‘How cruelly it tries a broken heart
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.’
And who that has ever walked forth on a particularly bright morning, when he was nursing a deep sorrow, or was weighed down by the pressure of misfortune, but felt annoyed by the light, and noise, and cheerfulness around him? Those vast tides of human life what are they to him? He is but a drop in a wave of the mighty ocean—but a pebble thrown upon the sand—a broken link in the great chain of the Universe. Thus felt Paul, as on one of the loveliest days of laughing June, he wended his way to the office where he had left a manuscript to be examined by the publisher.
“‘How can those people look so smilingly,’ thought he, while glancing at the well-dressed groups on the side-walk. ‘And those children, how noisy they are—and see that carriage with its liveried attendants—pshaw!’ Now Paul was not envious, and he was particularly fond of children, but the feeling of loneliness in the crowd was oppressive, and with another half audible pshaw! he turned into a quieter street.
“The smiling face of the great man who employed so many subordinates in his large establishment, somewhat reassured the desponding youth, and after a little preliminary talk about encouraging native talent, a sum was offered, which, though small in itself, was just then a god-send to the needy Paul, who with many thanks bowed himself out of the publisher’s presence. One ray of light had dawned on his darkened path, one beam of hope had shed its warmth upon his heart, and how differently now looked the scene through which he had lately passed! With buoyant step he went on. He, too, could smile,—the darling little ones, how delighted he was to see them looking so happy—and the poor blind man at the corner must not be forgotten! Like the child who plays with the kaleidoscope, and every moment sees some new beauty, so Paul toyed with the many-colored hues in the rainbow of Hope, grouping them together in the most beautiful and dazzling forms.
“It was destined to be a red-letter day in his book of life. As he passed the print-shop he saw that his picture was gone from the window. It had been sold, and a companion-piece ordered by the purchaser. ‘Oh that my mother were living!’ sighed Paul—‘oh that my mother were living, we might yet go to Italy!’
“Again the painter laid aside his pen and resumed his pallet. The one order was executed, the money transferred to his slender purse, and even now he began to think how much might be put aside for his darling project.
“‘Could I but obtain enough to pay for my passage—once there, in that delicious climate, I could live on so little. Oh that some one would buy this,’ he continued, taking up a small picture on which he had bestowed unusual care, ‘it is worth more than either of the others. I shall leave it with the kind Mr. Barry; how generous he was in refusing the commission I promised him for the last one he sold.’
“Mr. Barry, at whose print-shop Paul had left his first picture, had kindly drawn from him the story of his life, and felt deeply interested in the young artist’s changing fortunes, but, like many other generous-hearted men, he was always forming schemes for the benefit of others, which his means would not permit him to accomplish.
“The kind man had just reared a goodly super-structure of greatness, upon a rather sandy foundation, for his young protégé, when Paul entered with the new work fresh from his easel.