“But this painter！” cried Walter Ludlow， with animation.
“He not only excels in his peculiar art， but possesses vastacquirements in all other learning and science. He talksHebrew with Dr. Mather and gives lectures in anatomy toDr. Boylston. In a word， he will meet the best-instructedman among us on his own ground. Moreover， he is apolished gentleman， a citizen of the world—yes， a truecosmopolite； for he will speak like a native of each climeand country on the globe， except our own forests， whitherhe is now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in him.”
“Indeed！” said Elinor， who had listened with a women’sinterest to the description of such a man. “Yet this isadmirable enough.”
“Surely it is，” replied her lover， “but far less so thanhis natural gift of adapting himself to every variety ofcharacter， insomuch that all men—and all women too，Elinor—shall find a mirror of themselves in this wonderfulpainter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be told.”
“Nay， if he have more wonderful attributes than these，”
said Elinor， laughing， “Boston is a perilous abode for thepoor gentleman. Are you telling me of a painter， or awizard？”
“In truth，” answered he， “that question might be askedmuch more seriously than you suppose. They say that hepaints not merely a man’s features， but his mind and heart.
He catches the secret sentiments and passions and throwsthem upon the canvas like sunshine， or perhaps， in theportraits of dark-souled men， like a gleam of infernal fire.
It is an awful gift，” added Walter， lowering his voice fromits tone of enthusiasm. “I shall be almost afraid to sit tohim.”
“Walter， are you in earnest？” exclaimed Elinor.
“For Heaven’s sake， dearest Elinor， do not let him paintthe look which you now wear，” said her lover， smiling，though rather perplexed. “There！ it is passing away now；but when you spoke， you seemed frightened to death， andvery sad besides. What were you thinking of？”
“Nothing， nothing！” answered Elinor， hastily. “Youpaint my face with your own fantasies. Well， come for metomorrow， and we will visit this wonderful artist.”
But when the young man had departed， it cannot bedenied that a remarkable expression was again visible onthe fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was a sad andanxious look， little in accordance with what should havebeen the feelings of a maiden on the eve of wedlock. YetWalter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.
“A look！” said Elinor to herself. “No wonder that itstartled him if it expressed what I sometimes feel. I knowby my own experience how frightful a look may be. Butit was all fancy. I thought nothing of it at the time； Ihave seen nothing of it since； I did but dream it；” and shebusied herself about the embroidery of a ruff in which shemeant that her portrait should be taken.
The painter of whom they had been speaking was notone of those native artists who at a later period than thisborrowed their colors from the Indians and manufacturedtheir pencils of the furs of wild beasts. Perhaps， if he couldhave revoked his life and prearranged his destiny， he mighthave chosen to belong to that school without a masterin the hope of being at least original， since there were noworks of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had beenborn and educated in Europe. People said that he hadstudied the grandeur or beauty of conception and everytouch of the master-hand in all the most famous picturesin cabinets and galleries and on the walls of churches tillthere was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn.
Art could add nothing to its lessons， but Nature might.
He had， therefore， visited a world whither none of hisprofessional brethren had preceded him， to feast his eyeson visible images that were noble and picturesque， yethad never been transferred to canvas. America was toopoor to afford other temptations to an artist of eminence，though many of the colonial gentry on the painter’s arrivalhad expressed a wish to transmit their lineaments toposterity by moans of his skill. Whenever such proposalswere made， he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant andseemed to look him through and through. If he beheldonly a sleek and comfortable visage， though there were agold-laced coat to adorn the picture and golden guineasto pay for it， he civilly rejected the task and the reward；but if the face were the index of anything uncommon inthought， sentiment or experience， or if he met a beggarin the street with a white beard and a furrowed brow，or if sometimes a child happened to look up and smile，he would exhaust all the art on them that he denied towealth.
Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies， the painterbecame an object of general curiosity. If few or nonecould appreciate the technical merit of his productions，yet there were points in regard to which the opinion ofthe crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment of theamateur. He watched the effect that each picture producedon such untutored beholders， and derived profit fromtheir remarks， while they would as soon have thought ofinstructing Nature herself as him who seemed to rival her.
Their admiration， it must be owned， was tinctured withthe prejudices of the age and country. Some deemed it anoffence against the Mosaic law， and even a presumptuousmockery of the Creator， to bring into existence such livelyimages of his creatures. Others， frightened at the artwhich could raise phantoms at will and keep the form ofthe dead among the living， were inclined to consider thepainter as a magician， or perhaps the famous Black Manof old witch-times plotting mischief in a new guise. Thesefoolish fancies were more， than half believed among themob. Even in superior circles his character was investedwith a vague awe， partly rising like smoke-wreaths fromthe popular superstitions， but chiefly caused by the variedknowledge and talents which he made subservient to hisprofession.
