earthly things its splendor waned. When
our pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone with
particles of mica glittering on its surface. There is also a tradition
that as the youthful pair departed the gem was loosened from the
forehead of the cliff and fell into the enchanted lake, and that at
noontide the Seeker's form may still be seen to bend over its
quenchless gleam.

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and
say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer
lightning, far down the valley of the Saco. And be it owned that many
a mile from the Crystal Hills I saw a wondrous light around their
summits, and was lured by the faith of poesy to be the latest pilgrim
of the Great Carbuncle.

THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.[1]

"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."

[Footnote 1: This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart related
in Dunlap's _History of the Arts of Designs_--a most entertaining
book to the general reader, and a deeply-interesting one, we should
think, to the artist.]

"Indeed!" said Elinor, who had listened with a women'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, o