The Prophetic Pictures

From Twice Told Tales

[This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, related in Dunlap's
History of the Arts of Design,--a most entertaining book to the general
reader, and a deeply interesting one, we should think, to the artist,]

"But this painter!" cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. "He not only
excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all other
learning and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather, and gives
lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the best
instructed man among us, on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished
gentleman,--a citizen of the world,--yes, a true cosmopolite; for he will
speak like a native of each clime and country on the globe, except our
own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all this what I most admire
in him."

"Indeed!" said Elinor, who had listened with a woman's interest to the
description of such a man. "Yet this is admirable enough."

"Surely it is," replied her lover, "but far less so than his natural gift
of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that all men
--and all women too, Elinor--shall find a mirror of themselves in this
wonderful painter. 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 the poor gentleman. Are you
telling one of a painter, or a wizard?"

"In truth," answered he, "that question might be asked much more
seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man's
features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and
passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like sunshine,--or perhaps, in
the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleans of infernal fire. It is
an awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of
enthusiasm. "I shall be almost afraid to sit to him."

"Walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed Elinor.

"For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the 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, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?"

"Nothing, nothing," answered Elinor, hastily. "You paint my face with
your own fantasies. Well, come for me to-morrow, and we will visit this
wonderful artist."

But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a
remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face of
his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in