第122章

The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was not one of thosenative artists who, at a later period than this, borrowed their colorsfrom the Indians, and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wildbeasts. Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged hisdestiny, he might have chosen to belong to that school without amaster, in the hope of being at least original, since there were noworks of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had been bornand educated in Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeuror beauty of conception, and every touch of the master hand, in allthe most famous pictures, in cabinets and galleries, and on thewalls of churches, till there was nothing more for his powerful mindto learn. Art could add nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. Hehad therefore visited a world whither none of his professionalbrethren had preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images thatwere noble and picturesque, yet had never been transferred tocanvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations to anartist of eminence, though many of the colonial gentry, on thepainter's arrival, had expressed a wish to transmit their lineamentsto posterity by means of his skill. Whenever such proposals were made,he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and seemed to look himthrough and through. If he beheld only a sleek and comfortable visage,though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture and goldenguineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and the reward.

But if the face were the index of any thing uncommon, in thought,sentiment, or experience; or if he met a beggar in the street, witha white beard and a furrowed brow; or if sometimes a child happened tolook up and smile, he would exhaust all the art on them that he deniedto wealth.

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter becamean object of general curiosity. If few or none could appreciate thetechnical merit of his productions, yet there were points, in regardto which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refinedjudgment of the amateur. He watched the effect that each pictureproduced on such untutored beholders, and derived profit from theirremarks, while they would as soon have thought of instructing Natureherself as him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it must beowned, was tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country.

Some deemed it an offence against the Mosaic law, and even apresumptuous mockery of the Creator, to bring into existence suchlively images of his creatures. Others, frightened at the art whichcould raise phantoms, at will, and keep the form of the dead among theliving, were inclined to consider the painter as a magician, orperhaps the famous Black Man, of old witch times, plotting mischief ina new guise. These foolish fancies were more than half believedamong the mob. Even in superior circles his character was investedwith a vague awe, partly rising like smoke wreaths from the popularsuperstitions, but chiefly caused by the varied knowledge andtalents which he made subservient to his profession.

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eagerto obtain their portraits, as the first of what, they doubtless hoped,would be a long series of family pictures. The day after theconversation above recorded they visited the painter's rooms. Aservant ushered them into an apartment, where, though the artisthimself was not visible, there were personages whom they couldhardly forbear greeting with reverence. They knew, indeed, that thewhole assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separatethe idea of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits.

Several of the portraits were known to them, either as distinguishedcharacters of the day or their private acquaintances. There wasGovernor Burnett, looking as if he had just received an undutifulcommunication from the House of Representatives, and were inditing amost sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung beside the ruler whom heopposed, sturdy, and somewhat puritanical, as befitted a popularleader. The ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from thewall, in ruff and farthingale- an imperious old dame, notunsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, then a very young man, worethe expression of war-like enterprise, which long afterwards madehim a distinguished general. Their personal friends were recognized ata glance. In most of the pictures, the whole mind and character werebrought out on the countenance, and concentrated into a single look,so that, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembledthemselves so strikingly as the portraits did.

Among these modern worthies there were two old bearded Saints,who had almost vanished into the darkening canvas. There was also apale, but unfaded Madonna, who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome,and now regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that theylonged to worship too.

"How singular a thought," observed Walter Ludlow, "that thisbeautiful face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! Oh,if all beauty would endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?""If earth were heaven, I might," she replied. "But where all thingsfade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!""This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saintthough he be," continued Walter. "He troubles me. But the Virgin lookskindly at us.""Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks," said Elinor.

The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining onethat had been recently commenced. After a little inspection, theybegan to recognize the features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr.

Colman, growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.