"Once more, no!" replied the painter.

"No matter; the original will soon be mine."

The door closed rapidly behind his noiseless steps. A vague terror shot through the soul of the artist.

When Esther Vaughan came to the dwelling of the painter, she was radiant with a health which had triumphed over sorrow and long watching, but the seeds of disease now fastened upon her frame, and she sunk under its influence, growing daily feebler. The almost distracted husband employed the best physicians in the city, and under their efforts Esther, for a while, seemed to revive. One day, in solemn conclave, they decided that the patient would live, and announced the intelligence to the poor painter, as he sat in his lonely studio, with much pomposity and emphasis. At the time of this announcement, the painter was standing opposite the open door through which the physicians had just entered. At the moment when a smile of gratified love was lighting up his intelligent countenance, his eyes, looking beyond the group of visitors, caught in the corridor those of the strange bidder for the veiled picture. The unknown shook his head slowly and mournfully, then turned and retired.

"Stop him, gentlemen," cried the painter, bursting through the group of leeches; "he is a deadly enemy!"

The physicians looked at each other, smiled darkly, and shook their heads.

"Poor Grey!" said an old doctor.

"Mad?" asked the youngest of the group.

"The cell, the chain, and scourge would be a wholesome prescription,"

said the first speaker.

Such were the tender mercies of science to madness in the eighteenth century.

It was a hushed midsummer night. The hum of busy footsteps had long since died away, and the twinkling lights had faded, one by one, from the huge bulk of the metropolis. To the lonely night watcher, there was enough of light in the mild effulgence of the moon to distinguish whether the pale invalid woke or slumbered; whether the repose of the dead was inviolate, or invaded by noisome things that move abroad only in darkness. And midway between life and death, so motionless that you would say she belonged to the dark realm of the latter, so lovely that the former still seemed to claim her own, lay the earth-born love of the painter, with her ethereal essence yet hovering near the beloved of her soul. The painter sat by the bedside, with her thin, pale hand clasped in his. He had listened to her last accents; he had heard her call him, in the fervor of her affection, "her beautiful, her own;"

and he knew that, ere the unseen clock had recorded the death of another hour, the feeble pulse that fluttered beneath his fingers would have ceased to beat. Yet, with all this, his eyes were tearless, and his heart less heavy than in those dark dreams which had foreshadowed this event. In weal or woe, his prophetic dreams seemed even more impressive than the realities which followed them.

It appeared as if there were a magnetic influence in the touch of the dying hand; that the soul of Esther, bathed in the dawning light of the better world, had communicated a portion of its brightness to his own. So the hours wore on; the feeble pulse yet beat, but fainter and fainter. At last, through the open window which commanded a view of the east, the brightening streaks of dawn appeared; in the leaves of a solitary tree, that stood amid a wilderness of brick hard by, was heard the faint, tremulous twitter of a bird waiting but a ruddier ray to launch forth upon his dewy pinions. A smile, like a ray of light, dawned upon the countenance of Esther. She pointed to a shadowy alcove in the chamber, and the painter's eye, following the indication, detected the figure of his mysterious and prophetic visitor. But the countenance of the unknown was milder, softer; a veil of brightness had fallen upon the more repulsive lineaments, and when the broad daylight beamed into the apartment, his image melted into the ray, like a rain-drop into a sunny sea. A thrill ran through the painter's frame; he gazed upon the face of Esther; it was that of death.

An unfinished painting rests upon an easel; it is a glimpse of paradise. In the centre is a focus of almost intolerable splendor, the luminous veil of the Inconceivable and Infinite; while towards it, as if drawn by a vortex of glory, yet held in suspense when too near, hovers a cloud of radiant forms and faces, their souls, pure and beatified, beaming from their countenances, all full of adoration, intelligence, and bliss. The painter sat before it, giving the last touches with a feeble yet graceful hand. A light seemed to stream upon him from the picture, and lit up his pale, inspired countenance.

The door opened, yet the painter turned not from his task; he heard no footstep, yet he knew that the messenger--no longer feared, but hoped for--was standing at his side.

"One touch more," he said, softly. "Thus 'tis done, and bravely done!"

He turned--the mysterious messenger was truly there. But as the painter gazed, the herald's form was transfigured; his poor garments had given place to shining raiments; his countenance beamed glory and goodness; effulgent wings expanded their snowy plumage from his glorious shoulders, and on his forehead shone a star like that of morning. He touched the mortal hand that throbbed to meet his clasp; the last film fell from the painter's eye, and he saw, with ecstasy, no horrid phantom, but AZRAEL, the Angel of Death, great, beautiful, and good.

THE LATE ELIAS MUGGS,

CAPTAIN IN THE M. V. M.

Elias Muggs is no more! Hepzibah Muggs is a widow; a stranger has purchased the stock of West India goods, and the Bluetown Fusileers are commanded by the first lieutenant. These are sad changes.

It is not a little remarkable that though Captain Elias Muggs was not born in the same year as the Duke of Wellington, (though, by the way, every body else seems to have been,) yet he died about the same time.

There was a striking similarity between their characters and positions. The Iron Duke was commander-in-chief of the allied forces at the battle of Waterloo, and Elias Muggs was commander of the Bluetown Fusileers. If Elias Muggs had been born on the other side of the water, he probably would have been the Duke of Wellington; and if the Duke of Wellington had been born here, he would probably have been Elias Muggs. This proposition may appear a metaphysical subtlety to obtuse minds, but to ours it seems as clear as mud.

When such a man dies, he must not be permitted to depart

"Without the meed of one melodious tear."

His loss is a national loss. Nature seems to have intended him for President of the United States, but "left him two drinks behind;"

whence we may conclude that Nature is a humbug, a conclusion practically arrived at by most artists, living and dead.

Elias Muggs, from his tenderest years, was devoted to groceries and glory. His venerable schoolmistress, who has outlived her ill.u.s.trious pupil, and is now supported by the town whose founders were formed by her care, and who laid the foundation of our hero's greatness by the powerful application of birch at the seat of learning, a.s.sured us, in a recent interview, that the military propensities of Muggs were developed at an early age. She observed that it was impossible to fix his attention on the cla.s.sic page of Noah Webster when the Bluetown Fusileers were pa.s.sing the school house with drum and fife, and that the motive of his first experiment at "hooking jack" was a desire to attend a country muster in the neighboring town. She added, that she distinctly remembered having confiscated a box of tin soldiers with which he was amusing himself, and that he threatened to "punch her eye" if she did not release the unconscious prisoners of war on _parole_. These are very important facts.

We are unable to state the precise age at which Elias entered the service--but the town clerk of Bluetown places it at twenty-one. He went through the different grades with great rapidity, and was finally chosen captain in a warmly-contested election. There is no question that he would have been elected unanimously, without difficulty, had there not existed a great doubt in the _corps_ (Captain Muggs, by the way, always p.r.o.nounced this word, and spelled it, _corpse_) of his ability to "treat;" whereas his adversary was distinguished for possessing a "pocket full of rocks," and a willingness "to treat every body." The success of our hero, under the circ.u.mstances, was purely owing to military merit. The moment he was chosen, he took the field at the head of his command. Admiring Bluetown gazed approvingly upon his swallow-tailed coat, his tall plume, his shining battle blade, his plated scabbard, worsted sash, and low-heeled, cowhide boots. The fair, who are ever ready to award their smiles to chivalry, were unanimous in their approval, and Deacon Dogget's daughter was heard to murmur, "O, what a pooty soger 'lias makes!" "Upon this hint he spake"

a few days afterwards, and in due time they were married. But enough of that--our essay treats of war, not love.

In his "first field," Captain Muggs displayed his extraordinary knowledge of tactics. He it was who first discovered the method of "dressing" a line, by backing it up against a curbstone. He also divested military science of many pedantic terms, which tend only to confuse the young conscript, and dampen the military ardor of the patriot soldier. He subst.i.tuted the brief and soldierly words of command, "haw!" "gee!" and "whoa!" for "left," "right," and "halt."

His spirited "let her rip!" was an infinite improvement on the "fire"

of the Steuben manual. The object of the commander is to make himself understood readily by his men, and in this Captain Muggs was perfectly successful.

The greatest commanders have been famous for their terse eloquence.

Napoleon said to his troops in Egypt, "Soldiers, from the summit of these pyramids twenty centuries look down on you this day." Scott, in Mexico, said to Smith's brigade, "Brave rifles, you have been baptized in fire, and have come out steel." And Muggs, at Bluetown, after the last manoeuvre, said, "Feller sogers, that 'ere was prime--and now less adjourn to the tavern and likker up at my expense." It is questionable whether any speech of Napoleon or Scott ever excited more enthusiasm.

The company adjourned to the tavern, and after plentifully refreshing with long nines, pigtail, New England, and crackers, departed with three cheers for the "cap'n." We would fain draw a veil over what followed. But a strict regard for truth compels us to "speak right out in meetin'." All great men have their weaknesses. Caesar was not immaculate. Alexander the Great died of _mania a potu_. There was no Maine liquor law at the time of which we speak. There was not even a temperance society in all Bluetown.

Captain Muggs was in the green and salad days of youth. He was flushed with military success, young, ardent, and imprudent.

He retired to a private room with the commissioned officers of his "corps," and left a liberal order at the bar. Healths were drank, songs sung, patriotic and otherwise, more otherwise than patriotic, and the "fast and furious" fun was driven into the small hours of the morning. When the bill was presented, Captain Muggs was without funds; and his gallant subordinates, on the bare suggestion of a loan, incontinently vanished. Captain Muggs intimated something about credit. The landlord shook his head. Captain Muggs was grieved, and the landlord consulted the flytraps on the ceiling, still extending his open hand, with the palm upwards, in the direction of the officer.

Finding the publican obdurate, the captain proposed to leave his uniform and equipments in p.a.w.n, and the offer was accepted.

And here let us pause to contemplate the moral greatness of this act.

Those insignia of rank were as dear to Muggs as the apple of his eye.

They were to him what the sceptre and crown were to Napoleon. It was like tugging at his heartstrings to unfasten the belt and sash, and lay the sword upon the table. Marsyas suffered not more when Apollo removed his skin than Muggs did when the landlord stripped off his coat and epaulets. When the hat and plume were laid upon the altar of offended Mammon, Muggs uttered a deep groan, and departed in his shirt sleeves. If we were a great historical painter, we should prefer this subject to that of Washington resigning his commission as commander-in-chief of the revolutionary army.

The same integrity distinguished Captain Muggs throughout his life.

When, some years afterwards, he received a letter from a lawyer, stating that, in case he did not immediately satisfy a certain claim of five years' standing, legal measures would be adopted to enforce payment, he remitted the sum in question without a murmur.

Personal courage is not deemed indispensable to great commanders.

Marlborough is said to have trembled on the battle field. It is the part of the officer to command--of the men to execute. But Muggs was as valiant as he was wise. On a field day, when a certain turbulent apple woman persisted in encroaching on the lines, Captain Muggs charged her in person, unsupported by his troops, upset her apple stall, and expelled her from the lines. Such achievements are of rare occurrence.

On every parade day, Muggs was "thar." In every sham fight he was first and foremost. He was always loudest in proclaiming the "dooty of the milingtary to support the civil power." Yet in the great riot caused by the illegal impounding of Steve Gubbins's bull, when Bluetown was divided against itself, her constabulary force and "specials" ignominiously beaten and routed, Captain Muggs, with an heroic deafness to the call of glory and the selectmen, from a reluctance to shed the blood of his fellow-citizens, refused to call out his company, and concealed himself in a hayloft till the affray was over, the pound completely demolished, and the bull rescued from the minions of the law.

The loss of such a man is irreparable. What a president he would have made! Magnanimity, self-denial, punctuality, eloquence, popularity, military glory--why, he had all the elements of success. But our heroes are fast pa.s.sing away. Muggs is gone, and we must make up our minds to be governed by mere statesmen!

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

It was a fine night in the autumn of the year 1805, and the stars shone as brilliantly over the gay city of Paris as if they had burned in an Italian heaven. The c.u.mbrous ma.s.s of the palace of the Tuileries, instead of lying like a dark leviathan in the shadows of the night, blazed with light in all its many-windowed length; for the soldier emperor, the idol of his subjects, that night gave a grand ball and reception to the world. Troops in full uniform were under arms, and the great lamps of the court yard gazed brightly on the channelled bayonets and polished musket barrels of the sentinels.

Carriage after carriage drew up at the great portal, and emitted beautiful ladies, brilliantly attired, and marshals and staff officers blazing with embroidery; for Napoleon, simple and unostentatious in his own person, well knew the importance of surrounding himself with a brilliant court; and the people, even the rude and ragged denizens of the Faubourgs St. Antoine and St. Marceau, as they hung upon the iron railing and scanned the splendid dresses of the guests as they alighted from their carriages, were well pleased to see that a throne created by themselves could vie in splendor with the old hereditary seats of loyalty that existed in spite of the execrations of the million. They marked with pleasure the arms of some of the ancient Bourbon n.o.bility on the panels of some of the glittering equipages, for all the aristocracy of France had not joined the banners of her adversaries.