ON A PASSAGE IN MACBETH.‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’Macbeth.Letus put on one side for a few moments the horrid midnight murder of the gracious Duncan. Let us suppose of the buried majesty of Scotland,——‘Upward to Heaven he took his flight,If ever soul ascended!’Let us for the moment imagine Mrs. Siddons to have been the veritable Lady Macbeth, and acknowledge that never was man more powerfully tempted into evil, nor more deeply punished with his fall from Virtue, than this, the Thane of Glamis and of Cawdor. My concernment in this Essay is neither with his virtue, nor his fall. I neither come to praise, nor bury Cæsar:‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’In the reading I desire should be here given to the language of the immortal bard, it will be perceived that the last pronoun is made emphatic. ‘Gettheeto bed.’The household of the castle of Macbeth, excited and disturbed as its members had been throughout the day by the unexpected arrival of the King of Scotland at Inverness, are now subsiding into rest. The King has retired. His suite are provided for in various parts of the quadrangle; and all the tumultuary sounds of preparation and of festive enjoyment have followed the departed day; and Banquo charged with a princely gift to the Lady Macbeth under the title ofmost kind hostess, from her confiding and now slumbering monarch, has paid his compliments and gone.Now comes the deeper stillness, and the witching hour of that eventful night; and the noble Thane, having gone the rounds of his hushed castle to place all entrances under both watch and ward, turns to his torch-bearer, the last remaining household servant of the train, and dismisses him with the message I have read. The words excite no surprise in the mind of the attendant. He receives the command and departs upon his errand; to deliver it as had doubtless been his office before, and then retire for the night:‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell.’Admired Editor, I have now that to say in thine ear that may possibly startle thy preceptions, shock thy wishes, and for the moment interfere with thy store of tragick recollection. I would have thee imagine with me, that Macbeth, stifling all murderous intent, and all disloyal thought, had honestly gone down at the sound of the bell, and, as must have been his wont as is shewn from the manner in which his attendant receives the charge, had soberly partaken of the warm and grateful drink his noble partner had prepared for his refreshing and composing use.Imagine the illustrious and majestick pair, their household havingentirely withdrawn, seated in the deep silence of the night, on either side of a small table as was their happy wont, and gently, calmly, dispassionately, and elegantly sipping that prepared beverage; that ‘drink made ready’ by hands then yet innocent and spotless. Imagine the ingredients of which that dilution must have been composed! Not wine for wine is always ‘ready.’ O call it not by any other W! Let it not be named Glenlivet; think not upon Ferintosh. It wasPURE REALITY IN THE LUSTRE OF A MILD GLORIFICATION,mingled with droppings of the dew of morning.They say that the mind of man is a mere bundle of associations, and that our success in moving it to our purpose depends on our awakening the most powerful, or most agreeable of them. I know not of what associations that of the reader may be composed; but for my own part I think a little warm drink before going to bed upon a night when owls hoot and chimnies are to be blown down, prepared by the small hands that one loves, and that all admire; where a dimple takes place of what in a plebeian hand is a knuckle, and the round fingers taper gently off toward points that are touched with damask and bordered with little rims of ivory; where bright eyes beam with kindness as well as wit; and words fall in silvery tones from a beautifully-formed mouth, like the renewal of life upon the soul of man! I think where one could enjoy all this, it was a monstrous act of folly on the part of Macbeth to fret about the principality of Cumberland, or covet even the whole kingdom of Scotland. For my own part I must say, give me the warm drink and the sweet companionship of that night, and let old Duncan with a hearty welcome sleep up to his heart’s content the whole ‘ravelled sleeve of care!’Oh Woman! dear, good, kind, blessed, beautiful Woman! chosen of Heaven (and O how well!) for the meet companion of our otherwise forlorn race! is there a moment throughout that whole circle of the Sun which we call Day more sweet to us, than that which follows the well-performed duties of our lot and that gives thee altogether to us at its close, gentle, refined, affectionate, soothing, bland, and unreserved? The hour that precedes retirement for the night, when the early luxury of languor begins to take possession of the senses? When the eyes are not heavy, but threaten to become so, and long silken lashes first make love to each other? When it is time to confine part of that rich hair en papilotte and fold the whole into that pretty cap; to place the feet in small graceful slippers, and let ease put fashion tastefully on one side in the arrangement of the dress?Doubtless there is a period during the delirium of youthful fancy when the calmer pleasures are unappreciated at their value, but the Andante of existence follows the Allegro of boyhood; its precious strains fall deeper and more touchingly upon the Sense; and the full Soul longs to yield itself to them, and to share its emotions with the beloved one in tones heard only in her ivoryear——howbeautiful! Oh pure of heart, howbeautiful!——and, when the belle, still delighting to please, has become the friend; and the mistress, still fascinating, the wife; and one interest, one faith, one hope, one joy, one passion, one life, animate bothhearts——ohthen,‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’John Waters.
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’Macbeth.
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’
Macbeth.
Letus put on one side for a few moments the horrid midnight murder of the gracious Duncan. Let us suppose of the buried majesty of Scotland,
——‘Upward to Heaven he took his flight,If ever soul ascended!’
——‘Upward to Heaven he took his flight,If ever soul ascended!’
——‘Upward to Heaven he took his flight,
If ever soul ascended!’
Let us for the moment imagine Mrs. Siddons to have been the veritable Lady Macbeth, and acknowledge that never was man more powerfully tempted into evil, nor more deeply punished with his fall from Virtue, than this, the Thane of Glamis and of Cawdor. My concernment in this Essay is neither with his virtue, nor his fall. I neither come to praise, nor bury Cæsar:
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’
In the reading I desire should be here given to the language of the immortal bard, it will be perceived that the last pronoun is made emphatic. ‘Gettheeto bed.’
The household of the castle of Macbeth, excited and disturbed as its members had been throughout the day by the unexpected arrival of the King of Scotland at Inverness, are now subsiding into rest. The King has retired. His suite are provided for in various parts of the quadrangle; and all the tumultuary sounds of preparation and of festive enjoyment have followed the departed day; and Banquo charged with a princely gift to the Lady Macbeth under the title ofmost kind hostess, from her confiding and now slumbering monarch, has paid his compliments and gone.
Now comes the deeper stillness, and the witching hour of that eventful night; and the noble Thane, having gone the rounds of his hushed castle to place all entrances under both watch and ward, turns to his torch-bearer, the last remaining household servant of the train, and dismisses him with the message I have read. The words excite no surprise in the mind of the attendant. He receives the command and departs upon his errand; to deliver it as had doubtless been his office before, and then retire for the night:
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell.’
Admired Editor, I have now that to say in thine ear that may possibly startle thy preceptions, shock thy wishes, and for the moment interfere with thy store of tragick recollection. I would have thee imagine with me, that Macbeth, stifling all murderous intent, and all disloyal thought, had honestly gone down at the sound of the bell, and, as must have been his wont as is shewn from the manner in which his attendant receives the charge, had soberly partaken of the warm and grateful drink his noble partner had prepared for his refreshing and composing use.
Imagine the illustrious and majestick pair, their household havingentirely withdrawn, seated in the deep silence of the night, on either side of a small table as was their happy wont, and gently, calmly, dispassionately, and elegantly sipping that prepared beverage; that ‘drink made ready’ by hands then yet innocent and spotless. Imagine the ingredients of which that dilution must have been composed! Not wine for wine is always ‘ready.’ O call it not by any other W! Let it not be named Glenlivet; think not upon Ferintosh. It wasPURE REALITY IN THE LUSTRE OF A MILD GLORIFICATION,mingled with droppings of the dew of morning.
They say that the mind of man is a mere bundle of associations, and that our success in moving it to our purpose depends on our awakening the most powerful, or most agreeable of them. I know not of what associations that of the reader may be composed; but for my own part I think a little warm drink before going to bed upon a night when owls hoot and chimnies are to be blown down, prepared by the small hands that one loves, and that all admire; where a dimple takes place of what in a plebeian hand is a knuckle, and the round fingers taper gently off toward points that are touched with damask and bordered with little rims of ivory; where bright eyes beam with kindness as well as wit; and words fall in silvery tones from a beautifully-formed mouth, like the renewal of life upon the soul of man! I think where one could enjoy all this, it was a monstrous act of folly on the part of Macbeth to fret about the principality of Cumberland, or covet even the whole kingdom of Scotland. For my own part I must say, give me the warm drink and the sweet companionship of that night, and let old Duncan with a hearty welcome sleep up to his heart’s content the whole ‘ravelled sleeve of care!’
Oh Woman! dear, good, kind, blessed, beautiful Woman! chosen of Heaven (and O how well!) for the meet companion of our otherwise forlorn race! is there a moment throughout that whole circle of the Sun which we call Day more sweet to us, than that which follows the well-performed duties of our lot and that gives thee altogether to us at its close, gentle, refined, affectionate, soothing, bland, and unreserved? The hour that precedes retirement for the night, when the early luxury of languor begins to take possession of the senses? When the eyes are not heavy, but threaten to become so, and long silken lashes first make love to each other? When it is time to confine part of that rich hair en papilotte and fold the whole into that pretty cap; to place the feet in small graceful slippers, and let ease put fashion tastefully on one side in the arrangement of the dress?
Doubtless there is a period during the delirium of youthful fancy when the calmer pleasures are unappreciated at their value, but the Andante of existence follows the Allegro of boyhood; its precious strains fall deeper and more touchingly upon the Sense; and the full Soul longs to yield itself to them, and to share its emotions with the beloved one in tones heard only in her ivoryear——howbeautiful! Oh pure of heart, howbeautiful!——and, when the belle, still delighting to please, has become the friend; and the mistress, still fascinating, the wife; and one interest, one faith, one hope, one joy, one passion, one life, animate bothhearts——ohthen,
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Gettheeto bed.’
John Waters.
THE SMITHY.BY ALFRED B. STREET.Therewas a little smithy at the comer of the road,In the village where, when life glow’d fresh and bright, was my abode;A little slab-roof’d smithy, of a stain’d and dusky red,An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed;The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green,Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.High curl’d the smoke from the humble roof with dawning’s earliest bird,And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard;The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll’d the hours along,Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge’s clear deep lightThrough chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,The margin-grass is group’d with cows, and spotted with the geese;On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there’s a circle of crackling fire,Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man’s welded tire!While o’er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red,To the tilted wheel of the huge grim’d ark in the back-ground of the shed.There’s a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!The bands have been placed around him—he struggles to be free:But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm’d,Then loosen’d Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he’s unharm’d.Joe Matson’s horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he’s seen,An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light:But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old dozing gray,And a blush is fixed on Matson’s face in the broad and steady ray;One moment more, and the iron is whirl’d with fierce and spattering glow,And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge’s smite, tink! tink! the hammer’s blow.‘Whoa, Dobbin!’ says Tim, as he pares the hoof, ‘whoa! whoa!’ as he fits the shoe,And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil is through;Pleas’d Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beatOf the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the distance fleet:And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,That e’en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given.
Therewas a little smithy at the comer of the road,In the village where, when life glow’d fresh and bright, was my abode;A little slab-roof’d smithy, of a stain’d and dusky red,An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed;The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green,Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.High curl’d the smoke from the humble roof with dawning’s earliest bird,And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard;The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll’d the hours along,Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge’s clear deep lightThrough chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,The margin-grass is group’d with cows, and spotted with the geese;On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there’s a circle of crackling fire,Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man’s welded tire!While o’er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red,To the tilted wheel of the huge grim’d ark in the back-ground of the shed.There’s a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!The bands have been placed around him—he struggles to be free:But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm’d,Then loosen’d Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he’s unharm’d.Joe Matson’s horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he’s seen,An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light:But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old dozing gray,And a blush is fixed on Matson’s face in the broad and steady ray;One moment more, and the iron is whirl’d with fierce and spattering glow,And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge’s smite, tink! tink! the hammer’s blow.‘Whoa, Dobbin!’ says Tim, as he pares the hoof, ‘whoa! whoa!’ as he fits the shoe,And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil is through;Pleas’d Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beatOf the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the distance fleet:And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,That e’en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given.
Therewas a little smithy at the comer of the road,In the village where, when life glow’d fresh and bright, was my abode;A little slab-roof’d smithy, of a stain’d and dusky red,An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed;The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green,Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.
Therewas a little smithy at the comer of the road,
In the village where, when life glow’d fresh and bright, was my abode;
A little slab-roof’d smithy, of a stain’d and dusky red,
An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed;
The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green,
Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.
High curl’d the smoke from the humble roof with dawning’s earliest bird,And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard;The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll’d the hours along,Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge’s clear deep lightThrough chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.
High curl’d the smoke from the humble roof with dawning’s earliest bird,
And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard;
The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,
Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll’d the hours along,
Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge’s clear deep light
Through chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.
The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,The margin-grass is group’d with cows, and spotted with the geese;On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there’s a circle of crackling fire,Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man’s welded tire!While o’er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red,To the tilted wheel of the huge grim’d ark in the back-ground of the shed.
The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,
The margin-grass is group’d with cows, and spotted with the geese;
On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there’s a circle of crackling fire,
Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man’s welded tire!
While o’er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red,
To the tilted wheel of the huge grim’d ark in the back-ground of the shed.
There’s a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!The bands have been placed around him—he struggles to be free:But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm’d,Then loosen’d Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he’s unharm’d.
There’s a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,
And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;
In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!
The bands have been placed around him—he struggles to be free:
But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm’d,
Then loosen’d Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he’s unharm’d.
Joe Matson’s horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he’s seen,An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.
Joe Matson’s horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he’s seen,
An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;
Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,
There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;
The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,
With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.
I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light:But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!
I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,
The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light:
But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,
And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;
How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,
And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!
It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old dozing gray,And a blush is fixed on Matson’s face in the broad and steady ray;One moment more, and the iron is whirl’d with fierce and spattering glow,And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge’s smite, tink! tink! the hammer’s blow.
It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,
On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;
It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old dozing gray,
And a blush is fixed on Matson’s face in the broad and steady ray;
One moment more, and the iron is whirl’d with fierce and spattering glow,
And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge’s smite, tink! tink! the hammer’s blow.
‘Whoa, Dobbin!’ says Tim, as he pares the hoof, ‘whoa! whoa!’ as he fits the shoe,And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil is through;Pleas’d Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beatOf the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the distance fleet:And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,That e’en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given.
‘Whoa, Dobbin!’ says Tim, as he pares the hoof, ‘whoa! whoa!’ as he fits the shoe,
And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil is through;
Pleas’d Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beat
Of the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the distance fleet:
And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,
That e’en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given.
THE FINE ARTS.A FEW HINTS ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF SIZE IN ITS RELATION TO THE FINE ARTS.BY GEORGE HARVEY.Itis a common remark made by most persons who visit the mightiest cataract in the world, that it fails to impress one’s mind with that just idea of its grandeur which truly belongs to its vastness, and which is always formed from attentively reading or listening to a correct verbal or written description of it. Even the most faithful drawings cannot awaken an adequate conception of the majesty, the greatness ofNiagara. Now the law of optics will serve to convince us that this must ever be so, since the image formed in the dark chamber of the eye is exceedingly small; and as the Falls are always approached gradually from a distance, the surrounding landscape occupies by far the largest portion of the field of vision; hence the descending stream can only sustain a subordinate part in the general view; but when you have approached the very verge of the precipice over which the rolling waters rush with maddening roar; or when, from beneath, you stand upon the piles of broken rocks, and look upward or around, and can only embrace a small portion of the falling waters; then and then only, do the anticipated emotions crowd upon the soul, causing it to stand in trembling awe, vibrating in unison with the fragments of the fallen precipice upon which you tread.I remember some years since, in looking at an image of the ‘American Falls’ reflected in a camera-obscura which was built on the opposite shore, noticing how extremely insignificant it appeared, notwithstanding the table of vision was five feet in diameter. The descending foam as it was unevenly projected in billowy masses, appeared to move very slowly in its downward course, causing a feeling of impatience at its tardiness: in truth, the whole scene looked very tame and unsatisfactory, and I could not help remarking to a friend who was with me, how utterly impossible it would be for any artist to be thought successful in an attempt to represent them. Nevertheless I made some twenty sketches from as many different points of view; one only of which has procured any commendation, as conveying an idea of the grandeur of the Great Cataract. It is evident therefore that what the eye can take in at one look will never of itself impress the mind with those sublime emotions which we conceive should belong to vastness. Yet there is a physical attribute belonging to subjects having this property of vastness, that will command more attention than the same scene upon a small scale: but the mind must be impressed with the fact, and must draw largely upon it for any emotion of the sublime. It is therefore upon this principle that large portraits will command from the multitude more applause than small miniatures; large oil-paintings than small water-color drawings. The statues on the outside of the Grecian templeswere colossal, yet in their position they looked small. Most of the works of Michael Angelo are so; but in consequence of the distance at which they are seen, they lose greatly their power to produce grand ideas, because in all cases the image formed upon the optic nerve varies but little in its actual size; since the distance at which things are viewed is in some degree regulated by the size: thus before a large picture, you must station yourself at a relative distance, so as to embrace the whole, while before the small drawing you must be within arm’s reach; or if a miniature portrait, it must be seen within a few inches, thus making the mirrored picture on the eye vary but little in actual size.These few hints will readily account for the mortification experienced by many artists who have painted exceedingly impressive pictures when they are seen in the studios where they were executed, but when they are taken into a large gallery or rotunda, seem lost and look insignificant, save to the few of cultivated minds, who may take the trouble to approach within a proper distance, and shut out all objects which interfere or intrude, and which prevent a true appreciation of their merits. The knowing, time-serving artists, who paint exhibition pictures, have long since understood this law; and accordingly they paint up to what is called ‘exhibition-pitch,’ where brilliance and flashiness of color, with an absence of detail, which might interfere with breadth of effect, are of the first importance. Attention is also given to masses of light and shade, that all the forms introduced in the picture may have their due prominence; and a judicious balancing of warm and cool tints, by which harmony is produced, and the eye prevented from being offended by its evident exaggeration of the ‘modesty of nature.’Turnermay be instanced as the most successful in this style of painting, which he has followed to such an extreme, that his pictures are now attractive only at a great distance, for when they are seen near by, they fail to please, if they do not produce positive disgust. Report represents him as having accumulated upward of one hundred thousand pounds sterling, which he could only have done by adopting this distant, effective style; for if he had continued to finish his pictures in the same manner as he did those of his early works, which procured for him the foundation of his present wide-spread reputation, he would not have realized one eighth of that sum. To paint one of the former, costs but a few hours’ labor, but one of the latter would employ many days if not weeks; yet the momentary effect of pleasure derived from seeing the one is greater than that of the other. Hence those who visit exhibitions, having but a limited time, are gratified; but place one of the chaste productions ofClaude Lorraine, who diligently followed nature with all the tenderness of a modest student, by the side of one of the tinsel class, and observe the ultimate effect. The former will gradually win your admiration, and continue to arouse pleasing reminiscences; the latter will finally lose its charm, and be regarded with something of the feeling with which one looks upon the ornamental paper of a room. We have had many exhibitions of single large pictures, such asDubufe’s‘Don Juan,’ which have produced handsome returns to those who have purchased them for such speculating purposes. The parties have been well aware of the physical effects of size; forhad the same subjects been painted upon a small scale, though equally well executed, they would have been less attractive to the multitude; yet the smaller ones would have reflected the same sized images in the camera of the eye; since, as I have already hinted, to see them properly they must be viewed at short distances, as the large pictures must be at greater proportionate ones.I will here digress for a moment, in the hope that I may be permitted to make mention of my own works, without incurring the charge of undue egotism. Let me, however, by way of apology for calling public attention to the series of forty small Water-Color Drawings, (paintedcon amore, and with no idea of gain,) which are now before the public, mention the fact, that the commencement of their publication was owing to a suggestion of Gen.Cass, who urged me to undertake the enterprise while I was in Paris. The drawings then consisted of half the present number of landscape views; the localities and subjects of the latter half have been chosen with the purpose of writing appropriate chapters illustrating the progress of civilization and of refinement in the northern part of this continent. The foregoing brief remark applies only to their publication; for theirorigindates back to the halcyon days of early life, when I had but just passed my teens; when boyish enthusiasm lends a charm to every dream that finds a home in the fancy or the heart. Then it was that the latent wish was formed of being able, at some future day, to paint the History of the Day; and to carry out this impulsive feeling, I have been brought into sweet communion with divine Nature; and oh! how bounteously has she repaid my studious contemplation with infinite delight! It is not for me to speak of the results. There they are; and every lover of the country may judge of the degree of success I have achieved. I am not so certain that I have equal ability in the use of the pen. The chapters of the first number will speak for themselves; but I must not omit to acknowledge the many obligations I am under toWashington Irving, for the friendly revision of my ms. He has given many an elegant turn to a prose sentence, and clothed rude images with graceful drapery. But to resume.Since then it follows that a small picture, being viewed at its proper focal distance, reflects the same sized image as a larger one atitsproper focal distance, I can see no good reason why the physical attribute oflargenessshould be so eagerly sought for by the public. Surely a gallery of small pictures, provided they be not painfully small, should be preferred to one filled with large ones. We see the principle I am contending for carried out in libraries. The ordinary sized volumes are preferred, for most purposes, to the cumbrous tomes of large folio editions. It is true, a large book will produce in the minds of many persons greater respect than a miniature copy of the same work; but the ideas contained in the one are no better or more impressive than the same contained in that of the other; save the feeling with which the larger one inspires the votary who looks no farther than the outside of the page. The series of forty landscapes alluded to in the above digression, if viewed at the focal distance of eighteen inches, will appear as large as those twice the size, viewed at their proportionate increased distance. An elaborately finished picture, to be seen to advantage,must be examined near by. A coarser work, theatrical scenes for instance, painted for distant effect, must be seen accordingly, if you would secure pleasurable emotions. As a general approximative rule, the focal distance at which the spectator should stand in viewing works of art is to be found by measuring the same length from the picture as its size: Thus, one of ten feet in length is to be viewed at that distance; one of eighteen inches at about twenty inches; a small miniature of six inches, at about eight inches. If the work should have no detail, this rule will not hold good; but if there is a faithful transcript of Nature; and she ever delights in unobtrusive beauties, which are particularly obvious in the fore-ground, for she strews them at your feet; then if you approach the artist’s effort, a work of patient diligence, you can hold converse with her through the medium of his labors.I do not attempt to deny the importance of size in winning our first regard: it is a law inseparable from the thing itself; but I must protest against the taste of the age being supplied always with mere physical attributes. The purling stream and babbling brook; the small rill falling from on high, till its feathery stream is lost in mist, are and should be as much sought after as the roaring torrent or the thundering cascade. The effect of the one is to produce awe, that of the other tranquil pleasure. The human mind is not always to be upon the stretch; to remain lifted up as it were upon stilts; our common communion is to be found in enjoyments that are quietly exciting. It is a common remark, that the English language has lost some of its truthfulness by our habit of expressing ourselves in the language of superlatives, through a desire to astonish. Thus we leave nothing for the innate love of truth; nothing to work out the necessary sympathy. Is not this parallel with the desire to see large pictures?—and should it not receive some regulation from those who have the requisite influence?I find the few hints to which in the outset I proposed to confine myself have grown to a greater length than was intended. I will therefore, in closing, simply reiterate the remark, that I see no good reason why the painter of a large picture (or the work itself) should be regarded with more favor than he who paints equally well, but limits the size, unless we consider the white-wash brush a nobler instrument than the camel’s-hair pencil.
Itis a common remark made by most persons who visit the mightiest cataract in the world, that it fails to impress one’s mind with that just idea of its grandeur which truly belongs to its vastness, and which is always formed from attentively reading or listening to a correct verbal or written description of it. Even the most faithful drawings cannot awaken an adequate conception of the majesty, the greatness ofNiagara. Now the law of optics will serve to convince us that this must ever be so, since the image formed in the dark chamber of the eye is exceedingly small; and as the Falls are always approached gradually from a distance, the surrounding landscape occupies by far the largest portion of the field of vision; hence the descending stream can only sustain a subordinate part in the general view; but when you have approached the very verge of the precipice over which the rolling waters rush with maddening roar; or when, from beneath, you stand upon the piles of broken rocks, and look upward or around, and can only embrace a small portion of the falling waters; then and then only, do the anticipated emotions crowd upon the soul, causing it to stand in trembling awe, vibrating in unison with the fragments of the fallen precipice upon which you tread.
I remember some years since, in looking at an image of the ‘American Falls’ reflected in a camera-obscura which was built on the opposite shore, noticing how extremely insignificant it appeared, notwithstanding the table of vision was five feet in diameter. The descending foam as it was unevenly projected in billowy masses, appeared to move very slowly in its downward course, causing a feeling of impatience at its tardiness: in truth, the whole scene looked very tame and unsatisfactory, and I could not help remarking to a friend who was with me, how utterly impossible it would be for any artist to be thought successful in an attempt to represent them. Nevertheless I made some twenty sketches from as many different points of view; one only of which has procured any commendation, as conveying an idea of the grandeur of the Great Cataract. It is evident therefore that what the eye can take in at one look will never of itself impress the mind with those sublime emotions which we conceive should belong to vastness. Yet there is a physical attribute belonging to subjects having this property of vastness, that will command more attention than the same scene upon a small scale: but the mind must be impressed with the fact, and must draw largely upon it for any emotion of the sublime. It is therefore upon this principle that large portraits will command from the multitude more applause than small miniatures; large oil-paintings than small water-color drawings. The statues on the outside of the Grecian templeswere colossal, yet in their position they looked small. Most of the works of Michael Angelo are so; but in consequence of the distance at which they are seen, they lose greatly their power to produce grand ideas, because in all cases the image formed upon the optic nerve varies but little in its actual size; since the distance at which things are viewed is in some degree regulated by the size: thus before a large picture, you must station yourself at a relative distance, so as to embrace the whole, while before the small drawing you must be within arm’s reach; or if a miniature portrait, it must be seen within a few inches, thus making the mirrored picture on the eye vary but little in actual size.
These few hints will readily account for the mortification experienced by many artists who have painted exceedingly impressive pictures when they are seen in the studios where they were executed, but when they are taken into a large gallery or rotunda, seem lost and look insignificant, save to the few of cultivated minds, who may take the trouble to approach within a proper distance, and shut out all objects which interfere or intrude, and which prevent a true appreciation of their merits. The knowing, time-serving artists, who paint exhibition pictures, have long since understood this law; and accordingly they paint up to what is called ‘exhibition-pitch,’ where brilliance and flashiness of color, with an absence of detail, which might interfere with breadth of effect, are of the first importance. Attention is also given to masses of light and shade, that all the forms introduced in the picture may have their due prominence; and a judicious balancing of warm and cool tints, by which harmony is produced, and the eye prevented from being offended by its evident exaggeration of the ‘modesty of nature.’
Turnermay be instanced as the most successful in this style of painting, which he has followed to such an extreme, that his pictures are now attractive only at a great distance, for when they are seen near by, they fail to please, if they do not produce positive disgust. Report represents him as having accumulated upward of one hundred thousand pounds sterling, which he could only have done by adopting this distant, effective style; for if he had continued to finish his pictures in the same manner as he did those of his early works, which procured for him the foundation of his present wide-spread reputation, he would not have realized one eighth of that sum. To paint one of the former, costs but a few hours’ labor, but one of the latter would employ many days if not weeks; yet the momentary effect of pleasure derived from seeing the one is greater than that of the other. Hence those who visit exhibitions, having but a limited time, are gratified; but place one of the chaste productions ofClaude Lorraine, who diligently followed nature with all the tenderness of a modest student, by the side of one of the tinsel class, and observe the ultimate effect. The former will gradually win your admiration, and continue to arouse pleasing reminiscences; the latter will finally lose its charm, and be regarded with something of the feeling with which one looks upon the ornamental paper of a room. We have had many exhibitions of single large pictures, such asDubufe’s‘Don Juan,’ which have produced handsome returns to those who have purchased them for such speculating purposes. The parties have been well aware of the physical effects of size; forhad the same subjects been painted upon a small scale, though equally well executed, they would have been less attractive to the multitude; yet the smaller ones would have reflected the same sized images in the camera of the eye; since, as I have already hinted, to see them properly they must be viewed at short distances, as the large pictures must be at greater proportionate ones.
I will here digress for a moment, in the hope that I may be permitted to make mention of my own works, without incurring the charge of undue egotism. Let me, however, by way of apology for calling public attention to the series of forty small Water-Color Drawings, (paintedcon amore, and with no idea of gain,) which are now before the public, mention the fact, that the commencement of their publication was owing to a suggestion of Gen.Cass, who urged me to undertake the enterprise while I was in Paris. The drawings then consisted of half the present number of landscape views; the localities and subjects of the latter half have been chosen with the purpose of writing appropriate chapters illustrating the progress of civilization and of refinement in the northern part of this continent. The foregoing brief remark applies only to their publication; for theirorigindates back to the halcyon days of early life, when I had but just passed my teens; when boyish enthusiasm lends a charm to every dream that finds a home in the fancy or the heart. Then it was that the latent wish was formed of being able, at some future day, to paint the History of the Day; and to carry out this impulsive feeling, I have been brought into sweet communion with divine Nature; and oh! how bounteously has she repaid my studious contemplation with infinite delight! It is not for me to speak of the results. There they are; and every lover of the country may judge of the degree of success I have achieved. I am not so certain that I have equal ability in the use of the pen. The chapters of the first number will speak for themselves; but I must not omit to acknowledge the many obligations I am under toWashington Irving, for the friendly revision of my ms. He has given many an elegant turn to a prose sentence, and clothed rude images with graceful drapery. But to resume.
Since then it follows that a small picture, being viewed at its proper focal distance, reflects the same sized image as a larger one atitsproper focal distance, I can see no good reason why the physical attribute oflargenessshould be so eagerly sought for by the public. Surely a gallery of small pictures, provided they be not painfully small, should be preferred to one filled with large ones. We see the principle I am contending for carried out in libraries. The ordinary sized volumes are preferred, for most purposes, to the cumbrous tomes of large folio editions. It is true, a large book will produce in the minds of many persons greater respect than a miniature copy of the same work; but the ideas contained in the one are no better or more impressive than the same contained in that of the other; save the feeling with which the larger one inspires the votary who looks no farther than the outside of the page. The series of forty landscapes alluded to in the above digression, if viewed at the focal distance of eighteen inches, will appear as large as those twice the size, viewed at their proportionate increased distance. An elaborately finished picture, to be seen to advantage,must be examined near by. A coarser work, theatrical scenes for instance, painted for distant effect, must be seen accordingly, if you would secure pleasurable emotions. As a general approximative rule, the focal distance at which the spectator should stand in viewing works of art is to be found by measuring the same length from the picture as its size: Thus, one of ten feet in length is to be viewed at that distance; one of eighteen inches at about twenty inches; a small miniature of six inches, at about eight inches. If the work should have no detail, this rule will not hold good; but if there is a faithful transcript of Nature; and she ever delights in unobtrusive beauties, which are particularly obvious in the fore-ground, for she strews them at your feet; then if you approach the artist’s effort, a work of patient diligence, you can hold converse with her through the medium of his labors.
I do not attempt to deny the importance of size in winning our first regard: it is a law inseparable from the thing itself; but I must protest against the taste of the age being supplied always with mere physical attributes. The purling stream and babbling brook; the small rill falling from on high, till its feathery stream is lost in mist, are and should be as much sought after as the roaring torrent or the thundering cascade. The effect of the one is to produce awe, that of the other tranquil pleasure. The human mind is not always to be upon the stretch; to remain lifted up as it were upon stilts; our common communion is to be found in enjoyments that are quietly exciting. It is a common remark, that the English language has lost some of its truthfulness by our habit of expressing ourselves in the language of superlatives, through a desire to astonish. Thus we leave nothing for the innate love of truth; nothing to work out the necessary sympathy. Is not this parallel with the desire to see large pictures?—and should it not receive some regulation from those who have the requisite influence?
I find the few hints to which in the outset I proposed to confine myself have grown to a greater length than was intended. I will therefore, in closing, simply reiterate the remark, that I see no good reason why the painter of a large picture (or the work itself) should be regarded with more favor than he who paints equally well, but limits the size, unless we consider the white-wash brush a nobler instrument than the camel’s-hair pencil.
LIFE: A SONNET.Whence? whither? where?—a taper-point of light,My life and world—the infinite around;A sea, not even highest thought can sound;A formless void; unchanging, endless night.In vain the struggling spirit aims its flightTo the empyrean, seen as is a star,Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar;In vain it beats its wings with daring might.What yonder gleams?—what heavenly shapes ariseFrom out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes;Sun-clear the world around, and far awayA boundless future sweeps in golden day.J. G. Percival.
Whence? whither? where?—a taper-point of light,My life and world—the infinite around;A sea, not even highest thought can sound;A formless void; unchanging, endless night.In vain the struggling spirit aims its flightTo the empyrean, seen as is a star,Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar;In vain it beats its wings with daring might.What yonder gleams?—what heavenly shapes ariseFrom out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes;Sun-clear the world around, and far awayA boundless future sweeps in golden day.
Whence? whither? where?—a taper-point of light,My life and world—the infinite around;A sea, not even highest thought can sound;A formless void; unchanging, endless night.In vain the struggling spirit aims its flightTo the empyrean, seen as is a star,Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar;In vain it beats its wings with daring might.What yonder gleams?—what heavenly shapes ariseFrom out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes;Sun-clear the world around, and far awayA boundless future sweeps in golden day.
Whence? whither? where?—a taper-point of light,
My life and world—the infinite around;
A sea, not even highest thought can sound;
A formless void; unchanging, endless night.
In vain the struggling spirit aims its flight
To the empyrean, seen as is a star,
Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar;
In vain it beats its wings with daring might.
What yonder gleams?—what heavenly shapes arise
From out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,
Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,
Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes;
Sun-clear the world around, and far away
A boundless future sweeps in golden day.
J. G. Percival.
TWO PICTURES.‘Theglory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another.’—St. Paul.LOVE CELESTIAL.I seehis face illumined by a beatific light,That tells me he is dying fast; the shadows of the nightAre passing from his saintly brow and sunken eye away,But he looks beyond them and beholds a never-ending day.Nay, wonder not that I am calm; the fleeting things of earthAre passing with the flight of time, to their eternal birth:I feel that death will shed on him a halo like the sun,And I shall share it with him, when my pilgrimage is done.How quickly fades the earthly frame, and with it too, how fastThe agony and sorrow of our mortal doom are past;And when the sight of worldly wo weighs heavy on the breast,How welcome is the voice fromGod, that speaks to us of rest!O! painfully the pangs of life his fading frame have worn,But blessed be ourFather’slove, that dwells with those who mourn;And though the grave must rend apart our sweet affection’s bond,On this side is the night, but all is luminous beyond.I know that more he loves my soul than its transitory shrine,And did I prize the vase alone, when all it held was mine?Let hallowed dust return to dust, give Nature what she gave,For all that dearest was to me, is victor o’er the grave.Triumphant will his spirit rise to the Eternal throne,Triumphant wear a crown of light, by earthly trials won:And mid the friends who went before, the angel, sin-forgiven,Shall feel that they can part no more, when once they meet in heaven.True, I shall look on him no more, but he will gaze on me;Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,I share with him that smile ofGod, which lights the world on high!LOVE TERRESTRIAL.Theytell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,Tooliving, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.They tell me he will surely die—and so at last must all;I know that the Destroyer’s blight on all mankind must fall;Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to seeThe pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.Perhaps ’tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tellHow sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,Will ne’er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;O,God! it is a fearful thought—and this it is to die!B.
‘Theglory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another.’—St. Paul.
‘Theglory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another.’—St. Paul.
I seehis face illumined by a beatific light,That tells me he is dying fast; the shadows of the nightAre passing from his saintly brow and sunken eye away,But he looks beyond them and beholds a never-ending day.Nay, wonder not that I am calm; the fleeting things of earthAre passing with the flight of time, to their eternal birth:I feel that death will shed on him a halo like the sun,And I shall share it with him, when my pilgrimage is done.How quickly fades the earthly frame, and with it too, how fastThe agony and sorrow of our mortal doom are past;And when the sight of worldly wo weighs heavy on the breast,How welcome is the voice fromGod, that speaks to us of rest!O! painfully the pangs of life his fading frame have worn,But blessed be ourFather’slove, that dwells with those who mourn;And though the grave must rend apart our sweet affection’s bond,On this side is the night, but all is luminous beyond.I know that more he loves my soul than its transitory shrine,And did I prize the vase alone, when all it held was mine?Let hallowed dust return to dust, give Nature what she gave,For all that dearest was to me, is victor o’er the grave.Triumphant will his spirit rise to the Eternal throne,Triumphant wear a crown of light, by earthly trials won:And mid the friends who went before, the angel, sin-forgiven,Shall feel that they can part no more, when once they meet in heaven.True, I shall look on him no more, but he will gaze on me;Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,I share with him that smile ofGod, which lights the world on high!
I seehis face illumined by a beatific light,That tells me he is dying fast; the shadows of the nightAre passing from his saintly brow and sunken eye away,But he looks beyond them and beholds a never-ending day.
I seehis face illumined by a beatific light,
That tells me he is dying fast; the shadows of the night
Are passing from his saintly brow and sunken eye away,
But he looks beyond them and beholds a never-ending day.
Nay, wonder not that I am calm; the fleeting things of earthAre passing with the flight of time, to their eternal birth:I feel that death will shed on him a halo like the sun,And I shall share it with him, when my pilgrimage is done.
Nay, wonder not that I am calm; the fleeting things of earth
Are passing with the flight of time, to their eternal birth:
I feel that death will shed on him a halo like the sun,
And I shall share it with him, when my pilgrimage is done.
How quickly fades the earthly frame, and with it too, how fastThe agony and sorrow of our mortal doom are past;And when the sight of worldly wo weighs heavy on the breast,How welcome is the voice fromGod, that speaks to us of rest!
How quickly fades the earthly frame, and with it too, how fast
The agony and sorrow of our mortal doom are past;
And when the sight of worldly wo weighs heavy on the breast,
How welcome is the voice fromGod, that speaks to us of rest!
O! painfully the pangs of life his fading frame have worn,But blessed be ourFather’slove, that dwells with those who mourn;And though the grave must rend apart our sweet affection’s bond,On this side is the night, but all is luminous beyond.
O! painfully the pangs of life his fading frame have worn,
But blessed be ourFather’slove, that dwells with those who mourn;
And though the grave must rend apart our sweet affection’s bond,
On this side is the night, but all is luminous beyond.
I know that more he loves my soul than its transitory shrine,And did I prize the vase alone, when all it held was mine?Let hallowed dust return to dust, give Nature what she gave,For all that dearest was to me, is victor o’er the grave.
I know that more he loves my soul than its transitory shrine,
And did I prize the vase alone, when all it held was mine?
Let hallowed dust return to dust, give Nature what she gave,
For all that dearest was to me, is victor o’er the grave.
Triumphant will his spirit rise to the Eternal throne,Triumphant wear a crown of light, by earthly trials won:And mid the friends who went before, the angel, sin-forgiven,Shall feel that they can part no more, when once they meet in heaven.
Triumphant will his spirit rise to the Eternal throne,
Triumphant wear a crown of light, by earthly trials won:
And mid the friends who went before, the angel, sin-forgiven,
Shall feel that they can part no more, when once they meet in heaven.
True, I shall look on him no more, but he will gaze on me;Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,I share with him that smile ofGod, which lights the world on high!
True, I shall look on him no more, but he will gaze on me;
Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,
Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,
I share with him that smile ofGod, which lights the world on high!
Theytell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,Tooliving, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.They tell me he will surely die—and so at last must all;I know that the Destroyer’s blight on all mankind must fall;Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to seeThe pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.Perhaps ’tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tellHow sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,Will ne’er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;O,God! it is a fearful thought—and this it is to die!
Theytell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,Tooliving, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.
Theytell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,
And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;
A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,
Tooliving, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.
They tell me he will surely die—and so at last must all;I know that the Destroyer’s blight on all mankind must fall;Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!
They tell me he will surely die—and so at last must all;
I know that the Destroyer’s blight on all mankind must fall;
Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,
And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!
But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to seeThe pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.
But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to see
The pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;
Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,
I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.
Perhaps ’tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.
Perhaps ’tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,
But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?
If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;
Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.
Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tellHow sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!
Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tell
How sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;
I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,
I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!
It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.
It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;
This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,
The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,
While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.
I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,Will ne’er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;O,God! it is a fearful thought—and this it is to die!
I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,
While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,
Will ne’er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;
O,God! it is a fearful thought—and this it is to die!
B.
THE HERMIT OF THE PRAIRIE.BY PETER VON GEIST.‘Tohim who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language.’Bryant.Wednesday, June twenty-first. How little do people who ride along in their carriages, or rattle over the ground in stage-coaches, or rush over its surface in rail-cars, know of the pleasures of travelling! They rolloverthe country; they cannot be said to passthroughit. They may see new rivers, new mountains, and new faces; but for all the good the last does them, they might as well have stood on the corner of the street in a city half a day, and watched the passers-by. And better too; for hotel-keepers, and waiters, and the whole tribe of public functionaries, have all an artificial, professional look; so that it is difficult to come at their real characters, if indeed they have any. The same is the case, to some extent, with their fellow-passengers. All are so absorbingly interested in their own brilliant thoughts; or they deem it incumbent on them to assume the dignity and authority befitting persons in high stations; (which dignity at home, by the by, is put one side into a dark corner and never thought of,) that it is about as profitable an undertaking to attempt to find out the personal feelings and sentiments of a mask, as theirs.But here am I, walking stoutly and merrily along, unincumbered with luggage or care; and because I do not care what the next day or hour may bring forth, every thing seems to turn up just as I would have it if I had the ordering of events. I shall not pause to offer any philosophical conjectures as to the reason why we are invariably disappointedin our conclusions, (excepting they are mathematical ones) concerning the future; merely asking the amiable reader whetherheever knew such an anticipation to be exactly realized. I shall not stop to make any such conjectures, because I should only get deeper into the dark, and I am in deep enough for comfort now; and secondly, it is against my principles. I am living out of doors, and make mention only of things out of doors.But I trudge stoutly forward, whistling as I go; making myself as agreeable as possible to myself and to every body whom I meet; on jocose terms with every thing; decidedly agricultural in my tastes and pursuits, at every farmer’s house where I happen to put up for the night: at one place in search of employment as a day-laborer; at another, an artist; by turns every thing. Is not this the way to travel? My steps wander where they choose; and if I keep on to the end of the earth, what will it matter? I will go to the north; assume the dress, language and manners of those who dwell within the frozen circle; I will become a Greenlander; I will go and preach the religion of Mohammed to the inhabitants of Patagonia; I will brush up the gods of Rome; dust that old mythology; compound and simplify the whole into a good, comfortable, believable system, and proclaim Olympian Jove in the deserts of Amazonia. I will be a Turk, an Indian, a Pirate; I will be any thing. What do I care, and who shall say me nay? This sensation of freedom is too delicious to be interrupted by any companionship. And for my part, I want no better companions than this wind, which free as I am, blows against my cheek, and those clouds, that fly in unending succession over my head. O! ye blue chariots of the Thunderer! whither hurry ye so rapidly? Over hill and valley, and countries and cities of men, ye fly unheeding; and borne forward on the swift pinions of the wind, ye speed on your mission afar! What to you are states, and kingdoms, or land or ocean? Furiously driving in black armies to meet opposing armies, or singly floating in that waveless sea of blue, your existence is above the earth; men lookupto you with wonder or terror, butyourglance is never downward. Onward ye wander, in your unbounded career, at your own free will. Nothing boundsmycareer ormywill. Fleecy ears! if ye would sustain the form of a mortal, triumphantly would you and I sail over the heads of men! Softly, obedient to the impulse of chance, would we glide over continent and sea, and explore the mysteries of undiscovered islands and climes; calmly would I look down on the strife or toil of human passions, and calmly would we ride on forever, through night and day! But if the clouds are not, the earth is, mine—and I am my own! There are none to molest or make me afraid with the useless importunities or warnings of friendship. My destiny is my own; and it is pleasant not to care what I may be or do. Pleasure is now; sorrow is prospective; and life will be only pleasure, because I let the past and the future go, and crowd as many happy thoughts as possible into the present moment.What a spacious plain of the world! Dotted with habitations and with men of all colors, and customs, and conditions! Every one thinks he possesses a soul; and in virtue thereof, he considers himself entitled to set up as an independent existence, and endeavors to move in a littlepath of his own. But in fact, he plods humbly along, and repeats with patient toil the example of labor and unspeculating perseverance that his fathers have set him. A vast multitude, they darken the land! Mighty hopes and aspirations swell each small bosom. Each imagines that his designs are peculiar, and for him in particular was every thing mainly made. An unceasing rush of footsteps and clash of voices! And must I be confounded in the crowd? Let me preserve my individuality in the desert! If I were not an insect, it might be different; but as I am no larger than other men, I will not daily measure myself by their standard; I will forget in solitude the littleness of my stature.The shades of evening tinge the green of the fields with a darker hue; and the young farmer goes wearily and yet lightly homeward. Lightly, for he leaves behind him labor and trouble, and his fair-haired wife will greet him with her constant and love-lit smile. Cheerily will the small family draw around their board, covered with the simple and satisfying products of their own soil. And when all care is ended, when night is duskily stealing over the earth, he and his bride will sit down alone in their cottage door, in the red light of the western clouds. Over all the dim landscape there are no sights or sounds; and in themselves there are no feelings but those of contentment and love. In his strong palm her soft hand, on his broad breast reclining her head, their hearts are filled and overflow with sweet thoughts and gentle words of present happiness. Fair prospects also of the future rise up before them. Many years crowned with prosperity they see in store for them; and in each one, many an evening like this, of deep confiding love. Hour after hour, into the deepening night, their low tones and slow words murmur on brokenly; and they know of nothing in all the world that is wanting to their blessedness. What if the dream should last all their life? It may; or if this passes away, another will take its place. The question then seems to be, whether it is better to live in a delusion and be happy, or to wake and be miserable? Whether it is profitable for a man to walk joyfully through life, covering and coloring over every defect in human nature that he may love it, and keep within him a contented heart, or industriously spy out its deformities, and hate it and himself for possessing it? If nature is in reality naked and rugged, happy is he whose imagination can throw over her a robe of grace. Most happy he whocansee in his fellow-creatures such qualities that he can love them. For me, I will love sterner scenes and sterner thoughts. Human beauty is an illusion; and it does not become the sober wisdom of manhood to be deceived by it. The young farmer and his young wife may be happy; and so may those who find delight in the crowded hall where taste and beauty meet; where are the sounds of clear-ringing, girlish voices, and many glancing feet, and the innumerable light of maiden’s eyes, and heavy folds of auburn hair, and the flush of thought and emotion continually passing over fair faces, with the swell of music that thrills, and the air laden with fragrance that intoxicates. Or in the still twilight, by the side of her whose every note makes his pulse to tremble with the breathing of song, and the incense of flowers, and forgetfulness of the world, to feel the thought stealing over his heart that perhaps he is not uncared for. It is sweet, but vain; sweet and vainas the smiling, blushing slumber of a young girl. Dream on! dream on! for if you can always sleep, what will matter to you the storms and confusion without?But as for me, I cannot sleep. Every thing my eye rests on is harsh and ungraceful, because, having passed through the seven-times heated furnace, Imustlook through the covering and see the reality.MOONLIGHT ON THE RIVER AND PRAIRIE.WearilyI mount this steep eminence, and on its bald summit take off my hat, that I may feel the cool breeze. It comes fresh with the dew that it has snatched in its flight from the bosom of Lake Superior. It rolls over the tall grass of the prairie, which bends beneath its weight, sighs by me, and seems to cling to me as it passes, and moves on toward the arid plains of the South. The Ohio sweeps down in calmness and majesty. With its surface of quicksilver, and the little waves dancing up in gladness, and its heavy dull wash, it rolls along its mighty mass of waters, hastening to pour itself into the mightier mass of the Mississippi. Occasionally a giant tree, torn from its place, and cast root and branch into the flood, comes booming down, and glides swiftly past on its long, long race. Pleasantly the ripples break over the prostrate monarch of the forest that is lodged against the beach, and projects, branchless and barkless, into the stream; and mournfully the worn trunk sways up and down, as though tired of this rocking which has continued the same year after year; weary, and desiring to be at rest. Floods come rushing down upon floods with heavy tread, glance successively under the moonlight that is poured into the channel before me, and then are forced forward into the darkness of the future. But every wave seems as full of joy as though for it alone was the moonlight sent, and as though there were not unnumbered millions of waves to succeed it. Every little wave leaps up as it comes under the light, and smiles toward the round-faced orb above, who seems to smile back upon it. Thou small thing, thou art a fool! The queen, in the beam of whose countenance thou disportest thyself, is altogether deceitful and loves thee not. She has smiled as kindly on thousands who have gone before thee, and will upon thousands who shall come after thee. And more than all, she would send down just as bright and loving a glance, if thou and all thy race had never existed. How then canst thou say, ‘I love her,’ or, ‘she loves me?’But perhaps it is not so. When I look again, each one of the great multitude appears aware of its own insignificance. Jostled, confined, crowded and confused, they go tumbling by, regardless of all above or below, and engrossed with their own fleeting existence. Not remembering whence they came, they take no thought of the present, and are utterly careless of the future. For what would it profit? Their business, and it is business enough, is to dispute and fight with each other for room to move in. All thoughts as to whither they are hastening, must be doubtful, angry and despairing; and care of any thing present,except what concerns the present instant, would be useless. Therefore they resign themselves to be drawn onward and downward unresistingly; and therein are they wise. But whether joyful, or despairing, or not feeling at all, the waters roll by, an unceasing flood; and with their rushing dull roar in my ear, my eye rests on a scene of beauty and quietness. Far away to the northward and westward, and still farther away, stretches an immense plain. Rolling hillocks, like the waves of the sea after a storm, and at long intervals, a few stunted shrubs, alone diversify the prospect. Vast, unmeasured, Nature’s unenclosed meadow, the prairie, is spread out! The tall grass waves gently and rustlingly to the breeze; and down upon it settles the moonlight, in a dim silver-gossamer veil, like that which to the mind’s eye is thrown over the mountains and ruins and castles of the Old World, by the high-born daring and graces of chivalry, the wand of Genius, and the lapse of solemn years. With the same painful feeling of boundlessness, of vastness that will not be grasped by the imagination, that one feels in sailing on the ocean, there is also an air of still, stern desolation brooding upon the plain. It may be that at some former day, the punishment of fire swept over it, consuming its towering offspring, and laying bare and scorching its bosom; and now the proud sufferer, naked and chained, endures the summer’s heat and the winter’s storms, with no sighing herbage or wailing tree to tell to the winds its wo.A single snow-white cloud slumbers and floats far up in the heavens; the moon is gliding slowly down the western arch; and the vast dome, studded with innumerable brilliants, ‘fretted with golden fires,’ rests its northern and western edge on the plain, its southern on blue mountain-tops, its eastern on the forests, and shuts us, the river, the prairie, the moon and I, together and alone. And here will we dwell together alone! Sweet companions will ye be to me; and standing here on this eminence, I promise to love you. I promise to come here often, and to hold communion with you. I will put away all thoughts of sorrow, all swellings of bitterness, from my mind. Contentedly, calmly, unheedingly, will we let the years pass by; for what will it matter to us? Oh! ye are dear to me! Yourvoiceis not heard, yet comes there constantly to my ear the murmur of your song. You speak to me in music and poetry; and while I listen, my thoughts revert only with shuddering to the vain world I have left behind. Thus let us converse always. This vaulted firmament which shuts down upon us now, let it be immoveable, and enclose us forever; here let the wanderings of the wanderer cease, and here will we live together and alone!Andwehavelived here many years. The lessons of my constant companions have calmed and elevated me to a gentler and better spirit. From them I have learned humility as well as self-reliance; while from the history of the actions and thoughts of men in past ages, I have learned perhaps something of the machinery of human nature. The forms of the noblest of preceding generations, and the shapes of beauty which their imaginations have conceived and made to live, visit me atmy bidding. But among all the pictures that daily rise up before my eyes, the brightest, the most beautiful, the most loved, are the sweet faces of the friends of my early years. There are no regrets or repinings when I look back now; it must be that it has all been for the best, that every thing is for the best, and I am at peace. The recollection of madness and folly, of a life useless, of energies wasted, do not disturb the calmness of my soul. The error has been great, but I feel it; and in the next state of existence I shall be wiser and more active. If I have wantonly and recklessly turned away from the offered happiness of society and of the world, it has, in the end, been better for me, for I have found another, a purer and more lasting.Thus I look cheerfully on, and see the sands of my life run out. They fall faster and faster, as their number is diminished, and time flies by me with constantly accelerating speed. ‘Oh, my days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle!’—thelast oneI see but a little distance before me; it will soon be here; and I shall step forth with a joyful, courageous heart, into the indistinct, dimly-revealed future!
‘Tohim who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language.’Bryant.
‘Tohim who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language.’
‘Tohim who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language.’
‘Tohim who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.’
Bryant.
Wednesday, June twenty-first. How little do people who ride along in their carriages, or rattle over the ground in stage-coaches, or rush over its surface in rail-cars, know of the pleasures of travelling! They rolloverthe country; they cannot be said to passthroughit. They may see new rivers, new mountains, and new faces; but for all the good the last does them, they might as well have stood on the corner of the street in a city half a day, and watched the passers-by. And better too; for hotel-keepers, and waiters, and the whole tribe of public functionaries, have all an artificial, professional look; so that it is difficult to come at their real characters, if indeed they have any. The same is the case, to some extent, with their fellow-passengers. All are so absorbingly interested in their own brilliant thoughts; or they deem it incumbent on them to assume the dignity and authority befitting persons in high stations; (which dignity at home, by the by, is put one side into a dark corner and never thought of,) that it is about as profitable an undertaking to attempt to find out the personal feelings and sentiments of a mask, as theirs.
But here am I, walking stoutly and merrily along, unincumbered with luggage or care; and because I do not care what the next day or hour may bring forth, every thing seems to turn up just as I would have it if I had the ordering of events. I shall not pause to offer any philosophical conjectures as to the reason why we are invariably disappointedin our conclusions, (excepting they are mathematical ones) concerning the future; merely asking the amiable reader whetherheever knew such an anticipation to be exactly realized. I shall not stop to make any such conjectures, because I should only get deeper into the dark, and I am in deep enough for comfort now; and secondly, it is against my principles. I am living out of doors, and make mention only of things out of doors.
But I trudge stoutly forward, whistling as I go; making myself as agreeable as possible to myself and to every body whom I meet; on jocose terms with every thing; decidedly agricultural in my tastes and pursuits, at every farmer’s house where I happen to put up for the night: at one place in search of employment as a day-laborer; at another, an artist; by turns every thing. Is not this the way to travel? My steps wander where they choose; and if I keep on to the end of the earth, what will it matter? I will go to the north; assume the dress, language and manners of those who dwell within the frozen circle; I will become a Greenlander; I will go and preach the religion of Mohammed to the inhabitants of Patagonia; I will brush up the gods of Rome; dust that old mythology; compound and simplify the whole into a good, comfortable, believable system, and proclaim Olympian Jove in the deserts of Amazonia. I will be a Turk, an Indian, a Pirate; I will be any thing. What do I care, and who shall say me nay? This sensation of freedom is too delicious to be interrupted by any companionship. And for my part, I want no better companions than this wind, which free as I am, blows against my cheek, and those clouds, that fly in unending succession over my head. O! ye blue chariots of the Thunderer! whither hurry ye so rapidly? Over hill and valley, and countries and cities of men, ye fly unheeding; and borne forward on the swift pinions of the wind, ye speed on your mission afar! What to you are states, and kingdoms, or land or ocean? Furiously driving in black armies to meet opposing armies, or singly floating in that waveless sea of blue, your existence is above the earth; men lookupto you with wonder or terror, butyourglance is never downward. Onward ye wander, in your unbounded career, at your own free will. Nothing boundsmycareer ormywill. Fleecy ears! if ye would sustain the form of a mortal, triumphantly would you and I sail over the heads of men! Softly, obedient to the impulse of chance, would we glide over continent and sea, and explore the mysteries of undiscovered islands and climes; calmly would I look down on the strife or toil of human passions, and calmly would we ride on forever, through night and day! But if the clouds are not, the earth is, mine—and I am my own! There are none to molest or make me afraid with the useless importunities or warnings of friendship. My destiny is my own; and it is pleasant not to care what I may be or do. Pleasure is now; sorrow is prospective; and life will be only pleasure, because I let the past and the future go, and crowd as many happy thoughts as possible into the present moment.
What a spacious plain of the world! Dotted with habitations and with men of all colors, and customs, and conditions! Every one thinks he possesses a soul; and in virtue thereof, he considers himself entitled to set up as an independent existence, and endeavors to move in a littlepath of his own. But in fact, he plods humbly along, and repeats with patient toil the example of labor and unspeculating perseverance that his fathers have set him. A vast multitude, they darken the land! Mighty hopes and aspirations swell each small bosom. Each imagines that his designs are peculiar, and for him in particular was every thing mainly made. An unceasing rush of footsteps and clash of voices! And must I be confounded in the crowd? Let me preserve my individuality in the desert! If I were not an insect, it might be different; but as I am no larger than other men, I will not daily measure myself by their standard; I will forget in solitude the littleness of my stature.
The shades of evening tinge the green of the fields with a darker hue; and the young farmer goes wearily and yet lightly homeward. Lightly, for he leaves behind him labor and trouble, and his fair-haired wife will greet him with her constant and love-lit smile. Cheerily will the small family draw around their board, covered with the simple and satisfying products of their own soil. And when all care is ended, when night is duskily stealing over the earth, he and his bride will sit down alone in their cottage door, in the red light of the western clouds. Over all the dim landscape there are no sights or sounds; and in themselves there are no feelings but those of contentment and love. In his strong palm her soft hand, on his broad breast reclining her head, their hearts are filled and overflow with sweet thoughts and gentle words of present happiness. Fair prospects also of the future rise up before them. Many years crowned with prosperity they see in store for them; and in each one, many an evening like this, of deep confiding love. Hour after hour, into the deepening night, their low tones and slow words murmur on brokenly; and they know of nothing in all the world that is wanting to their blessedness. What if the dream should last all their life? It may; or if this passes away, another will take its place. The question then seems to be, whether it is better to live in a delusion and be happy, or to wake and be miserable? Whether it is profitable for a man to walk joyfully through life, covering and coloring over every defect in human nature that he may love it, and keep within him a contented heart, or industriously spy out its deformities, and hate it and himself for possessing it? If nature is in reality naked and rugged, happy is he whose imagination can throw over her a robe of grace. Most happy he whocansee in his fellow-creatures such qualities that he can love them. For me, I will love sterner scenes and sterner thoughts. Human beauty is an illusion; and it does not become the sober wisdom of manhood to be deceived by it. The young farmer and his young wife may be happy; and so may those who find delight in the crowded hall where taste and beauty meet; where are the sounds of clear-ringing, girlish voices, and many glancing feet, and the innumerable light of maiden’s eyes, and heavy folds of auburn hair, and the flush of thought and emotion continually passing over fair faces, with the swell of music that thrills, and the air laden with fragrance that intoxicates. Or in the still twilight, by the side of her whose every note makes his pulse to tremble with the breathing of song, and the incense of flowers, and forgetfulness of the world, to feel the thought stealing over his heart that perhaps he is not uncared for. It is sweet, but vain; sweet and vainas the smiling, blushing slumber of a young girl. Dream on! dream on! for if you can always sleep, what will matter to you the storms and confusion without?
But as for me, I cannot sleep. Every thing my eye rests on is harsh and ungraceful, because, having passed through the seven-times heated furnace, Imustlook through the covering and see the reality.
WearilyI mount this steep eminence, and on its bald summit take off my hat, that I may feel the cool breeze. It comes fresh with the dew that it has snatched in its flight from the bosom of Lake Superior. It rolls over the tall grass of the prairie, which bends beneath its weight, sighs by me, and seems to cling to me as it passes, and moves on toward the arid plains of the South. The Ohio sweeps down in calmness and majesty. With its surface of quicksilver, and the little waves dancing up in gladness, and its heavy dull wash, it rolls along its mighty mass of waters, hastening to pour itself into the mightier mass of the Mississippi. Occasionally a giant tree, torn from its place, and cast root and branch into the flood, comes booming down, and glides swiftly past on its long, long race. Pleasantly the ripples break over the prostrate monarch of the forest that is lodged against the beach, and projects, branchless and barkless, into the stream; and mournfully the worn trunk sways up and down, as though tired of this rocking which has continued the same year after year; weary, and desiring to be at rest. Floods come rushing down upon floods with heavy tread, glance successively under the moonlight that is poured into the channel before me, and then are forced forward into the darkness of the future. But every wave seems as full of joy as though for it alone was the moonlight sent, and as though there were not unnumbered millions of waves to succeed it. Every little wave leaps up as it comes under the light, and smiles toward the round-faced orb above, who seems to smile back upon it. Thou small thing, thou art a fool! The queen, in the beam of whose countenance thou disportest thyself, is altogether deceitful and loves thee not. She has smiled as kindly on thousands who have gone before thee, and will upon thousands who shall come after thee. And more than all, she would send down just as bright and loving a glance, if thou and all thy race had never existed. How then canst thou say, ‘I love her,’ or, ‘she loves me?’
But perhaps it is not so. When I look again, each one of the great multitude appears aware of its own insignificance. Jostled, confined, crowded and confused, they go tumbling by, regardless of all above or below, and engrossed with their own fleeting existence. Not remembering whence they came, they take no thought of the present, and are utterly careless of the future. For what would it profit? Their business, and it is business enough, is to dispute and fight with each other for room to move in. All thoughts as to whither they are hastening, must be doubtful, angry and despairing; and care of any thing present,except what concerns the present instant, would be useless. Therefore they resign themselves to be drawn onward and downward unresistingly; and therein are they wise. But whether joyful, or despairing, or not feeling at all, the waters roll by, an unceasing flood; and with their rushing dull roar in my ear, my eye rests on a scene of beauty and quietness. Far away to the northward and westward, and still farther away, stretches an immense plain. Rolling hillocks, like the waves of the sea after a storm, and at long intervals, a few stunted shrubs, alone diversify the prospect. Vast, unmeasured, Nature’s unenclosed meadow, the prairie, is spread out! The tall grass waves gently and rustlingly to the breeze; and down upon it settles the moonlight, in a dim silver-gossamer veil, like that which to the mind’s eye is thrown over the mountains and ruins and castles of the Old World, by the high-born daring and graces of chivalry, the wand of Genius, and the lapse of solemn years. With the same painful feeling of boundlessness, of vastness that will not be grasped by the imagination, that one feels in sailing on the ocean, there is also an air of still, stern desolation brooding upon the plain. It may be that at some former day, the punishment of fire swept over it, consuming its towering offspring, and laying bare and scorching its bosom; and now the proud sufferer, naked and chained, endures the summer’s heat and the winter’s storms, with no sighing herbage or wailing tree to tell to the winds its wo.
A single snow-white cloud slumbers and floats far up in the heavens; the moon is gliding slowly down the western arch; and the vast dome, studded with innumerable brilliants, ‘fretted with golden fires,’ rests its northern and western edge on the plain, its southern on blue mountain-tops, its eastern on the forests, and shuts us, the river, the prairie, the moon and I, together and alone. And here will we dwell together alone! Sweet companions will ye be to me; and standing here on this eminence, I promise to love you. I promise to come here often, and to hold communion with you. I will put away all thoughts of sorrow, all swellings of bitterness, from my mind. Contentedly, calmly, unheedingly, will we let the years pass by; for what will it matter to us? Oh! ye are dear to me! Yourvoiceis not heard, yet comes there constantly to my ear the murmur of your song. You speak to me in music and poetry; and while I listen, my thoughts revert only with shuddering to the vain world I have left behind. Thus let us converse always. This vaulted firmament which shuts down upon us now, let it be immoveable, and enclose us forever; here let the wanderings of the wanderer cease, and here will we live together and alone!
Andwehavelived here many years. The lessons of my constant companions have calmed and elevated me to a gentler and better spirit. From them I have learned humility as well as self-reliance; while from the history of the actions and thoughts of men in past ages, I have learned perhaps something of the machinery of human nature. The forms of the noblest of preceding generations, and the shapes of beauty which their imaginations have conceived and made to live, visit me atmy bidding. But among all the pictures that daily rise up before my eyes, the brightest, the most beautiful, the most loved, are the sweet faces of the friends of my early years. There are no regrets or repinings when I look back now; it must be that it has all been for the best, that every thing is for the best, and I am at peace. The recollection of madness and folly, of a life useless, of energies wasted, do not disturb the calmness of my soul. The error has been great, but I feel it; and in the next state of existence I shall be wiser and more active. If I have wantonly and recklessly turned away from the offered happiness of society and of the world, it has, in the end, been better for me, for I have found another, a purer and more lasting.
Thus I look cheerfully on, and see the sands of my life run out. They fall faster and faster, as their number is diminished, and time flies by me with constantly accelerating speed. ‘Oh, my days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle!’—thelast oneI see but a little distance before me; it will soon be here; and I shall step forth with a joyful, courageous heart, into the indistinct, dimly-revealed future!
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE.Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,No other man in manners can excel;Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.The world’s approval he is sure to gain.But, would you think it? he has now essayedTo be a bard, and countless verses made;Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,For none but he could ever count them o’er;Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does whenIn careless rhymes we only try our pen,But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,The writing ornate with a care profound,Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,The cover, ev’n, a monument of art.Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till thenSeemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,Becomes offensive as the country boor,Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wroughtBy rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,That never does he know so blest a timeAs when he writes away, and fondly deemsHe rivals Homer’s god-enraptured dreams;And wonders in his pride, himself to see,The very pattern-pink of poesy.Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.It is the madness of each one to prideHimself on that ’twere better far to hide;Nor know the faults in that peculiar sackWhich Æsop says is hanging at his back.
Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,No other man in manners can excel;Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.The world’s approval he is sure to gain.But, would you think it? he has now essayedTo be a bard, and countless verses made;Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,For none but he could ever count them o’er;Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does whenIn careless rhymes we only try our pen,But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,The writing ornate with a care profound,Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,The cover, ev’n, a monument of art.Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till thenSeemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,Becomes offensive as the country boor,Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wroughtBy rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,That never does he know so blest a timeAs when he writes away, and fondly deemsHe rivals Homer’s god-enraptured dreams;And wonders in his pride, himself to see,The very pattern-pink of poesy.Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.It is the madness of each one to prideHimself on that ’twere better far to hide;Nor know the faults in that peculiar sackWhich Æsop says is hanging at his back.
Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,No other man in manners can excel;Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.The world’s approval he is sure to gain.But, would you think it? he has now essayedTo be a bard, and countless verses made;Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,For none but he could ever count them o’er;Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does whenIn careless rhymes we only try our pen,But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,The writing ornate with a care profound,Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,The cover, ev’n, a monument of art.Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till thenSeemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,Becomes offensive as the country boor,Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wroughtBy rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,That never does he know so blest a timeAs when he writes away, and fondly deemsHe rivals Homer’s god-enraptured dreams;And wonders in his pride, himself to see,The very pattern-pink of poesy.Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.It is the madness of each one to prideHimself on that ’twere better far to hide;Nor know the faults in that peculiar sackWhich Æsop says is hanging at his back.
Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,
No other man in manners can excel;
Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.
The world’s approval he is sure to gain.
But, would you think it? he has now essayed
To be a bard, and countless verses made;
Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,
For none but he could ever count them o’er;
Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does when
In careless rhymes we only try our pen,
But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,
The writing ornate with a care profound,
Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,
The cover, ev’n, a monument of art.
Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till then
Seemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,
Becomes offensive as the country boor,
Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,
Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wrought
By rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.
So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,
That never does he know so blest a time
As when he writes away, and fondly deems
He rivals Homer’s god-enraptured dreams;
And wonders in his pride, himself to see,
The very pattern-pink of poesy.
Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,
The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.
It is the madness of each one to pride
Himself on that ’twere better far to hide;
Nor know the faults in that peculiar sack
Which Æsop says is hanging at his back.
THE PAINTED ROCK.BY CHARLES F. POWELL.Thetract of country through which meanders the Tennessee river, for wild, sublime and picturesque scenery, is scarcely surpassed by any in the United States. This river was anciently called the Hogohege, and also Cherokee river: it takes its rise in the mountains of Virginia, in the thirty-seventh degree of latitude, and pursues a course of one thousand miles south and south-west nearly to the thirty-fourth degree of latitude, receiving from both sides large tributary streams. It then changes its direction to the north, circuitously winding until it mingles with the waters of the Ohio, sixty miles from its mouth. There is a place near the summit of the Cumberland mountains, which extends from the great Kenhawa to the Tennessee, where there is a very remarkable ledge of rocks, thirty miles in length and nearly two hundred feet high, showing a perpendicular face to the south-east, which for grandeur and magnificence surpass any fortification of art in the known world. It has been the modern hypothesis, that all the upper branches of the Tennessee formerly forced their way through this stupendous pile.On the Tennessee, about four hundred and fifty miles from its mouth, and nearly two hundred above what is called Muscle-Shoals, there is another ledge of rocks stretching along the shore to the extent of one mile, with a perpendicular front toward the river, of the most perfect regularity. This ledge varies in height from thirty to three hundred feet, being much the highest at the centre, and diminishing at each end into ragged cliffs of rock and broken land. This variegated surface extends for many miles, affording a constant succession of fanciful and romantic views. The whole rocky formation in this vicinity is composed of a light gray lime-stone, indented with broad dark lines formed by the dripping of the water which falls from the scanty covering of soil on the top to the deep channel below. The thin surface of soil sustains a shabby, stinted growth of fir, oak, and other trees, which seldom grow above the height of tall shrubbery. From the crevices of the rock also may occasionally be seen a tree of diminutive dimensions springing out with scarcely a particle of visible sustenance for its roots. The shrubbery upon the peak of this acclivity presents a curious appearance as it hangs over the ascent, not unlike the bushy eye-brows of a sullen and frowning face. With this ledge of rocks terminate the Cumberland mountains, which cross the State of Tennessee to the margin of the river. The stream here flows nearly west, through a beautiful valley of alluvial land, formed by the Cumberland mountains and a continuation of the Blue Ridge of Virginia. Immediately opposite the termination of the Cumberland mountains commences a broken and rocky surface, which extends along the shore of the river for many miles, presentingthe most varied and novel scenery in nature; while the other shore is level, fertile, and mostly in a high state of cultivation, abounding in verdant fields of meadow, corn and tobacco.The middle portion of the ledgeproper, which I have described, rises nearly or quite three hundred feet above the level of the river; a vast wall of solid lime-stone, echoing with never-ceasing moans the gurgling current of the river, which at this place is deep and very rapid; and has worn a series of caves and hollows in the base of the rock, which contribute greatly to this ‘language of the waters.’The summit or peak of this ledge in the centre is called ‘The Painted Rock.’ It is so called from the fact of there being, about sixty feet below the highest peak, letters and characters painted in different colors, and evidently drawn by a tutored hand. What is most remarkable, these paintings are upon the perpendicular face of the rock, probably two hundred feet above the river, and in a place where there is no apparent possibility for mortal man to arrive. They are composed of the initials of two persons, together with characters and drawings, some of which are illegible from the river. The first consists of the letters ‘J. W. H.,’ quite well done in dark blue or green paint. The next is ‘A. L. S.,’ done in red, and also a trefoil leaf of clover in green, beside several rude characters and drawings in blue and red. The traveller passing this interesting spot gazes with wonder and astonishment, but is referred to tradition for a history of the circumstances which led to the name of Painted Rock; for the paintings were drawn and the name given, long before the country was permanently settled by the whites. The story handed down is this:The original possessors of the soil in this part of the country were the tribes of Cherokee and Chicasaw Indians. The country was explored as early as 1745, by a company who had grants of land from the government, and settlements commenced previous to the French war. Of the first-comers of whites there were not more than sixty families, who were either destroyed or driven off before the end of the following year. Some few families had settled at a place not far distant from the Painted Rock, where lived a Cherokee Sagamore, named Shagewana, whose tribe was considered the most inhuman of any in the nation. The top of the rock is flat, and slopes back from the river, and at the base is a large spring surrounded by bushes. Shagewana occupied the summit of the acclivity as his council-ground; and when danger was apprehended from the whites, or when an innovation was made on his limits, he forthwith called his warriors together for consultation, and set fire to faggots and other combustibles as a signal for his neighbors to advance to his aid. The whites settled near the Painted Rock at this time were mostly composed of traders, who had brought various articles of clothing and ornaments to dispose of to the Indians; and under the assurance of the Chicasaws, who rarely commenced the work of destruction on the whites, that they should be unmolested, built up a cluster of huts, and cleared a small territory for the raising of corn and other vegetables.Shagewana from some cause became incensed toward them, and resolved to burn the buildings and destroy their inhabitants. He called his people together, and the war-cry was sounded throughout the mountains.Taking advantage of the night, they surrounded the settlement, and applying torches to the dwellings, rushed into the midst with tomahawk in hand, and murdered all save two young men, who fought so bravely that they spared their lives in order to torture them with more prolonged sufferings. The names of these young men it is said wereHarrisandSnelling. They were bound and taken to the rock, where the savages went through a dance, as was their custom after a victory had been achieved; and as day-light advanced, they prepared a feast. Harris and Snelling were placed under keepers, who amused themselves by tormenting their unhappy prisoners in various ways; such as pricking them with their knives, cutting off small pieces of their ears and fingers, and pulling out clumps of their hair. Before the close of the day, the captives feigning sleep, the Indians left them for a moment and went to the spring for water. Thereupon the young men burst their bands and escaped into the bushes. Crawling upon the other side of the rock, and being hotly pursued, it is supposed that they were forced upon a narrow projection, about twelve inches wide, and four feet below the inscription, where with some paint or coloring substance which they carried about them they traced the characters to which we have referred, and which have given the place the name of ‘The Painted Rock.’ The fate of the young men is not positively known; but it is believed that they were discovered and hurled down the precipice.
Thetract of country through which meanders the Tennessee river, for wild, sublime and picturesque scenery, is scarcely surpassed by any in the United States. This river was anciently called the Hogohege, and also Cherokee river: it takes its rise in the mountains of Virginia, in the thirty-seventh degree of latitude, and pursues a course of one thousand miles south and south-west nearly to the thirty-fourth degree of latitude, receiving from both sides large tributary streams. It then changes its direction to the north, circuitously winding until it mingles with the waters of the Ohio, sixty miles from its mouth. There is a place near the summit of the Cumberland mountains, which extends from the great Kenhawa to the Tennessee, where there is a very remarkable ledge of rocks, thirty miles in length and nearly two hundred feet high, showing a perpendicular face to the south-east, which for grandeur and magnificence surpass any fortification of art in the known world. It has been the modern hypothesis, that all the upper branches of the Tennessee formerly forced their way through this stupendous pile.
On the Tennessee, about four hundred and fifty miles from its mouth, and nearly two hundred above what is called Muscle-Shoals, there is another ledge of rocks stretching along the shore to the extent of one mile, with a perpendicular front toward the river, of the most perfect regularity. This ledge varies in height from thirty to three hundred feet, being much the highest at the centre, and diminishing at each end into ragged cliffs of rock and broken land. This variegated surface extends for many miles, affording a constant succession of fanciful and romantic views. The whole rocky formation in this vicinity is composed of a light gray lime-stone, indented with broad dark lines formed by the dripping of the water which falls from the scanty covering of soil on the top to the deep channel below. The thin surface of soil sustains a shabby, stinted growth of fir, oak, and other trees, which seldom grow above the height of tall shrubbery. From the crevices of the rock also may occasionally be seen a tree of diminutive dimensions springing out with scarcely a particle of visible sustenance for its roots. The shrubbery upon the peak of this acclivity presents a curious appearance as it hangs over the ascent, not unlike the bushy eye-brows of a sullen and frowning face. With this ledge of rocks terminate the Cumberland mountains, which cross the State of Tennessee to the margin of the river. The stream here flows nearly west, through a beautiful valley of alluvial land, formed by the Cumberland mountains and a continuation of the Blue Ridge of Virginia. Immediately opposite the termination of the Cumberland mountains commences a broken and rocky surface, which extends along the shore of the river for many miles, presentingthe most varied and novel scenery in nature; while the other shore is level, fertile, and mostly in a high state of cultivation, abounding in verdant fields of meadow, corn and tobacco.
The middle portion of the ledgeproper, which I have described, rises nearly or quite three hundred feet above the level of the river; a vast wall of solid lime-stone, echoing with never-ceasing moans the gurgling current of the river, which at this place is deep and very rapid; and has worn a series of caves and hollows in the base of the rock, which contribute greatly to this ‘language of the waters.’
The summit or peak of this ledge in the centre is called ‘The Painted Rock.’ It is so called from the fact of there being, about sixty feet below the highest peak, letters and characters painted in different colors, and evidently drawn by a tutored hand. What is most remarkable, these paintings are upon the perpendicular face of the rock, probably two hundred feet above the river, and in a place where there is no apparent possibility for mortal man to arrive. They are composed of the initials of two persons, together with characters and drawings, some of which are illegible from the river. The first consists of the letters ‘J. W. H.,’ quite well done in dark blue or green paint. The next is ‘A. L. S.,’ done in red, and also a trefoil leaf of clover in green, beside several rude characters and drawings in blue and red. The traveller passing this interesting spot gazes with wonder and astonishment, but is referred to tradition for a history of the circumstances which led to the name of Painted Rock; for the paintings were drawn and the name given, long before the country was permanently settled by the whites. The story handed down is this:
The original possessors of the soil in this part of the country were the tribes of Cherokee and Chicasaw Indians. The country was explored as early as 1745, by a company who had grants of land from the government, and settlements commenced previous to the French war. Of the first-comers of whites there were not more than sixty families, who were either destroyed or driven off before the end of the following year. Some few families had settled at a place not far distant from the Painted Rock, where lived a Cherokee Sagamore, named Shagewana, whose tribe was considered the most inhuman of any in the nation. The top of the rock is flat, and slopes back from the river, and at the base is a large spring surrounded by bushes. Shagewana occupied the summit of the acclivity as his council-ground; and when danger was apprehended from the whites, or when an innovation was made on his limits, he forthwith called his warriors together for consultation, and set fire to faggots and other combustibles as a signal for his neighbors to advance to his aid. The whites settled near the Painted Rock at this time were mostly composed of traders, who had brought various articles of clothing and ornaments to dispose of to the Indians; and under the assurance of the Chicasaws, who rarely commenced the work of destruction on the whites, that they should be unmolested, built up a cluster of huts, and cleared a small territory for the raising of corn and other vegetables.
Shagewana from some cause became incensed toward them, and resolved to burn the buildings and destroy their inhabitants. He called his people together, and the war-cry was sounded throughout the mountains.Taking advantage of the night, they surrounded the settlement, and applying torches to the dwellings, rushed into the midst with tomahawk in hand, and murdered all save two young men, who fought so bravely that they spared their lives in order to torture them with more prolonged sufferings. The names of these young men it is said wereHarrisandSnelling. They were bound and taken to the rock, where the savages went through a dance, as was their custom after a victory had been achieved; and as day-light advanced, they prepared a feast. Harris and Snelling were placed under keepers, who amused themselves by tormenting their unhappy prisoners in various ways; such as pricking them with their knives, cutting off small pieces of their ears and fingers, and pulling out clumps of their hair. Before the close of the day, the captives feigning sleep, the Indians left them for a moment and went to the spring for water. Thereupon the young men burst their bands and escaped into the bushes. Crawling upon the other side of the rock, and being hotly pursued, it is supposed that they were forced upon a narrow projection, about twelve inches wide, and four feet below the inscription, where with some paint or coloring substance which they carried about them they traced the characters to which we have referred, and which have given the place the name of ‘The Painted Rock.’ The fate of the young men is not positively known; but it is believed that they were discovered and hurled down the precipice.