in his own and
his master's landscapes;--something to which he could not give a name,
and which was nevertheless plainly apparent in the pictures by Claude
Lorraine, and the wild landscapes of Salvator Rosa. Soon he felt a
want of confidence in his instructor, and he felt particularly
dispirited when Hackert, with unwearied exertion, painted some dead
game which the king had sent him. Soon, however, he conquered such
presumptuous thoughts--as he considered them--and went on with virtuous
resignation and true German industry, following the pattern of his
master, so that in a short time he could nearly equal him. At
Hackert's own suggestion he sent a large landscape, which he had
faithfully copied from nature, to an exhibition, which was chiefly to
consist of landscapes and pieces of still-life in the Hackert style.
All the artists and connoisseurs admired the young man's faithful,
neatly executed works, and praised him aloud. There was only an
elderly strangely-attired man who did not say a word about Hackert's
pictures, but smiled, significantly, whenever the multitude broke out
into extravagant praises. Berthold perceived plainly enough that this
stranger, when he stood before his landscape, shook his head with an
air of the deepest pity, and was then about to retire. Being somewhat
elevated by the general praise which he had received, Berthold could
not help feeling indignant with the stranger. He went up to him, and
speaking more sharply than was necessary, said: 'You do not seem
satisfied with the picture, sir, although I must say there are
excellent artists and connoisseurs who do not think it so bad. Pray
tell me where the fault lies that I may improve the picture according
to your kind suggestion.' The stranger cast a keen glance at Berthold,
and said, very seriously: 'Young man, a great deal might be made out of
you.' Berthold felt deeply horrified at the glance and words of this
man; he had not courage to say any thing more, or to follow him, when
he slowly stalked out of the saloon. Hackert soon came in himself, and
Berthold hastened to tell him of his meeting with this strange man.
'Ha!' said Hackert, smiling, 'do not take that to heart. That is a
crabbed old man, who grumbles at every thing, and is pleased at
nothing; I met him in the ante-room. He was born of Greek parents, in
Malta, and is a rich, queer old fellow, and no bad painter. All that
he does has a fantastic appearance, and this proc