THE PORTRAIT.

By Cornelia A. H. Berkeley.

"Why should this picture

Hang here to keep alive the sad remembrance

Of buried sorrow."

HELEN LOWE.

IN one of the Midland Counties, there stands an old fashioned mansion of red brick, some hundred and fifty, or two hundred years have past since it was first erected; but as time adds to architecture the beauty it takes from humanity, Milverton Hall had been rather improved than otherwise by the lapse of years.

It was built somewhat in the Dutch style, though possessing withal, a truly English aspect; as I have said before, it was of red brick, with white pointings round the windows, which were numerous, small and close together, a flight of stone steps led up to the massive portico, whose imposing aspect seemed at once to indicate the respectability of the otherwise unadorned mansion, two wings with blank windows completed the frontage, in the rear of which were capacious offices and stabling.

A long and almost straight avenue of fine old trees extended for nearly a quarter of a mile from the high road, through the park, the rooks had long possessed a numerous colony in the topmost branches of the noble trees, and their cawing was almost the only sound that disturbed the solemn tranquility of Milverton.

There is something peculiar in the cawing of these birds around such a building as this, they assimilate so exactly with the place, their hoarse serious voices, their methodical flight, their sturdy looking forms, as hopping from branch to branch they prosecute the business of their republican state. The rook always strikes one as being so truly an English bird in its character that it would not be an unfit emblem of the nation, their habits and actions are so business-like, their continued murmuring is so incessant, then again their strong determined appearance, and their heavy mode of flight, which has none of the mazy whirlings of their more ærial brethren; the rook is altogether a matter of fact bird, who follows the business of his existence without falling into any ecstatic chirpings, they

have to provide for their own sustenance, to build their nests, to bring up their young and to feed them, all this requires time and attention; and the rooks scold and chatter as though there were no other voices but theirs to be heard under heaven, and pursue their avocations as though there was no other business but their own in the world.

Milverton Hall had a north aspect, which was an additional reason for the gloomy air which, combined with its stiff formality pervaded the whole place; occasionally the sun shining through the forest trees, chequered the avenue and the park, and rested his kindly beams on the quaint flower-garden, which extended to the left of the edifice. The House itself seemed rather to rejoice in its stately coldness, seeing that it had no minarets, no domes to be gilded by the rising sun, nor painted windows, through which his rays should fall.

Equally formal was the interior of the House, the plain but handsome furniture being perfectly precise in all its arrangements: a rather numerous retinue of servants composed the household, and their master an old Bachelor, of the most methodical habits, was quite in character with the House, in fact nothing could be more uniform, than every thing about Milverton Hall, from the master down to the very horses, and dogs of the establishment.

But it is time to give some more particular description of the old Bachelor himself, therefore gentle, or rather, intelligent, reader, picture to yourself an old gentleman of about fifty-fiveyears of age, but looking perhaps older, with a thin tall figure, slightly bent, in a dress of precise and old fashioned style, with personal manners of the most gentlemanly, yet formal politeness, and a countenance, somewhat austere in expression. There was a precision too, about his mode of speech, which would have puzzled the observer, as to whether it was is natural temperament, or the effect of circumstances, certain it was, that he never expressed a regret, never uttered a bitter sentiment; on the contrary he was courteous to every one, and never seemed depressed or elated in spirits. Every step and movement was ceremonious, every principal of action thoroughly conventional, the world though far away from his present dwelling still appeared to rule him by its strictest laws. But this world which Mr. Fanshaw obeyed was not the gay world of London, nor the world of a provincial town, perhaps indeed, it could hardly be termed, the world of this century-It was a code which had fallen into desuetude a world of forms and ceremonies, the fashion of which is

passing, if it is not already gone. Had the sub-stratum realized, what the surface seemed to promise, we might have regretted the departure of these outward things; as it is, we neither can nor would, call them from the grave of the past.

Such were the rules which guided, or seemed to guide the old Bachelor; he was a man of proprieties, reserved and unbending, his very charity, which was always conveyed through a second person, appeared to be given from the dictates of duty, rather than the impulses of a feeling heart. There was no subscription got up for fifty miles round, that he did not subscribe to, handsomely, but not ostentatiously.

He received his friends with great politeness, and treated them with marked attention, and their visits were repaid with studied precision.

Immediate relatives he had none, his heir expectant was a second cousin, a fox hunting baronet, whom Mr. Fanshaw always received with more than common formality, and who found all attempts to increase his intimacy with the owner of Milverton Hall, did but injure his interest. He tried the plan of propitiating him by presents of game and so forth, but the old gentleman was not to be put under an obligation to any one, much less to those who he knew would expect to be repaid with interest in his will so that when Sir Henry Miles sent a present of venison, game, or early fruit to his rich old relative, a similar present was sure to be returned in less than a fortnight.

Mr. Fanshaw had been solicited by Sir Henry and Lady Miles, to stand godfather to their youngest child, but the old gentleman declined the honor, greatly to the annoyance of the parents; finding that all efforts to conciliate the favor of Mr. Fanshaw were perfectly useless, they at last gave up all decided attacks, merely keeping up the acquaintance by a half yearly visit of ceremony.

Few of the neighbours were bold enough to break through the icy barrier, which seemed to separate the old Bachelor from society, though all paid him the hollow tribute, which wealth commands, besides, no one had ever received a discourteous word from him; still he was not liked, his very politeness was chilling, and his ceremony, repellant.

Such was the old bachelor of Milverton Hall, at least such he was to all outward seeming, and let his habits and expressions be examined as closely as they could, no one would suppose that aught besides a cold heart had ever beat in that frigid breast. Yet this man of rules and proprieties had loved, had worshipped

at the shrine of beauty, had mourned over broken faith and withered hopes, with a sorrow that none but the most sensitive can feel. The congenial flow of his best emotions had been checked, when the tide of youthful affection was warm and pure.

In the library of Milverton Hall hangs the portrait of a lady; it is an excellent picture and bespeaks a master hand. The lady appears to be about one or two and twenty, in the full bloom of beauty, a beauty which is of such a perfect character, uniting all that the most ideal poet could wish, that one is half inclined to think such perfection could only have existed in the imagination of the painter; but not so, the beautiful original was as lovely as she is represented: a joyous expression pervades the countenance, she looks like a creature born in the summer-tide, when all was animation and beauty, and herself the centre of all delight, even as you gaze, the warm color seems to be mantling on her cheek, and the eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. In her raised hand she is holding up some beautiful flowers, in a playful attitude, as though she saw some one advancing to her. Years have passed since those flowers were painted, and still they are fresh and brilliant, but not so the flowers which once encompassed the pathway of her life— they are long since faded, withered, trampled under foot.

None would have thought that between that fair girl in the picture and that formal old man in the arm chair, there could ever have existed any link of romantic interest. Yet there had been a link between them, for they had loved one another,and we must not forget that the old have been young, and the withered may have been blooming.

In his youth Mr. Fanshaw had been handsome. He had also been a dreamer of those bright visions which

"Though some may deem them ideal

Are so sweet we fain would think them real."

We

There is generally some portion of himself that each individual hides beneath a veil of coldness or reserve, and not unfrequently that portion is the deepest, the noblest part of our nature. feel that this revelation of ourselves, is not for common intercourse, and it is only some extraordinary circumstance which discovers the hidden treasure to the eye of another; many pass years, nay even their whole lives without such circumstances occurring, and they go on their weary way silently yearning for a sympathy they are never to experience.

Born of a younger branch of a noble family, and in an age

NO. XI.

HH

VOL I.

when politeness was in vogue, young Fanshaw was educated in a somewhat courtly style of ceremonious formality. His parents were proud and haughty, repelling every advance of a playful or confiding nature from their child, so the poor boy was thrown back on himself, particularly as he had no brothers or sisters. Friends after the fashion of the world he had many, but friends after the fashion of the heart's best sympathies he had not one. From the entanglements of love, Alfred Fanshaw seemed peculiarly free. During his youth and early manhood, his father had an appointment at court, and their society was chiefly in that circle; Fanshaw, himself reserved and hiding beneath a cold exterior the reality of his nature, was not the most likely person to unfreeze the icy barrier of ceremony which encompassed the fair dames of St. James's, and hence he saw but the external; and beautiful though it might be, he might have exclaimed with a poet of our own day

"So coldly sweet, so deadly fair

We start, for soul is wanting there."

In this state of heart-freedom, the young man continued till he was about five and twenty.

Fanshaw was making an excursion on horseback, through the North of Wales, he was fond of these wanderings, and almost gave the reins to his horse to lead him where he chose: it suited his fancy

and

"To slowly trace the winding forest scene

"Ascend the trackless mountain all unseen."

It was in one of these wanderings that he found himself one day by the side of the river Dee. A picturesque spot invited his meditations, and tying his horse to a tree he seated himself on the bank, his eye sometimes resting on the pages of the book which he held in his hand, but more frequently he looked forth on that "liber veritatis" the book of nature which was spread before him in all the luxuriance of the early summer. He casually observed as his eye wandered over the landscape, that at some distance farther down the stream, a lady and gentleman were seated close to the edge of the water, apparently occupied in much the same way as himself, the distance was too great for him to distinguish their features, but he amused himself in watching them. The lady seemed to be throwing pebbles