638 Passages from l/ie Life of Frederick JVellburg. [Bec. 



It was a fine clear evening in spring ; and Wellburg sat by his open 

 casement, and looked out upon the fading clouds and the deepening 

 sky. The air was sunk in a delicious calm ; and the few faint sounds 

 which came upon the passing breeze, served only to heighten the effect 

 of the succeeding silence. He had sunk into a reverie ; and, as dream 

 after dream flitted across his sight, — thought, and voices, and feelings, 

 which rose up as if from a hidden world of darkness — and then, as the 

 light smote them, shrunk, waned, and passed away into the abyss from 

 whence they sprung— a strain of music floated softly on his ear — so 

 softly, that he scarcely knew whether it was indeed an earthly sound, 

 or the sweet promptings of a bewildered fancy. Yet what memories 

 did that strain awake ! — thoughts long buried and forgotten, but which 

 seemed to rise again in all the vividness of their first birth. He listened 

 again; and the strain, rich and sweet, swept like a gush of feeling 

 through his heart. He had heard it once: and as the memory of her 

 who had first breathed it rose up before him, and his mind insensibly 

 wandered through the long vista of past sorrow to that bright spot in 

 the distance, a burst of tears — the first which he had shed for years — 

 relieved the swollen current of his feelings. He wept — he knew not 

 how long he had wept ; but when he ceased, the voice had died away. 



He rose, and approached the door of an inner apartment from whence 

 the sound had proceeded. The boy of whom we have spoken Avas seated 

 at a table, upon which were spread a few unfinished sketches, pencils, 

 and other implements of his profession. A taper, almost burnt away, 

 was placed before him ; and, whilst the fingers of one hand uncon- 

 sciously beat the oaken table, his head was rested upon the other in an 

 attitude of deep abstraction. He had just been singing, and his voice 

 continued to repeat the closing notes of the strain in a faint and almost 

 inaudible tone, whilst a few tears glistened from beneath his dark eyelash, 

 as if he had lately wept. 



The boy was of a slight and graceful form ; his complexion, dark and 

 almost swarthy, gave a singular effect to the rich crimson of his lip, and 

 the whiteness of his teeth within. His features were small ; and their 

 extreme regularity was only broken at times by the wild glancing of his- 

 full dark eye. When excited by any passion — by the presence of Well- 

 burg, upon whom he looked as at once a father and a friend ; or by any 

 less agreeable emotion — they seemed to reflect every change and every 

 shade of feeling with a peculiar vividness ; whilst, in his calmer 

 moments, they generally wore an expression of settled sadness, which 

 betrayed the consciousness of his dependent state. We have said that he 

 was an orphan ; and when we have added that he had been received into 

 the protection of the painter with no other introduction than his own 

 story of his evil fortunes, we have said all concerning him which can be 

 of interest to the reader. 



He rose up from his seat, and, having trimmed the expiring taper, he 

 unfolded a roll of canvas which had been cut out from its frame, and 

 spread it on the table before him. It was the portrait of a young and 

 beautiful female ; and as the youth gazed upon the glowing features and 

 Jhe graceful form, an observer might have noticed the strong emotion 

 which was depicted in every line of his expressive countenance. His 

 lips became pale, and were compressed by a violent effort ; his glance, 

 as it occasionally wandered round the apartment, and again reverted to 



