s tendencies; in his
magnanimous zeal for man's welfare, and his recklessness of whatever
the ages had established in man's behalf; in his faith, and in his
infidelity; in what he had, and in what he lacked,--the artist might
fitly enough stand forth as the representative of many compeers in his
native land.

His career it would be difficult to prefigure. There appeared to be
qualities in Holgrave, such as, in a country where everything is free
to the hand that can grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the
world's prizes within his reach. But these matters are delightfully
uncertain. At almost every step in life, we meet with young men of
just about Holgrave's age, for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but
of whom, even after much and careful inquiry, we never happen to hear
another word. The effervescence of youth and passion, and the fresh
gloss of the intellect and imagination, endow them with a false
brilliancy, which makes fools of themselves and other people. Like
certain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show finely in their
first newness, but cannot stand the sun and rain, and assume a very
sober aspect after washing-day.

But our business is with Holgrave as we find him on this particular
afternoon, and in the arbor of the Pyncheon garden. In that point of
view, it was a pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much
faith in himself, and so fair an appearance of admirable powers,--so
little harmed, too, by the many tests that had tried his metal,--it was
pleasant to see him in his kindly intercourse with Phoebe. Her thought
had scarcely done him justice when it pronounced him cold; or, if so,
he had grown warmer now. Without such purpose on her part, and
unconsciously on his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a
home to him, and the garden a familiar precinct. With the insight on
which he prided himself, he fancied that he could look through Phoebe,
and all around her, and could read her off like a page of a child's
story-book. But these transparent natures are often deceptive in their
depth; those pebbles at the bottom of the fountain are farther from us
than we think. Thus the artist, whatever he might judge of Phoebe's
capacity, was beguiled, by some silent charm of hers, to talk freely of
what he dreamed of doing in the world. He poured himself out as to
another self. Very possibly, he forgot Phoebe while he talked to her,
and was moved only by the inevitable te