uire a local
celebrity in such a region, he may paint the faces of one generation,
and then, haply finding a casual job once a year or so, may sit down
and count the hours till another generation rises up and supplies him
with a second run of work. In a measure, the portrait-painter must be
a rolling-stone, or he will gather no moss. So thought Mr Conrad
Merlus, as he packed up his property, and prepared to take himself off
from the town of C----, in Wiltshire, to seek fresh fields and
pastures new, where the sun might be disposed to shine upon
portrait-painting, and where he might manage to make hay the while.
Conrad was a native of C----. In that congenial spot he had first
pursued the study of his art, cheered by the praises of the good folks
around him, and supported by their demands upon his talents. While, in
a certain fashion, he had kept the spirit of art alive in the place,
the spirit of art, in return, had kept him alive. But now all the work
was done for a long time to come; every family had its great
portraits, and would want him no more yet awhile; and Conrad saw, that
if he could not turn his hand to something else, and in place of
pencils and brushes, work with last, spade, needle, or quill, make
shoes, coats, till the ground, or cast up accounts, he should shortly
be hardly put to it to keep himself going. He had made and saved a
pretty tolerable little purse during his short season of patronage,
and determined to turn that to account in seeking, in other places, a
continuation of commissions. His father and mother were both dead,
and, so far as he knew, he had no near relative alive. Therefore,
there were no ties, save those of association, to bind him to his
native place--'No ties,' sighed Conrad, 'no ties at all.'

It was Monday evening, and the next day, Tuesday, was to behold his
departure. His rent was paid, his traps were all packed up in
readiness, and he had nothing to think about, saving whither he should
proceed. He walked out, for the last time, into the little garden
behind the modest house in which he had dwelt, pensive and somewhat
_triste_; for one cannot, without sorrowful emotions of some sort,
leave, perhaps for ever, a spot in which the stream of life has flowed
peacefully and pleasantly for many years, and where many little
enjoyments, successes, and triumphs have been experienced. Even a
Crusoe cannot depart from his desolate island without a pang, although
he goes, after years of