In that sunset-hour was born a _painter_!
III.
It chanced, that, a few months ago, I paid my accustomed summer visit
to an old friend, living near Boston,--a retired merchant he calls
himself. He began life as a cabin-boy,--became, in time, master of an
Indiaman,--then, partner in a China house,--and after many years'
residence in Canton, returned some years ago, heart and liver whole, to
spend his remaining days among olden scenes. A man of truest culture,
generous heart, and rarely erring taste. I never go there without
finding something new and admirable.
"What am I to see, this time?" I asked, after dinner, looking about the
drawing-room.
"Come. I'll show you."
He led me up to a painting,--a sea-piece:--A schooner, riding at her
anchor, at sunset, far out at sea, no land in sight, sails down, all
but a little patch of storm-sail fluttering wildly in the gale, and
heavily pitching in a great, grand, rolling sea; around, but not
closely enveloping her, a driving fog-bank, lurid in the yellow sheen
of the setting sun; above her, a few stars dimly twinkling through a
clear blue sky; on the quarter-deck, men sitting, wrapped in all the
paraphernalia of storm-clothing, smoking and watching the roll of the
sea.
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