. Far and near was this lady known
and loved for her gentle goodness, her
sweet charity, and hardly peasant bent
his knee at evening under the shadow of
the great castle but asked Gods blessing
OF her head. Many years before, when the
boy was but a little toddling thing, the
grim call of war had taken from her her
noble husband. She uttered no complaint,
she made no moan when in the great wide
doors he stopped, with white lips, and
kissed her and the boy, then turned, sprang
upon his horse and dashed away, not dar-
ing to look back. And the young wife
took up her burden of suspense, dread and
weary waiting, and bore it with gentle
patience, though the rose faded from her
cheek and her blue eyes grew sad and
wistful. Then, one day, the waiting came
to an end, when, through the gates of the
castle, was borne the dead body OF its lord
wrapped in the blood flag under
whose standard he had brayely fought and
fell. And the young wife knelt beside the
cold dead form and prayed with breaking
heart that heaven would give her strength
to bear her trial, and, as though in answer
to that prayer, little child stole to her
side and slipped its baby hand in hers, and
that touch brought something of peace even
there beside the newly dead, and clasping
the small form closely to her, she muir
INJURED another prayer: ooh, God, take my
little one in Thy care, never let him stray
from Thee; keep him ever pure and true to
the faith of his fathers" The years went
on, and the young lord of the castle grew
from childhood to boyhood, environed by
mothers tender love, guarded by moth
er's prayers, taught all that is purest and
best from mothers gentle lips. He was
beautiful with the dark beauty of his
fathers race; he was proud, impetuoas,
daring, but he was innocent and pure of
heart. Early in him the fire of genius
began to glow, and sitting at his mothers
feet, his dark, curly head resting against
her shoulder, he would tell her of the am
bilious dreams which filled his young mind,
of how, some day in the years to come, he
would be great artist, whose fame would
ring throughout the world, and whose
pictures would live forever. And the
mother, as she listened and watched the
flushed cheek and sparkling eye, would
sometimes sigh and answer thus: "Dear,
always remember that the truest greatness
is first to be noble and pure of heart, and
no matter how we may appear before the
world, how great, how high, it avails us
nothing if we are not pleasing in the sight
of Heaven And the boy listened
patiently and reverently, sometimes bend
ing his proud young head to kiss the white
ieweled hand laid so tenderly on his arm
Then came time when first great sorrow
darkened his young life and grief and
gloom hung over the castle, for its sweet
and gentle lady lay ill unto death. Just
before death came she laid her head on the
dark, bowed head of the boy as he knelt in
speechless woe beside her, and said to him ::
'My child, live so that we may be re-
united in heaven, where there is no more
parting; do not forget what I have tried to
teach you, to be noble and pure and good,
and always remember am waiting for you
there"
The years had passed away, the boy had
become man, and the ambitious dreams
of his boyhood had all come to pass; no
greater artist ever lived; his pictures were
the wonder of the age; his name rang
throughout the land. But had he remem-
bered, through all the hattery and homage
of the world, the teachings of that dead
mother? Alas, no; it was an age of unbe-
lief, and in the whirlpool of skepticism
raging round him his faith was engulfed. -
He still cherished tenderly and reverently
the memory of that loved mother, but he
believed no longer in the God she had
taught him to love in his innocent boyhood
nor in the heaven where she had said she
would wait for him. One day, when
great church was being built, they came
and asked him to paint picture to hang
there. But when they told him the picture
they wanted was thorn crowned head of
Jesus Christ he very reluctantly promised
TO paint it. For all his great pictures had
been painted under that inspiration which
lights the road to genius, and he felt no
inspiration would come to him where be
had no belief. 1t was some days before he
could bring himself to begin, but at length
he stood before the easel on which was the
bare canvas, brush in hand, and listlessy.
with a frown on his brow, began to paint
1t was early morning, the soft summer air
came through the wide open window and
gently lifted the raven hair from his con
tracted brows; it was the sweet fresh oniet
hour when Inspiration had always come to
his wooing. And in a little while his hand
began to move more rapidly, his eyes
lighted from an inward fire, his dark cheek
flushed hotly, his breath came quick and
fast. The hours passed by, bat he still :
labored on; no food had that day passed his !
lips, but he was unccn scious of hunger I
A strange, fnrapt feeling held h;u,
stronger power seemed TO guide his hand
and the picture grew W tb marvellous rapid.