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[1] 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 me 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 gleam 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 accordance
with what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of
wedlock.  Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.

“A look!” said Elinor to herself.  “No wonder that it startled him, if
it expressed what I sometimes feel.  I know, by my own experience, how
frightful a look may be.  But it was all fancy.  I thought nothing of
it at the time–I have seen nothing of it since–I did but dream it.”

And she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff, in which she
meant that her portrait should be taken.

The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native
artists who, at a later period than this, borrowed their colors from
the Indians, and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged his destiny,
he might have chosen to belong to that school without a master, in the
hope of being at least original, since there were no works of art to
imitate, nor rules to follow.  But he had been born and educated in
Europe.  People said that he had studied the grandeur or beauty of
conception, and every touch of the master-hand, in all the most famous
pictures, in cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of churches, till
there 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 his professional brethren had preceded him, to
feast his eyes on visible images that were noble and picturesque, yet
had never been transferred to canvas.  America was too poor to afford
other temptations to an artist of eminence, though many of the colonial
gentry, on the painter’s arrival, had expressed a wish to transmit
their lineaments to posterity by means of his skill.  Whenever such
proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and
seemed to look him through and through.  If he beheld only a sleek and
comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn the
picture, and golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task
and the reward.  But if the face were the index of anything uncommon,
in thought, sentiment, or experience; or if he met a beggar in 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 to wealth.

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an
object of general curiosity.  If few or none could appreciate the
technical merit of his productions, yet there were points in regard to
which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment
of the amateur.  He watched the effect that each picture produced on
such untutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, while
they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as him
who seemed to rival her.  Their admiration, it must be owned, was
tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country.  Some deemed it
an offence against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of
the Creator, to bring into existence such lively images of His
creatures.  Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms at
will, and keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined to
consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man, of
old witch-times, plotting mischief in a new guise.  These foolish
fancies were more than half believed among the mob.  Even in superior
circles, his character was invested with a vague awe, partly rising
like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused
by the varied knowledge and talents which he made subservient to his

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and Elinor were eager to
obtain their portraits, as the first of what, they doubtless hoped,
would be a long series of family pictures.  The day after the
conversation above recorded, they visited the painter’s rooms.  A
servant ushered them into an apartment, where, though the artist
himself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardly
forbear greeting with reverence.  They knew, indeed, that the whole
assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the idea
of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits.  Several of the
portraits were known to them, either as distinguished characters of the
day, or their private acquaintances.  There was Governor Burnet,
looking as if he had just received an undutiful communication from the
House of Representatives, and were inditing a most sharp response.  Mr.
Cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and somewhat
puritanical, as befitted a popular leader.  The ancient lady of Sir
William Phips eyed them from the wall, in ruff and farthingale, an
imperious old dame, not unsuspected of witchcraft.  John Winslow, then
a very young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which long
afterward made him a distinguished general.  Their personal friends
were recognized at a glance.  In most of the pictures, the whole mind
and character were brought out on the countenance, and concentrated
into a single look, so that, to speak paradoxically, the originals
hardly resembled themselves 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 a pale but
unfaded Madonna, who had perhaps been worshiped in Rome, and now
regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed to
worship too.

“How singular a thought,” observed Walter Ludlow, “that this beautiful
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 things
fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!”

“This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he
be,” continued Walter.  “He troubles me.  But the virgin looks kindly
at us.”

“Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks,” said Elinor.  The easel stood
beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that had been recently
commenced.  After a little inspection, they began to recognize the
features of their own minister; the Rev. Dr. Colman, growing into shape
and life as it were, out of a cloud.

“Kind old man!” exclaimed Elinor.  “He gazes at me as if he were about
to utter a word of paternal advice.”

“And at me,” said Walter, “as if he were about to shake his head and
rebuke me for some suspected iniquity.  But so does the original.  I
shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand before
him to be married.”

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, beheld the
painter, who had been some moments in the room, and had listened to a
few of their remarks.  He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance
well worthy of his own pencil.  Indeed, by the picturesque though
careless arrangement of his rich dress, and, perhaps, because his soul
dwelt always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait
himself.  His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist
and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the
canvas to salute them.

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the
object of their visit.  While he spoke, a sun-beam was falling athwart
his figure and Elinor’s, with so happy an effect that they also seemed
living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by bright fortune.  The
artist was evidently struck.

“My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in Boston
must be brief,” said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant glance,
he added, “but your wishes shall be gratified, though I disappoint the
Chief-Justice and Madam Oliver.  I must not lose this opportunity, for
the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth and brocade.”

The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into
one picture, and represent them engaged in some appropriate action.
This plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily
rejected, because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit for
the room which it was intended to decorate.  Two half-length portraits
were therefore fixed upon.  After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow
asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence over
their fates the painter was about to acquire.

“The old women of Boston affirm,” continued he, “that after he has once
got possession of a person’s face and figure, he may paint him in any
act or situation whatever–and the picture will be prophetic.  Do you
believe it?”

“Not quite,” said Elinor, smiling.  “Yet if he has such magic, there is
something so gentle in his manner that I am sure he will use it well.”

It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both the portraits at the
same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he
sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other.
Accordingly, he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and the
features of one and the other began to start forth so vividly that it
appeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage them from
the canvas.  Amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld their
phantom selves.  But, though the likeness promised to be perfect, they
were not quite satisfied with the expression; it seemed more vague than
in most of the painter’s works.  He, however, was satisfied with the
prospect of success, and being much interested in the lovers, employed
his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch of
their two figures.  During their sittings, he engaged them in
conversation, and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits,
which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine and
fix.  At length he announced that at their next visit both the
portraits would be ready for delivery.

“If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in the few last
touches which I meditate,” observed he, “these two pictures will be my
very best performances.  Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.”

While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, nor
withdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes stronger hold of
the imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted.  Yet why
should it be so?  The looking-glass, the polished globes of the
andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,
continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, of ourselves,
which we glance at, and straightway forget them.  But we forget them
only because they vanish.  It is the idea of duration–of earthly
immortality–that gives such a mysterious interest to our own
portraits.  Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and
hastened to the painter’s room, punctually at the appointed hour, to
meet those pictured shapes which were to be their representatives with
posterity.  The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but
left it somewhat gloomy, as they closed the door.

Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, which rested
against the furthest wall of the room.  At the first glance, through
the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their
natural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognized so well,
they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight.

“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “fixed in sunshine
forever!  No dark passions can gather on our faces!”

“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary change can sadden us.”

This was said while they were approaching, and had yet gained only an
imperfect view of the pictures.  The painter, after saluting them,
busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his
visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors.  At
intervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watching
their countenances in profile, with his pencil suspended over the
sketch.  They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s
picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but without
uttering a word.  At length Walter stepped forward–then back–viewing
Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.

“Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone.
“Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid, the longer I look.  It is
certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress–the
features–all are the same; and yet something is altered.”

“Is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?” inquired the
painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible interest.

“The features are perfect, Elinor,” answered Walter, “and, at the first
glance, the expression seemed also hers.  But, I could fancy that the
portrait has changed countenance while I have been looking at it.  The
eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression.
Nay, it is grief and terror!  Is this like Elinor?”

“Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the painter.

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress and started.  Motionless and
absorbed–fascinated as it were–in contemplation of Walter’s portrait,
Elinor’s face had assumed precisely the expression of which he had just
been complaining.  Had she practiced for whole hours before a mirror,
she could not have caught the look so successfully.  Had the picture
itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present aspect,
with stronger and more melancholy truth.  She appeared quite
unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.

“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement, “what change has come over

She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze, till he seized
her hand, and thus attracted her notice; then, with a sudden tremor,
she looked from the picture to the face of the original.  “Do you see
no change in your portrait?” asked she.

“In mine?–None!” replied Walter, examining it.  “But let me see!  Yes;
there is a slight change–an improvement, I think, in the picture,
though none in the likeness.  It has a livelier expression than
yesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes, and
about to be uttered from the lips.  Now that I have caught the look, it
becomes very decided.”

While he was intent on these observations, Elinor turned to the
painter.  She regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaid
her with sympathy and commiseration, though wherefore she could but
vaguely guess.

“That look!” whispered she, and shuddered.  “How came it there?”

“Madam,” said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, and leading her
apart, “in both these pictures I have painted what I saw.  The
artist–the true artist–must look beneath the exterior.  It is his
gift–his proudest but often a melancholy one–to see the inmost soul,
and by a power indefinable even to himself to make it glow or darken
upon the canvas, in glances that express the thought and sentiment of
years.  Would that I might convince myself of error in the present

They had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, hands
almost as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied church towers, thatched
cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and
all such picturesque vagaries of an artist’s idle moments.  Turning
them over, with seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures
was disclosed.

“If I have failed,” continued he, “if your heart does not see itself
reflected in your own portrait, if you have no secret cause to trust my
delineation of the other, it is not yet too late to alter them.  I
might change the action of these figures too.  But would it influence
the event?”

He directed her notice to the sketch.  A thrill ran through Elinor’s
frame; a shriek was upon her lips; but she stifled it, with the
self-command that becomes habitual to all who hide thoughts of fear and
anguish within their bosoms.  Turning from the table, she perceived
that Walter had advanced near enough to have seen the sketch, though
she could not determine whether it had caught his eye.

“We will not have the pictures altered,” said she hastily.  “If mine is
sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast.”

“Be it so,” answered the painter, bowing.  “May your griefs be such
fanciful ones that only your picture may mourn for them!  For your
joys–may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely
face till it quite belie my art!”

After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pictures formed the two
most splendid ornaments of their abode.  They hung side by side,
separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly,
yet always returning the gaze of the spectator.  Travelled gentlemen,
who professed a knowledge of such subjects, reckoned these among the
most admirable specimens of modern portraiture; while common observers
compared them with the originals, feature by feature, and were
rapturous in praise of the likeness.  But it was on a third
class–neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but people
of natural sensibility–that the pictures wrought their strongest
effect.  Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming
interested, would return day after day, and study these painted faces
like the pages of a mystic volume.  Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted
their earliest notice.  In the absence of himself and his bride, they
sometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intended
to throw upon the features; all agreeing that there was a look of
earnest import, though no two explained it alike.  There was less
diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture.  They differed,
indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom
that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from
the natural temperament of their youthful friend.  A certain fanciful
person announced, as the result of much scrutiny, that both these
pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy strength of
feeling, in Elinor’s countenance, bore reference to the more vivid
emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in that of Walter.
Though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch, in which the
action of the two figures was to correspond with their mutual

It was whispered among friends, that, day by day, Elinor’s face was
assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness, which threatened soon to render
her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture.  Walter, on the
other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter had
given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward
flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within.  In course
of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk, wrought with
flowers, and fringed with heavy golden tassels, before the pictures,
under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues, or the light dim
them.  It was enough.  Her visitors felt that the massive folds of the
silk must never be withdrawn, nor the portraits mentioned in her

Time wore on; and the painter came again.  He had been far enough to
the north to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look
over the vast round of cloud and forest, from the summit of New
England’s loftiest mountain.  But he did not profane that scene by the
mockery of his art.  He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake
George, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till
not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recollection.  He
had gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, again, had
flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling that he could as
soon paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous
cataract.  In truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery,
except as a framework for the delineations of the human form and face,
instinct with thought, passion, or suffering.  With store of such, his
adventurous ramble had enriched him; the stern dignity of Indian
chiefs; the dusky loveliness of Indian girls; the domestic life of
wigwams; the stealthy march; the battle beneath gloomy pine trees; the
frontier fortress with its garrison; the anomaly of the old French
partisan, bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts; such were
the scenes and portraits that he had sketched.  The glow of perilous
moments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce power–love,
hate, grief, frenzy–in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old earth
had been revealed to him under a new form.  His portfolio was filled
with graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory, which genius
would transmute into its own substance, and imbue with immortality.  He
felt that the deep wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was

But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest, or its
overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, the
companions of his way.  Like all other men around whom an engrossing
purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of human kind.
He had no aim–no pleasure–no sympathies–but what were ultimately
connected with his art.  Though gentle in manner, and upright in intent
and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold; no
living creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm.  For
these two beings, however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the
sort of interest which always allied him to the subjects of his pencil.
He had pried into their souls with his keenest insight, and pictured
the result upon their features with his utmost skill, so as barely to
fall short of that standard which no genius ever reached, his own
severe conception.  He had caught from the duskiness of the future–at
least, so he fancied–a fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it
on the portraits.  So much of himself–of his imagination and all other
powers–had been lavished on the study of Walter and Elinor, that he
almost regarded them as creations of his own, like the thousands with
which he had peopled the realms of Picture.  Therefore did they flit
through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist of waterfalls,
look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away in the noontide
sun.  They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life, nor
pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, each with the
unalterable expression which his magic had evoked from the caverns of
the soul.  He could not recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld
the originals of those airy pictures.

“Oh, glorious Art!” thus mused the enthusiastic painter, as he trod the
street.  “Thou art the image of the Creator’s own.  The innumerable
forms that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck.  The
dead live again.  Thou recallest them to their old scenes, and givest
their gray shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and
immortal.  Thou snatchest back the fleeting moments of History.  With
thee, there is no Past; for, at thy touch, all that is great becomes
forever present; and illustrious men live through long ages, in the
visible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are.
Oh, potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past to stand in
that narrow strip of sunlight which we call Now, canst thou summon the
shrouded Future to meet her there?  Have I not achieved it!  Am I not
thy Prophet?”

Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almost cry aloud, as he
passed through the toilsome street, among people that knew not of his
reveries, nor could understand nor care for them.  It is not good for
man to cherish a solitary ambition.  Unless there be those around him
by whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and
hopes will become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps the
reality, of a madman.  Reading other bosoms, with an acuteness almost
preternatural, the painter failed to see the disorder of his own.

“And this should be the house,” said he, looking up and down the front,
before he knocked.  “Heaven help my brains!  That picture!  Methinks it
will never vanish.  Whether I look at the windows or the door, there it
is framed within them, painted strongly, and glowing in the richest
tints–the faces of the portraits–the figures and action of the

He knocked.

“The portraits!  Are they within?” inquired he, of the domestic; then
recollecting himself–“your master and mistress!  Are they at home?”

“They are, sir,” said the servant, adding, as he noticed that
picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest himself,
“and the Portraits too!”

The guest was admitted into a parlor, communicating by a central door
with an interior room of the same size.  As the first apartment was
empty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyes
were greeted by those living personages, as well as their pictured
representatives, who had long been the object of so singular an
interest.  He involuntarily paused on the threshold.

They had not perceived his approach.  Walter and Elinor were standing
before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich
and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride.  The
pictures, concealed for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished
splendor, appearing to throw a sombre light across the room rather than
to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance.  That of Elinor had been almost
prophetic.  A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had successively
dwelt upon her countenance, deepening, with the lapse of time, into a
quiet anguish.  A mixture of affright would now have made it the very
expression of the portrait.  Walter’s face was moody and dull, or
animated only by fitful flashes, which left a heavier darkness for
their momentary illumination.  He looked from Elinor to her portrait,
and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally stood

The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind him,
on its progress toward its victims.  A strange thought darted into his
mind.  Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had embodied
itself, and he a chief agent of the coming evil which he had

Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it, as
with his own heart, and abandoning himself to the spell of evil
influence that the painter had cast upon the features.  Gradually his
eyes kindled; while, as Elinor watched the increasing wildness of his
face, her own assumed a look of terror; and when at last he turned upon
her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete.

“Our fate is upon us!” howled Walter.  “Die!”

Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking to the ground,
and aimed it at her bosom.  In the action and in the look and attitude
of each, the painter beheld the figures of his sketch.  The picture,
with all its tremendous coloring was finished.

“Hold, madman!” cried he, sternly.

He had advanced from the door, and interposed himself between the
wretched beings, with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny
as to alter a scene upon the canvas.  He stood like a magician,
controlling the phantoms which he had evoked.

“What!” muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed from fierce excitement
into silent gloom.  “Does Fate impede its own decree?”

“Wretched lady!” said the painter.  “Did I not warn you?”

“You did,” replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the
quiet grief which it had disturbed.  “But–I loved him!”

Is there not a deep moral in the tale?  Could the result of one, or all
our deeds, be shadowed forth and set before us–some would call it Fate
and hurry onward, others be swept along by their passionate
desires–and none be turned aside by the PROPHETIC PICTURES.

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