He stood in a corner silent and moody, and I looked about for something to divert him. "There is the great encyclopedist going into the library," I said. "What, L!" cried Philip, arousing himself. "He is the very person I wish to see. I was not at home when he called this morning. Let us go to him; if it will not be a bore to you, I should like to have a little talk with him." I was only too happy to find my bait successful. We went into the library, and Philip buried his chagrin in the pleasing excitement of a conversation with Dr. L and two or three other agreeable men; but I could see that he had not overcome his discomfort, and his annoyance served as a sharp sting to his conversation, giving it pungency and point. I began to wonder in that way we women have of blending our sentiments and intellects together, - driving four in hand as it were, — listening to cultivated manly conversation, and all the while weaving our own little web of romance and sweet folly; -I began to wonder, I say, how this affair of Florence and Philip was going to develop, and all this I worked at while listening admiringly and understandingly to a masterly description Philip was giving me of a subject which is deeply interesting the learned encyclopedist. "You see, the thing is simply this, Ottilie," and he explained to me with some little help from Dr. Land the other gentlemen, the plan of that famous tunnel under the Straits of Dover, which the first Napoleon conceived, and the third Emperor dreams of completing. "The bare idea is an epic!" exclaimed Philip. After Dr. L― had pointed out to me the plan of the tunnel on a beautiful little map or chart he had with him, Philip threw off, in his bold, impassioned style, a description of the descent of the cars from the high land, glowing with sunlight, to darkness far below the bed of the ocean; the roar and whirl of the steam-engines, united to the dull din of the sea waves dashing imperiously against that cuirass of rocks which shall separate the wild waste of waters above from this world below; and then the sweeping grand ascent upward of the cars in the middle of the Straits, to that Pharos of nations standing out in the sea on the coast of the Bank of Warne. 66 "Imagine," he said, "this subterranean road; a locomotive comes rushing along, vomiting flame and fiery vapor; it ascends a vast well-like tower, and finds itself on an island in the wide ocean. This island-port of Warne, as Lemoine says, will be the most complete representation of cosmopolitanism and fusion of people ever dreamed of, even by that great half-unknown French Franklin, Abbé de St. Pierre. Ships from every nation, with the produce and people from all parts of the globe, will assemble at this vast bureau of universal correspondence and intercourse; at midnight, as vessels come sailing by on the open sea, the great ocean light-house will beam on them, and its immense quays, lighted up by huge reflectors, shall point out one neutral spot of land, ruling over two seas, a star of hope and faith to peaceful nations." All this he sketched out with a graphic force and energy which set my blood to tingling. While he was making one of his finest points, I saw his eye sparkle, lip quiver, and I fancied I noticed a slight waver in the voice, as if some sharp, sudden emotion had stung him : at the same time I felt a soft hand creep around my waist. I turned, and there was pretty Florence, looking almost penitent and entreating. Philip never noticed her, never stopped the shadow of an instant, but poured on his fine eloquence as if unconscious of the sweet flattery her coming displayed; and yet I knew that the haughty creature was feeling it in every bounding pulse of his body. I drew the darling girl quietly down beside me, making room for her on the large sofa, held her soft little hand with its pretty pink finger tips tenderly in mine; and while Philip's lava current of description poured on, I thought how lovely and refreshing youth is. The dear child sat looking up with rapt, half-conscious admiration of the brilliant man. She, who had been a few moments before the little queen of the ball-room, had thrown aside her rank and station and admirers, drawn by the subtle, strange, but sweet magnetism of love to his side. How dreamy and happy I felt as I looked at the two. I wished to say to him, Strange Philip! "Look at the woman here with the new soul, Waiting thy word to enter and make bright, From form be nothing? This new soul is thine! *Browning's "Pippa Passes." CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL. WAS up so late last night, that when my maid came at the usual hour this morning I dismissed her, and slept until ten o'clock. After I had breakfasted, I learned that both Janet and Venitia had gone driving. Feeling as if I needed some pleasant occupation out doors, I sent for a carriage, intending to drive to the Church of L' Incoronata. I wished to be alone in the gallery of that old building, and dream my waking visions beside those ceiling frescos of Giotto, which are so suggestive to me of pleasing memories both in history and art; for if, as old Montaigne says, "les historiens sont ma droicte balle," the early artists are also “le vray gibier de mon estude." "At any rate, I love the season Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy." While looking at Giotto's pictures, after studying those of the Byzantine school, I understand well what F. Schlegel meant when he wrote, "Where clear intelligence is combined with an instinctive power over the mechanism of a work, the glowing apparition called Art, which we venerate and welcome as a stranger visitant descending from loftier regions, springs at once into existence." Giotto! With that name what rich associations are connected. The friend of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. The popular artist of one of the most brilliant and luxurious courts ever known, where beauty and genius, and, alas! sin and sorrow also, dwelt. From this painter's pencil has come to us, in the ceiling frescos of L'Incoronata, the face of that lovely, hapless queen, Joanna. In this portrait she looks pleasure-loving and insouciante; her long, almond-shaped eyes ask only tenderness and ease; her full lips, soft cheeks, and beautiful head, which bears the crown with sweet dignity, all express love and joy more than pride and ambition. The haughty beauties standing behind her in this fresco picture of her marriage - her cousins, Boccaccio's Fiammetta, and the Countess Durazzo have enough of these dangerous passions in their faces; but the countenance of this calm, happy-looking woman is free from all harsh emotions. "E tu madre d' amor, col tuo giocondo E lieto aspetto." Pretty creature! She and her gay, pleasure-loving cousins had great poets for lovers; world-poems to fetch down their names to us; and Giotto, "the lord of painting's field," to give us their delicious forms; but alas! they had history, also, to stand grimly by, and point with red, dripping finger to their poison bowls and headsman's block and axe! "merely born to bloom and drop, Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop; What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop? 'Dust and ashes'! so you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too, what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.” * *Browning's "Toccata of Galuppi." |