The roosters, hens and chickens, which have figured in the yard to-day, would more than number a hundred, and such cackling, crowing, chuckling, and crying as they have made, was anything but a “concordof sweet sounds.” But the creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a pleasure to look at them. A young hen this morning made her first appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold, and this caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands generally. The mother, as she rambled about, seemed to say by her pompous air, to her daughterless friends—“ar’nt they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a few?” It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment the youthful roosters surveyed these “infant phenomenons.” As to our ducks, and geese, and guinea hens, they have minded their business pretty well—the two former paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter “between meals” roaming at large through the orchard and garden, altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes.
A mountaineer, who is to take this letter to the post-office, is waiting for me below, and I must close,—hoping that the countryfigures I have endeavored to sketch may have a tendency to make you feel a portion of that joy, which has characterized this delightful Spring Day.
I commence this letter in the language of Leather-Stocking: “You know the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen them on your left, as you followed the river up from York, looking as blue as a piece of clear sky, and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the head of an Indian chief at a council-fire.” Yes, everybody is acquainted with the name of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities of scenery. They are situated about eight miles from the Hudson, rise to an average elevation of thirty-eight hundred feet, and running in a straight line from north to south, cover a space of some twenty-five miles. The fertile valley on the east is as beautiful as heart could desire, watered by the Catskill, Plauterkill, and Esopus Creeks, inhabited by a sturdy Dutch yeomanry, and is the mother of those three most flourishing towns, Catskill, Saugerties,and Kingston. The upland on the west, for some thirty miles, is rugged, dreary, and thinly settled, but the winding valley of Schoharie, beyond, is possessed of a thousand charms peculiarly American. The mountains themselves are covered with dense forests, abounding in cliffs and waterfalls, and for the most part untrodden by the footsteps of men. Looking at them from the Hudson, the eye is attracted by two deep hollows, which are called “cloves.” That one nearest to the Mountain House, Catskill Clove, is distinguished for a remarkable fall, which is familiar to the world through the pen of Bryant and the pencil of Cole; but it is fast filling up with habitations of improvement, while the other, Plauterkill Clove, though yet possessing much of its original glory, is certain of the same destiny. The clove whence issues the Esopus is among the Shandaken mountains, and is not visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence at the present time is at the mouth of Plauterkill Clove. I came into the country to study,—to forget the busy world, and give myself up entirely to the hallowing influences of nature, and oh, how many “mysteries sublime,” has she revealedto me in my journeyings among the dear, dear Catskills!
To the west, and only half a mile from, my abode, are the beautiful mountains, whose graceful outlines fade away to the north, like the waves of the sea when covered with avisibleatmosphere. The nearest, and to me most beloved of these, is called South Peak. It is nearly four thousand feet in height, and covered from base to summit by one vast forest of trees, varying from eighty to a hundred feet. Like most of its brethren, it is a perfectly wild and uncultivated wilderness, richly abounding in all the interesting features of mountain scenery. Like a corner stone, it stands at the junction of the northern and western ranges of the Catskills, and as its huge form looms up against the evening sky, it inspires one with awe, as if it were the ruler of the world; and yet I have learned to love it as a friend. Its name, its image, and every tree, and shrub, and vine, which spring from its rocky bosom, can never be forgotten. I have reflected upon it when reposing in the noontide sunshine, or enveloped in clouds, when holding communion with the most holy night, when trembling under the influenceof a thunder-storm, or encircled by a rainbow. It has filled my soul with images of beauty and sublimity, and made me feel the omnipotence of God.
A day and night has it just been my privilege to spend on this mountain, accompanied by a friend. We started at an early hour yesterday morning, equipped in our brown fustians, and laden with well-filled knapsacks, one of us with a hatchet in his belt, and the other with a brace of pistols. We were bound to the extreme summit of the peak, where we intended to spend the night, see the rising of the sun, and return at our leisure on the following day. But when I tell you, my friend, that our course lay right up the almost perpendicular side of the mountain, where was no path save that formed by a torrent or a bear, you will readily believe it was somewhat rare and wild. But this was what we delighted in, so we shouted “Excelsior,” and commenced the ascent. The air was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we made caused the perspiration to start most profusely; upward, upward, was our course,—now climbing through a tangled thicket, or under the spray of a cascade, and then again supporting ourselvesby the roots of saplings, or scrambling under a fallen tree,—now, like the samphire gatherer, scaling a precipice, and then again clambering over a rock, or “shinning” up a hemlock tree, to reach a desired point. Our first halt was made at a singular spot called “Hunter’s Hole,” which is a spacious cavern or pit, forty feet deep and twenty wide, and approached only by a crack in the mountain sufficiently large to admit a man. There is a story connected with it worth recording. Many years ago, a farmer, residing at the foot of the mountain, having missed a favorite dog, and being anxious for his safety, called together his neighbors, and offered a reward for the safe return of his canine friend. Always ready to do a kind deed, a number of his neighbors immediately started in different directions for the hunt. A barking sound having issued from this cavern, it was discovered, and, at the bottom of it, the lost dog, which had probably fallen in while chasing a fox. “But how is he to be extricated from this hole?” was the general inquiry of the assembled hunters. Not one of all the group would venture to descend, under any circumstances; so the poor animal remained a prisoner foranother night. But the next morning he was released, and by none other than a brave boy, the son of the farmer, and playmate of the dog. A large number of men were present on the occasion. A strong rope was tied around the body of the boy, and he was gently lowered down. Having reached the bottom, and by the aid of his lamp discovered that he was in a “real nice place,” the little rogue thought he would have some sport; so he continued to pull down, more rope, until he had made a coil of two hundred feet, which was bewildering enough to the crowd above; but nothing happened to him, and the dog was raised. The young hero having played his trick so well, it was generally supposed, for a long time after, that this cavern was two hundred feet in depth, and none were found sufficiently bold to venture in. The bravery of the boy, however, was eventually the cause of his death, for he was cut down by a cannon ball in the war of 1812.
The next remarkable place that we attained in our ascent was the Bear Bank, where, in the winter, may ever be found an abundance of those charming creatures. It is said that they have often, on a clear day, been seen sunning themselves, even from as faras the Hudson. We were now on a beetling precipice three hundred feet high, where, under the shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice of bread and pork, without the “fixens to match.” Instead of a dessert of strawberries and ice-cream, we were furnished by venerable dame nature with a thunder-storm. It was one that we had noticed making a great commotion in the valley below, and which, having discovered two bipeds going toward its home, the sky, seemed to have come up there to frighten us back again. But, “knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her,” we awaited the thunder-storm’s reply to our obstinate refusal to descend. The cloud was yet below us, but its unseen herald, a strong east wind, told us that the conflict had commenced. Presently a peal of thunder resounded through the vast profound, which caused the mountain to tremble to its deep foundation. And then followed another and another, as the storm increased, and the rain and hail poured down in floods. Thinking it safer to expose ourselves to the storm than remain under the pine, we retreated without delay, when we were suddenly enveloped in the heart of the cloud, only a fewrods distant; a stroke of vivid lighting blinded us, and the towering forest monarch, even upon his proud throne, was smitten to the earth. We were in the midst of an unwritten epic poem about that time, but we could not then appreciate its beauties, for another peal of thunder, and another stroke of lightning, attracted our whole attention. Soon as these had passed, a terrible gale followed in their wake, tumbling down piles of loose rocks, and bending to the dust, as if in passion, the resisting forms of an army of trees, and a glorious rainbow spanned the mountain like that distinguishing circle around the temples of the mighty and holy, as portrayed by the painters of old. The commotion lasted for an hour, when the region of the Bear Bank became as serene as the slumber of a babe. A spirit of silent and holy prayer seemed to be brooding over that scene of marvellous loveliness, and with a shadow of thoughtfulness at our hearts we resumed our upward march.
The next place where we halted to get breath was upon a sort of peninsula, called the Eagle’s Nest, where it is said an Indian child was carried by one of those birds and cruelly destroyed, and whence the frantic mother,with the mangled body of her babe, leaped into the terrible abyss below. From this point we discovered a host of clouds assembled in council above High Peak, as if discussing the parched condition of the earth, and the speediest mode of affording relief to a still greater extent than they had done; and far away to the west, was another assembly of clouds, vieing, like sporting children, to outrun and overleap each other in their aerial amphitheatre.
After this, we surmounted another lofty cliff, celebrated for rattlesnakes. Here the rocks were literally covered with the white bones of these reptiles, slaughtered by the hunter in by-gone years, and we saw a couple that were alive. One was about four feet long, and the other half this size, which seemed to be the offspring of the old one, for, when discovered, they were playing together, like an affectionate mother with her tender child. Strange, that even in creatures, the sight of which begets in man only abhorrence and fear, should be found one of the first and most cherished principles of humanity! The law of love is indeed universal. Soon as we appeared the sport ceased, and the venomous creatures, in the twinklingof an eye, coiled themselves up in the attitude of battle. But the conflict was of short duration, and to know the result you need only look into my cabinet of curiosities.
Higher up yet was it our lot to climb. We went a little out of our course to obtain a bird’s-eye view of Shew’s Lake. In its tranquil bosom the glowing evening sky was perfectly reflected, and the silence surrounding it so profound, that we could almost hear the ripples made by a solitary wild duck, as it swam from one shore to the other in its utter loneliness. And the thought entered my mind, that, as the infant of Bethlehem was tenderly protected by the parents who watched over its slumbers, so was this exquisite lake cradled and protected in the lap of the mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching the summit. It was the sunset hour, and on a jutting cliff, which commanded an immense view, our eyes were delighted by a solitary deer, standing still, and looking down upon the silent void below, which was then covered with a deep purple atmosphere, causing the prospect to resemble the boundless ocean. It was the last of its race, we could not but fancy, bidding the human world good night,previous to seeking its heathery couch in a nameless ravine.
Such are some of the scenes we enjoyed in our ascent. One effort more and the long-desired eminence was attained, which was a little nearer the evening star than we had ever been before. It was now the shadowy hour of twilight, and as we were about done over with fatigue, it was not long before we had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper, offered up a prayer, and yielded ourselves to the embrace of sleep, “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health.”
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having passed across my face, I was awakened from a fearful dream, which left me in a nervous and excited state of mind. A strange and solemn gloom had taken possession of my spirit, which was enhanced by the melancholy song of a neighboring hemlock grove. Our encampment having been made a little below the summit of the peak, and feeling anxious to behold the prospect at that hour from that point, I arose, without awaking my companion, and seated myself on the topmost rock, which was bare of trees and shrubs, and covered by a rich moss, softer and more beautiful thana Turkey carpet. But oh, how can I describe the scene that burst upon my enraptured vision? It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, creating a “lone, lost feeling,” which I supposed could only be realized by a wanderer in the heart of an uninhabited wilderness, or on the ocean a thousand leagues from land. Above, around, and beneath me, ay, far beneath me, were the cold, bright stars, and to the east, the “old moon with the young moon in her arms.” In the west were floating a little band of pearly clouds, which I fancied to be winged chariots from the city of the living God, and that they were crowded with children, the absent and loved of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy, were out upon the fields of heaven. On my left reposed the long, broad valley of the Hudson, with its cities, towns, villages, woods, hills, and plains, whose crowded highway was diminished to a narrow girdle of deep blue. To the south, hill beyond hill, field beyond field, receded to the sky, occasionally enlivened by a peaceful lake. On my right, a multitudinous array of rugged mountains lay piled up, apparently as impassable as the bottomless pit. To the north, the king of theCatskills bared his bosom to the moonlight, as if demanding and expecting the homage of the world. Such was the scene that surrounded me at that witching hour of the night, and think you, that it did not animate my spirit with new life, and expand my love for the invisible Creator of all? Oh, yes, and I longed for the timbrel of Miriam, or the harp of David, that I might sing aloud this song of praise,—“Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Praise him, O earth, for he hath crowned thee with blessings numberless as the sands of ocean. Praise him, ye children of men, for he healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. Praise him, all ye starry hosts of heaven, for he telleth your numbers and calleth you names. Praise him, ye heaven of heavens, for he commanded and ye were created. Praise ye him, all ye his angels, for he hath crowned you with immortality. Let everything that hath breath sing praises unto the Lord forever, for his manifold and infinite attributes.” The song ended, the weight upon my spirit was departed, and I sought my couch once more, and slumbered until the dawn.
We saw the sun rise, as a matter of course, which event is described in the following brief rhapsody: it will be more distinctly understood by those who are familiar with the mountain.
He comes! he comes! the “king of the bright day!” The crimson and golden clouds are parting, and he bursts on the bewildered sight! One moment more, and the whole earth rejoices in his beams; and these are not more welcome to the prince than the peasant, to the philosopher than the idiot. All, alike, are made happy by the blessed sunshine. But look! on either side and beneath the sun, what an array of new-born clouds are gathering!—like a band of cavaliers, preparing to accompany their leader on a journey. Out of the Atlantic have they just risen; at noon they will have pitched their tents on the cerulean plains of heaven; and when the hours of day are numbered, the far-off waters of the Pacific will again receive them in its cool embrace. Hark! was not that the roar of waves? No; naught but the report of thunder in the valley below. Can it be? can it be? are the two oceans coming together? God have mercy upon us! we are on a rock in themidst of an illimitable sea, and the tide is rising—rapidly. Strange! it is still as death, and yet the oceans are covered with billows. Lo! the naked masts of a Ship on fire! Now she is gone, and from her grave ascends the emblem of her fate. Yonder, as if a reef were hidden there to impede their course, the waves are struggling in despair—now leaping to the very sky, and now plunging into a deep abyss. And when they have passed the unseen enemy, how beautiful are their various evolutions, as they hasten to the distant shore! Another look, and what a change! The mists of morning are being exhaled by the sun, already the world of waters is dispersed, and in the broad valley of the Hudson, far, far beneath me, are reposing all the enchanting features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous route, that we might enjoy the luxury of passing through the Plauterkill Clove. The same spring that gives rise to Schoharie Creek, which is a tributary of the Mohawk, also gives rise to this wild mountain stream. In its very infancy it begins to leap and laugh with the gladness of a boy. From its source to my dwelling-place the distance is only twomiles, and yet it has a fall of twenty-five hundred feet; but the remainder of its course, until it reaches the Esopus creek, is calm and peaceful, and on every side and at every turn is protected by the farm-houses of a sturdy yeomanry. The wild gorge or dell, through which it passes, abounds in waterfalls of surpassing beauty, varying from ten to a hundred and fifty feet in height, whose rocks are green with the moss of centuries, and whose brows are ever wreathed with the most exquisite of vines and flowers. There’s the Double Leap, with its almost fathomless pool, containing a hermit trout that has laughed at the angler’s skill for a score of years; the Mountain Spirit, haunted by the disembodied spirit of an Indian girl, who lost her life there while pursuing a phantom of the brain; and the Blue Bell Fall, which is forever guarded by a multitudinous array of those charming flowers. Caverns, too, and chasms are there, dark, deep, chilly, and damp, where the toad, the lizard and snake, and strange families of insects, are perpetually multiplying and actually seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives; the Black Chasm, the Gray Chasm, and the Devil’s Chamber, with perpendicular walls oftwice the height of a tall mast, and with a wainscoting of pines and hemlocks, that have “braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze.” Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great and tumultuous world, and in itself a world of unwritten poetry, whose primitive loveliness has not yet been disfigured by the influences of mammon, and God grant that it may continue so forever. It is endeared to my heart for being a favorite haunt of solitude, and for having been consecrated by a brotherhood of friends to the pure religion of nature; and they always enter there as into a holy sanctuary. You may imagine, then, my friend, what was our mode of descending through the dell, and as to our feelings as we emerged under the open sky, they were allied to those of a pilgrim in a strange land, passing through the dim twilight of a dream-like cathedral. And now we stood upon a ledge whence could be obtained a view of the dear old mountain we were leaving behind, and as we contemplated its graceful lines and delicate hues of blueish green, we could not but admire, in the abstract, the sublimity and solemnity of its admonitions as a preacher, its faithfulness as a friend, and the grandeur ofits conceptions as a poet. We reached home about noon, thankful to God for the love of nature which he has so deeply implanted in our hearts, and, as we hope, happier and better men.
I have been whiling away a little time this morning in recording a queer medley of thoughts, which occupied my mind during the tedious hours of the past night. Their cause and import I will leave you to guess.
It is well. My long, long dream of two years,—my dream of heart-gladness is at an end. I saw her, and was a lover, which is but another name for slave. She became my promised bride, and I was happy,—thoughtlessly happy. She proved herself to be a faithless and unworthy creature, and the link which bound us together was broken. And so, my dream is ended, and I am free.
A child, with a basket on his arm, was gathering flowers in a meadow on a bright spring morning. There was no end to the number that he plucked, and none, as hethought, in the world, could be compared to them in loveliness. And thus was it with my hopes,—but the flowers withered, and my hopes are gone.
Softly!—was not that a footstep, and did I not see the gleaming of a silken kirtle? No; it was only an echo and a reflection from the past. I know it, for I am alone, utterly alone.
O how truly hath it been written by the poet, that Art is long and time is fleeting! What a cheerless thought is this to the ambitious Painter! Was I wrong to set my life uponthatcast! At any rate, I will stand the hazard of the die. I sometimes think that the cup which others drink, the cup of fame, will never be quaffed by me. Well, what matter? Was I born, merely to create a name? No, no, no! I was brought into the wilderness of life to be tried by pain, sickness, and sorrow, and to leave it as becomes a Christian is my chief ambition. Fame, which I had hoped to win, I panted after, that another’s happiness might be promoted. But she has frowned upon me, and an impassable ocean is forever spread between our hearts. Be it so.
Once, a serpent secreted itself within the petals of a flower. I pressed that flower to my bosom, and the serpent stung me. But I rejoice that the agony of the pain is over and gone.
A strange excitement is upon me,—with all my wooing sleep will not come to my relief. O how painful it is to count the slowly lagging hours, throughout the silent watches of this summer night! Restless am I as a wave of the sea, and, may be, as useless and insignificant. The pulsations of my mind are as fitful as the breeze which breathes upon me through my open window, but like that breeze they hasten to one point, which is the heart of a poor dreamer.
I cannot, with Othello, feel thatIhave thrown away apearl. It was the shell of a pearl only, whose heart was a living worm.
Little things! Of these is the world composed, and that man is a fool who looks upon them with contempt. Yes, it is a little thing to say, “I love you with all my heart, and will follow you to the end.” But when believed, if this proves to be the mockery of a hypocriticalheart, who can describe the consequences that may result to the believer? Fatal they may be to the soul, as the bite of Tarantula to the body, unless our thoughts are attracted by a strain of melody emanating from the throne of Deity. And to that great Being am I deeply thankful, for having upheld me in my trying hour.
It hath been whispered in my ear, that the being whom I lately cherished as my life-blood, now mentions my name with a scornful smile. And why? not because of my inferior wealth, or family, or education, for with respect to these I am her superior,—but because I loved her as an angel. How little did I think of this, when her head has been pillowed on my bosom, and I have seen and felt the throbbings of her own! Yet, even then she nourished the spirit that would “damn” a queen. She tried to break my heart,—she failed,—but what matter? She must answer for thedeed. When she comes to die, if not till then, when she come to “tread the wine-press alone,” then must she repent her folly and ingratitude, and it is my prayer that she may be among the redeemedin heaven. Then will she be purified from the corruptions which cling to her here, and become a worthy subject of heavenly solicitude and love.
Where, O where are all the blissful dreams upon which my heart has so long existed? Vanished, like the shadow of a cloud, and I am a companionless pilgrim through the world. Who can comprehend the misery of a desolate human heart? I thought she loved me with a spotless passion, and yet, while anguish rends my brow to-night, she is sweetly sleeping and dreaming on her couch of down. Surely, surely it must be a sin to love. What have I done, that my heart-strings should be snapt asunder,—that I must kiss the dust and be unhappy?
If you give a beggar a loaf of bread to save his life, and he spurns you with an oath, you cannot but exclaim, “O horrible ingratitude?” But what should be thought of those to whom you had given away yourheart, if they should reciprocate with the damnablelie? “Begone, thou art a villain,—touch not the hem of our garments,—we are pure, but thou art polluted.”
It was the noontide hour, and as I was passing along a lonely and unfrequented road, I discovered a pair of turtle doves quietly cooing to each other on a sandy hillock in the sunshine. It was a picture of exquisite happiness, and yet the longer I gazed, the more deeply did it affect my heart, so that when I left the spot, I found that my eyes were filled with tears. The last time that I had wept before, was when I beheld the wreck of mygreatest hope. When, I wonder, shall I be compelled to weep again?
O how my heart clings to the hour of our first acknowledgment of love! aye, and to all the blissful hours that have been mine since then in her society! Like a wealthy prince I gloried in my rare possession, and could not believe that aught on earth would ever make me a beggar. But,—the treasure that I doted on took unto itself wings, and like a beautiful but unclean bird has flown away, to delight and to deceive some other unsatisfied mortal. Iama beggar now. O will not some of the poor and forsaken, that I have cheered with a kind word when I was happy, come forth now and welcome me with a smile of pure affection?
I loved her, and fondly anticipated that she would one day become the star of myhome. Home! what place upon the earth is dearer to the heart of man? How pleasing is the anticipation of the absent school-boy as he looks forward to the close of the term, when he shall be welcomed to the fireside of home! The poor farmer toils unceasingly through the long days of summer, cheered by the comforts of home, which he fondly hopes will be the crown of his coming winter evenings! How fortunate is that man who can say—“mine is a happy home!” How thankful should he be! But is there no consolation for those who are homeless and friendless in the world? Ah yes, there is, and it is as sweet as it is invaluable. Our elder Brother, the meek and lowly Saviour, when upon the earth, was compelled to exclaim,—“The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” Homeless and unhappy Christian, cheer up! cheer up! A few more days, and you will be an inhabitant of that blessed world beyond the skies, “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” Yonder, is the home which I pant fornow.
Friendship is one of the most beautiful and delicate plants that flourish in the garden of human passions, and to my mind is a holier emotion than love. What though I am no more a Lover! have I not a few well-tried friends, whom I “grapple to my soul with looks of steel?” Why then should there be a weight upon my spirit? Long enough have I played the fool. O that I may be wise enough to renounce my folly!
How prone are we, who know not what it is to want, to forget that the world is full of suffering! We do not sympathize with those who suffer, and are contented to think only of ourselves. If, to be hungry, and naked, and friendless, is to suffer, what must be his condition, whose heart craves for the sympathy of love, and is destitute of those endearing attentions, which refine and elevate the soul?
There is a river, in a much-loved mountain and, whose waters are sometimes brackish and sometimes clear, and which sometimes hastens to the sea singing a plaintive under-song of loveliness. I know not why it is, but it seems to me, that such is the river of my life.
The smiles of woman! Sweet words. How many and beautiful beyond compare are the scenes which they recall to mind, whose charms are heightened by the smiles of a mother, a sister, a companion, or friend! All these, is it my privilege to claim, but yet thewholeof my heart is not occupied. Who would wish to live in a world, where the lovely form and tender sympathies of woman were not known? It would be more desolate than the flowerless wilderness. Once, I thought to have toiled for a distinguished name, that I might be able to return a worthy recompense, for the smiles of the maiden whom I loved. I hoped to become affluent, that I might in future years make my wife and children happy, and nourish the light which illumines the fireside circle, which light is the smile of woman. But,—who can tell what shall be on the morrow?
Welcome, thrice welcome, thou blessed night-wind that fannest my feverish brow, and banishes from my heart that pang of agony. Oh! I am a child again,—and bitter, bitter, bitter tears are the only witnesses, that my blood is cold and clotted. Can I endurethis suffering? Is it possible, that these are the consequences of unrequited affection? Is it,—there that breeze again! it is a messenger from the bosom of God, and this is the burthen of its mission. “Child of sin and sorrow, thy days of darkness upon the earth are now commencing, and the period arrived, for thy nobler nature to assert its rightful supremacy. Terrible indeed will be the conflict, but fail not to struggle with all thy might for the mastery. If thou yieldest to this world, thy perfect happiness will be lost forever; but if thou conquerest on behalf of eternity, thy bliss will be as endless as its cycle, and more glorious than thy fondest dream.”
Once, I was dreaming only of manhood, and knew not what it was to love.Now, that Icanlove, there is not a being in the wide world whom I am privileged to love. Love! what is it but another name for jealousy, selfishness, and lust? Aye, this is the conclusion of the whole matter, if one woman that I know is a representative of her sex. But I rejoice in the conviction that here is a Love, which is as pure as the diamond, and lasting as the soul, which butblossoms in this world, bearing its fruit throughout the untold years of the great hereafter. She, who merits and enjoys that love, is the daughter of Heaven, and the hope of the world. If we but prove faithful to her, she will never abandon us in our pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
Look! the drapery of my couch is flooded with moonlight,—affording my bodily and mortal vision a most exquisite pleasure. And why? Because Ifeelthat I am not utterly unloved. Surely, the blessed Queen of Night would not thus make my heart glad, if I were doomed to be forever a brother to the desolate and unknown!
Dear, dear girl, a thousand blessings rest upon thee for that pressure of thy soft hand upon my throbbing temples! It has soothed my pain, and hushed the wild tumult of my heart. Come near, come near, thou heavenly messenger, and let me press thy lips with a holy kiss, and then I will lie down again and be at peace. There!—’twas but a vision, and again my agony returns. O, my brain is on fire—see! see! the moon is veiled in blood, all the stars are falling, the air is beginningto simmer, the earth is swelling, and yet,—I am calmly going to pillow my head on a soft brown clod in the silent city of forgetfulness, the same which men call a grave-yard. Where can the body find a moreuntroubledhome?
Love! It is notthisthat weighs my spirit down. I never loved awoman, and wherefore should I repine? I loved, but it was an ideal creature, a being of the mind. Such, we know, are neverfalse,—I am once more happy. A light from heaven is beaming upon my soul, and, thanks to the breaking day, my sleepless night is ended.
According to my promise, and to commemorate my visit to his place of residence, I herewith send you my mite of information concerning the productions of that man whom we delight to honor, as unquestionably the most gifted landscape painter of the present age. In my own opinion, none superior to him have ever existed, when we consider, in connection with his felicity of artistic execution, the poetic genius which his productions display. Having for years been a student of his art, and a warm lover of his pictures, I will describe some of the imaginative works of this Poet-Painter. First, however, a few words about the man himself.
Thomas Cole was born in England, but brought to this country in childhood. As his parents, before his birth, had resided in the United States, it is with the fullest propriety thathe is called an American painter. At any rate, his attachment to this country is so strong, that he has been heard to remark: “I would give my left arm, could I but identify myself with America, by saying that I was born here.” The incidents of his youth and manhood, as recorded in “Dunlap’s History of the Arts of Design,” are among the most interesting things of the kind, and it is with reluctance that I refrain from inserting them in this place. Let it suffice, however, to state, that the genius which was born with him, was fostered by intimate and long continued acquaintance with the scenery of the Western States, when as yet they were a comparative wilderness. While toiling for a reputation, he resided for a few years at a time in Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Chillicothe, Steubenville, and New York city; and, having visited Europe a number of times, established his reputation, and married a wife, he retired to the beautiful town of Catskill, on the Hudson, where he now resides, one of the most amiable of men, the best of husbands and fathers, and the most talented of living landscape painters.
The number of his imaginative paintings is about twenty, and his actual views somewherebetween fifty and a hundred. Out of the former, I intend to select my especial favorites, of which I shall attempt to convey the best idea in my power for your benefit, namely, The Course of Empire, The Departure and Return, Dream of Arcadia, Past and Present, and The Voyage of Life. On these alone am I willing to base my previous assertion, that no landscape painter superior to Cole has ever lived. Of his other productions I shall say nothing, only giving the names of those which I have seen, by way of making you acquainted with the character of his subjects. They are as follows: The Architect’s Dream, Paradise, Scene from Manfred, Expulsion from Eden, Angels appearing to the Shepherds, Heroic Composition, Notch of the White Mountains, Italian Scenery, View of Florence, View in Rome, Schroon Mountain, Tornado in an American Forest, Mount Holyoke after a Storm, A Roman Aqueduct, Niagara, Mount Ætna, Lake George, New England Scenery, Distant View of the Catskill Mountains, and a number of smaller views among the mountains.
The Course of Empire is a series, of five paintings, representing the History of a Scene—anepitome of that of Man. None but a great mind would have dared to choose so vast a subject, requiring the united attributes of poet, philosopher, and painter; and very few could have accomplished it so successfully.
In the first picture we have a perfectly wild scene of rocks, mountains, woods, and a bay of the ocean, reposing in the luxuriance of a ripe Spring. The clouds of night are being dissipated by the beams of the rising sun. On the opposite side of the bay rises a lofty promontory, crowned by a singular isolated rock, which would ever be a conspicuous landmark to the mariner. As the same locality is preserved in each picture of the series, this rock identifies it, although the position of the spectator changes in the several pictures. The chase being the most characteristic occupation of savage life, in the foreground we see an Indian clothed in skins, pursuing a wounded deer, which is bounding down a narrow ravine. On a rock, in the middle ground, are other Indians, with their dogs, surrounding another deer. On the bosom of a little river below are a number of canoes passing down the stream, while many more are drawn up on the shore. On an elevation beyond these is acluster of wigwams, and a number of Indians dancing round a fire. In this picture we have the first rudiments of society. Men are already banded together for mutual aid in the chase. In the canoes, huts, and weapons, we perceive that the useful arts have commenced, and in the singing, which usually accompanies the dance of savages, we behold the germs of music and poetry. The Empire is asserted, to a limited degree, over sea, land, and the animal kingdom.
Ages have passed away, and in the second picture we have the Simple or Arcadian State of Society. The time of day is a little before noon, and the season early summer. The “untracked and rude” has been tamed and softened. Shepherds are tending their flocks; a solitary ploughman, with his oxen, is turning up the soil; and in the rude vessels passing into the haven of a growing village, and in the skeleton of a barque building on the shore, we perceive the commencement of Commerce. From a rude temple on a hill the smoke of sacrifice is ascending to the sky, symbolizing the spirit of Religion. In the foreground, on the left hand, is seated an old man, who, by describing strange figures in the sand, seemsto have made some geometrical discovery, demonstrating the infancy of Science. On the right hand is a woman with a distaff, about crossing a stone bridge; beside her, a boy is drawing on a stone the figure of a man with a sword; and beyond these, ascending the road, a soldier is partly seen. Under some noble trees, in the middle distance, are a number of peasants dancing to the music of pipe and timbrel. All these things show us that society is steadily progressing in its march of usefulness and power.
Ages have again passed away, and in the third picture we have a magnificent city. It is now mid-day, and early Autumn. The Bay is now surrounded by piles of architecture, temples, colonnades, and domes. It is a day of rejoicing. The spacious harbor is crowded with vessels, war-galleys, ships, and barques, their silken sails glistening in the sunshine. Moving over a massive stone bridge, in the foreground, is a triumphal procession. The conqueror, robed in purple, is mounted on a car drawn by an elephant, and surrounded by captives and a numerous train of guards and servants, many of them bearing pictures and golden treasures. As he is about to pass the triumphalarch, beautiful girls strew flowers in his path; gay festoons of drapery hang from the clustered columns; golden trophies glitter in the sun, and incense rises from silver censers. Before a Doric temple, on the left, a multitude of white-robed priests are standing on the marble steps, while near them a religious ceremony is being performed before a number of altars. The statue of Minerva, with a Victory in her hand, stands above the building of the Caryatides, on a columned pedestal, near which is a company of musicians, with cymbals, “trumpets also, and shawms.” From the lofty portico of a palace, an imperial personage is watching the procession, surrounded by her children, attendants, and guards. Nations have been subjugated, man has reached the summit of human glory. Wealth, power, knowledge, and taste have worked together and accomplished the highest meed of human achievement and Empire.
Another change—and lo! in the fourth picture, the Vicious State, or State of Destruction. Behold the consequences of luxury, in the weakened and debased condition of mankind. A savage enemy has entered the once proud and happy city; a fierce tempest israging; walls and colonnades are lying in the dust, and temples and palaces are being consumed by the torch of the incendiary. The fire of vengeance is swallowing up the devoted city. An arch of the bridge, over which the triumphal procession had before passed, has been battered down, and broken pillars, ruins of war-engines, and the temporary bridge which has been thrown over, indicate that this has been the scene of direst contention. Now there is a terrible conflict on the bridge, whose insecurity accelerates the horror of the conflict. Horses, and men, and chariots are precipitated into the raging waves. War-galleys are contending; others in flames; and others still, sinking beneath the prow of a superior foe. Smoke and flames are issuing from the falling and prostrate edifices; and along the battlements and in the blocked-up streets the conflict is dreadful indeed. The foreground is strewed with the bodies of the dead and dying. Some have fallen into the basin of a fountain, tinging the water with blood. One female is sitting in mute despair over the dead body of her son; another leaping over a battlement, to escape the grasp of a ruffian soldier; and other soldiers drag a woman bythe hair down the steps, that form the pedestal of a mutilated colossal statue, whose shattered head lies on the pavement below. A barbarous enemy has conquered the city; Carnage and Destruction have asserted their frightful Empire.
The last and most impressive picture of this series is the scene of Desolation. The sun has just departed, and the moon is ascending the twilight sky over the ocean, near the place where the sun rose in the first picture. The shades of evening are gradually stealing over the shattered and ivy-grown ruins of that once great city. A lonely column rises in the foreground, on whose capital a solitary heron has built her nest, and at the foot of it her mate is standing in the water, both of them apparently conscious of being a living mockery. The Doric temple and triumphal bridge may still be identified among the ruins, which are laved by the waters of the tranquil sea. But though man and his works have perished, the steep promontory with its isolated rock, still rears itself against the sky, unmoved, unchanged. Time has consumed the works of man, and art is resolving into its elemental nature. The gorgeous pageant has passed,the roar of battle has ceased, the multitude has mingled with the dust, the Empire is extinct.
The first, second, and last of these paintings are considered the best of Mr. Cole’s productions, not only in the poetry they portray, but in their execution. The style is more varied and natural, and has less the appearance of paint than in many of his late productions. As to the third and fourth paintings, the conception of both is exceedingly fine and poetical, but deficient in execution. The architecture is admirably done, but the numerous figures, which it was necessary to introduce, are poorly drawn and arranged. It would be, perhaps, too much to ask that an artist should be a great painter of scenery, and also a master of the human figure. As a whole, the Course of Empire is a work of art worthy of any nation or any painter of woman born. These pictures were painted for the late Luman Reed, at a cost of eight thousand dollars. Surely it were a blessing to the Fine Arts in this country, were such patrons more frequently found.
The Departure and Return, exhibit a poetical representation of the Feudal times. TheDeparture represents early morning in spring. As you look upon the picture, you can almost hear the fall of waters, and feel the pleasant breeze of the hour and season. In the distance is seen a church, whose spire is gilded by the beams of the rising sun; and in the foreground is a magnificent castle, looming to the sky, the seeming lord and guardian of the world. Coming forth from one of its massy gates is a band of mounted cavaliers, who are going to the wars, full of life and hope and gladness. The leader, in a splendid dress, is mounted on a noble charger, whose flashing eye and extended nostrils show that he is impatient for the fight. Turn your eyes away, and they are gone.
Imagine that months have passed, and look upon the Return. It is now evening, the season autumn, but the same section of country. The castle is now in the distance, and the church in the foreground. Toil-worn, a few only are returning home by a woodland path; and their leader, dying or wounded, is conveyed upon a litter carried by men. His steed, with heavy step, is following behind. As they approach the church a party of monks are seen coming out, and aretaken by surprise, to meet the small remnant of brave warriors just returned from a long and tedious campaign.
How simple and yet how complete is the story here revealed! As these are among the artist’s early pictures, they are distinguished for their truth and unmannered style; and as compositions, are unsurpassed.
The “Dream of Arcadia” is the perfect personification of the sweetest dream of poetry and romance. It is composed of temples, vine-clad mountains, streams, cascades, trees, shepherds and minstrels, everything in fact which poets have described as making Arcady the most beautiful land under the sun.
The “Past and Present” consists of two pictures. The first is a tournament near a castle. The second is the same spot, but with the castle gone to decay. On the field where we beheld the brave deeds of chivalry, a single shepherd boy is tending his sheep. The first of these we think poorly managed, but the last is without a single fault,—it is superb.
The “Voyage of Life” is a series of fine pictures, allegorically portraying the prominent features of man’s life, viz., childhood, youth,manhood, and old ago. The subject is one of such universal interest, that it were almost impossible to treat it in an entirely original manner, but no one can deny that the conception of the painter displays a high and rare order of poetic power.
In the first we behold the dawn of a summer morning. A translucent stream is issuing from an unknown source out of a deep cavern in the side of a mountain. Floating gently down the stream is a golden boat, made of the sculptured figures of the Hours, while the prow is formed by the present hour holding forth an emblem of Time. It is filled with flowers, and on these a little child is seated, tossing them with his upraised hands, and smiling with new-born joy, as he looks upon the unnumbered beauties and glories of this bright world around him; while a guardian angel is at the helm, with his wings lovingly and protectingly extended over the child. Love, purity, and beauty emanate like incense from the sky, the earth, and water, so that the heart of the gazer seems to forget the world, and lose itself in a dream of heaven.
A few fleeting years are gone, and behold the change! The Stream of Life is widened,and its current strong and irresistible, but it flows through a country of surpassing loveliness. The Voyager, who is now a youth, has taken the helm into his own hands, and the dismissed angel stands upon the shore looking at him with “a look made of all sweet accord,” as if he said in his heart, “God be with thee, thoughtless mortal!” But the youth heeds not his angel, for his eyes are now riveted by an airy castle pictured against the sky, dome above dome, reaching to the very zenith. The phantom of worldly happiness and worldly ambition has absorbed the imagination and eager gaze of the wayward voyager, and as he urges his frail bark onward, he dreams not of the dangers which may await him in his way. To the boat, only a few flowers are now clinging, and on closer observation we perceive that the castle in the air, apparently so real, has only a white cloud for its foundation, and that ere long the stream makes a sudden turn, rushing with the fury of a maddened steed down a terrible ravine. The moral of the picture it is needless for us to elucidate.
Another change, and lo! the verge of a cataract and a fearful storm. The rudderlessbark is just about to plunge into the abyss below, while the voyager (now in the prime of manhood) is imploring the only aid, that can avail him in the trying hour, that of heaven. Demoniacal images are holding forth their temptations in the clouds around him, but he heeds them not. His confidence in God supports him, the previous agony of his soul is dispelled or subdued, by a reflection of immortal light stealing through the storm, and by the smiles of his guardian angel, visibly stationed in the far-off sky.
The Voyage of Life is ended, and our voyager, now white with hoary hairs, has reached that point where the waters of time and eternity mingle together—a bold conception, which is finely embodied by the daring genius of the painter. The hour-glass is gone, and the shattered bark is ready to dissolve into the fathomless waters beneath. The old man is on his knees, with clasped hands and his eyes turned heavenward, for the greenness of earth is forever departed, and a gloom is upon the ocean of Eternity. But just above the form of our good voyager is hovering his angel, who is about to transport him to his home; and, as the eye wanders upward, aninfinite host of heavenly ministers are seen ascending and descending the cloudy steps which lead to the bosom of God. Death is swallowed up in life, the glory of heaven has eclipsed that of the earth, and our voyager is safe in the haven of eternal rest. And thus endeth the allegory of Human Life.
With regard to the mechanical execution of these paintings, I consider them not equal to some of the earlier efforts of the same pencil. They are deficient in atmosphere, and have too much the appearance of paint. The water in the first, second, and third pictures, is superior, and the knowledge of perspective in the last of them is masterly. In all of them the figures are very fine, considering the difficulty of managing such peculiar characters. In the first I am pleased with the simplicity of the composition; in the second, with the variety, there being portrayed the elm of England, the plains of Tuscany, the palm of tropic climes, the mountains of Switzerland, and the oak of America; in the third, with the genius displayed in using the very storm to tell a story; and in the fourth, with the management of the light, and the apparent reality of those rays of glory. These pictures werepainted for the late Samuel Ward, of New York, and the price received for them was five thousand dollars.
Thus have I attempted to describe the prominent imaginative paintings of Thomas Cole, with the object in view, of making you acquainted with the fact, that great acquisitions have been and are being made to the Fine Arts, even in our own country. His is a name which we should not willingly let die. A man of fine, exalted genius, by his pencil he has done a great deal of good, not only to his chosen art, by becoming one of its masters, but also in a moral point of view. And this reminds me of the influences, which may be exerted by the landscape painter. That these are of importance no one can deny. Is not painting as well the result and expression of thought as writing? What though, instead of pen, ink, and paper, the painter uses canvass, a pencil, and the colors of the rainbow, yet these, if he is a poet in his soul, can display his power to scarcely less effect than though, to give utterance to his “thoughts that glow,” his means were the “words that burn.” With these, if he is a wise and good man, he may portray, to every eye that rests upon his canvass,the loveliness of virtue and religion, or the deformity and wretchedness of a vicious life. He may warn the worldling of his folly and impending doom, and encourage the Christian in his pilgrimage to heaven. He may delineate the marvellous beauty of nature, so as to lead the mind upward to its Creator, or proclaim the ravages of time, that we may take heed to our ways and prepare ourselves for a safe departure from this world, into that beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death. A goodly portion of all these things have been accomplished by Thomas Cole. As yet, he is the only landscape painter in this country who has attempted imaginative painting, and the success which has followed him in his career, even in a pecuniary point of view, affords great encouragement to our young painters in this department of the art. Cole has indeed done some great things, but a thousandfold more he has left undone. He has but set a noble example, which ought to be extensively followed. Mind, we do not mean by this that his subjects ought to be imitated. Far from it; because they are not stamped with a national character, as the productions of all painters should be. Excepting his actualviews of American scenery, the paintings of Cole might have been produced had he never set foot upon our soil. Let our young artists aspire to something above a mere copy of nature, or even a picture of the fancy; let them paint the visions of their imagination. No other country ever offered such advantages as our own. Let our young painters use their pencils to illustrate the thousands of scenes, strange, wild, and beautiful, of our early history. Let them aim high, and their achievements will be distinguished. Let them remember that theirs is a noble destiny. What though ancient wisdom and modern poetry have told us that “art is long and time is fleeting!”—let them toil and toil with nature as their guide, and they will assuredly have their reward.