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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Letters from a Landscape Painter, by Charles
Lanman
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURS.” (Charles Lanman)
Gentlemen, let not prejudice prepossess you. I confess my discourse
is like to prove suitable to my recreation,—calm and quiet.
Izaak Walton.
BOSTON:
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. MDCCCXLV.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by
Charles Lanman. in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
BOSTON:
PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRY AND CO. 31 Devonshire Street.
CRITICAL NOTICES OF LANMAN’S “ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURS.”
By John Neal, Esq.
“A book of two hundred and fifty pages, containing
some twenty essays or thereabouts,—and perhaps more,—upon
all sorts of pilgrimages: upon the woods and
the city, Morning and Evening, the Dying Year, Literature,
Mirth and Sadness, the Early Called, the Painter’s
Dream, &c., &c., &c.; written with great simplicity and
sweetness,—untainted with affectation, except in two or
three slight instances,—original, tender, and at times
absolutely touching.”
From the N. Y. Evening Post, Edited by W. C. Bryant.
“The volume, of which we have copied the title, is
composed of essays on various subjects, the fruit, as the
author tells us, of the leisure of last summer. They are
agreeably written, with a vein of poetic embellishment.”
From the Democratic Review.
“‘Essays for Summer Hours,’ is the title of a pleasing
little tome, by Charles Lanman, comprising a series
of sketches of American scenery, interspersed with poetical
allusions to incidents and characters which are very
harmoniously blended, and agreeably presented. We
hope this work will prove successful, and form the precursor
of many other contributions to our elegant literature
from the same pen.”
From the Southern Literary Messenger.
“This well printed, and handsome little volume, embraces
a series of eighteen essays; the most of them
founded in American scenery and associations. Some of
the topics are furnished by the West, the native place of
the young author; he has certainly done justice to the
fresh scenes that are spread out in that interesting portion
of the country. The talent of the writer is descriptive;
he has painted, with remarkable fidelity and beauty,
some of the most striking points of Western life. His
language is chaste and well selected; and many of the
moral reflections, growing out of the several subjects
which he has selected for his essays, are expressed in an
exceedingly interesting and even touching manner.”
From the Boston Miscellany.
“This a pleasant little volume of quiet Essays, written
by a warm lover of nature, and dealing principally
with descriptions of natural scenery, or the development
of simple feeling. The author has well characterized
them as reading ‘for summer hours.’ They neither furnish
deep thought, nor are the parent of it; and yet they
conduct the reader through pleasant places, in peaceful
and undisturbed meditative shades, without disturbing
him with paradoxical statements, or, often, with opinions
that his judgment or his taste rejects. The author appears
to have read a good deal, with discrimination and
sympathy, and,—as it is true that the more we know, the
more we learn from what we read of the best written efforts
of master-minds,—so the more a writer, especially
of this class of essays, has gathered from the already
accumulated stores of information and illustration, readier
will be his power to impress his own train of thought
upon his reader. Mr. Lanman appears to have had a peculiarly
apt sympathy and appreciation for his favorite
authors, and we consequently find that (which, although
artistically a fault, is no loss to the readers of his book,)
whenever he comes to the real depth of his subject, or to
a marked point either of argument or illustration, he flies
to quotation to express himself, and his quotations are in
general well selected and classical.”
From the London Literary Gazette.
“This is a second edition, and the matter well deserves
to run through many more; for we have met with nothing
of the kind in Transatlantic polite literature in which so
fresh and pure a spirit prevails. It is far away from the
worldly, trading, and money-making go-a-head passion,
which rules the multitude both there and here.”
iii
TO THE HON. GEORGE PERKINS MARSH, BURLINGTON, VERMONT.
My Dear Sir,
To you, in testimony of my regard for you, as a
Statesman, a Scholar, and a Lover of the Fine Arts,
do I dedicate this little volume.
Had not my maiden effort in the world of letters
been received by the public with such marked favor,
I should not venture to publish again. The
same motives, however, which prompted the first,
have also prompted the present collection of my
productions, and I desire no other reward than the
one already bestowed upon me in the approving
smile of honest and sincere hearts.
As my title-page implies, I am now a professional
Landscape Painter, my inclinations having compelled
me to relinquish the “cotton trade and sugar
line,” and these letters, originally written to a literary
friend in New York, are but the offspring of
one who claims the only merit of being a lover of
iv
Nature and his fellow men. I confess myself to be
a creature of impulse, and each paper that I now
publish, I would have considered as a mere record
of my thoughts and feelings during the hour it may
have been indited. Having been a sojourner in
various portions of the country during the past summer,
in search of the picturesque, you must not be
surprised to find yourself one moment scrambling
through a mountain gorge, and the next on the
margin of the boundless sea. With this preliminary,
I lay aside my pen, and return to my palette and
pencils.
Your sincere friend,CHARLES LANMAN.
Again am I in the country, where I shall
probably remain until the even-tide of the
year. The main object, as you know, in
my contemplated wanderings, will be to study
the “book of nature, opened wide,” with a
view of adding to my stock of materials for
future use in my profession. The first of
those letters, which I promised to write you
by way of recreation, I have now commenced,
and I wish you to understand, at the very
outset, that, as I have nothing in particular to
prove, my themes will be as variable as my
feelings; but I shall confine myself principally
to descriptions of natural scenery and personal
adventures.
My present stopping place is at an old Dutch
farm-house near Plauterkill Clove, under the
2
shadow of the Catskill mountains. Since my
arrival here the weather has been rather chilly
for the season, so that I have not had much opportunity
to use the pencil, but I have already
noted some noble views, which I shall attempt
to portray in their summer garb. The consequence
is—independent of the fact that May
is the angler’s favorite month—I have been
practising my hand at trouting, in which art
you have reason to know I am somewhat of
an adept. How truly hath it been written by
good old Walton;—
Of recreation, there is none
So free as fishing is alone.
All other pastimes do no less,
Than mind and body both possess;
My hands alone my work can do,
So I can fish and study too.
Never, more deeply than now, have I felt
the wisdom of this thought, and never before
have I enjoyed this sport to such perfection,
whether you consider my success or the scenery
I have witnessed. My first excursion
was performed along the margin of a stream,
which rises about two miles off, out of a little
lake on the mountains. My guide and companion
3
was a notorious hunter of these parts,
named Peter Hummel, whose services I have
engaged for all my future rambles among the
mountains. He is, without exception, the wildest
and rarest character I have ever known,
and would be a great acquisition to a menagerie.
He was born in a little hut at the
foot of South Peak, is twenty-seven years of
age, and has never been to school a day in his
life, or in his travels further away from
home than fifteen miles. He was educated
for a bark-gatherer, his father and several
brothers being engaged in the business; but
Peter is averse to commonplace labor, to anything,
in fact, that will bring money. When a
mere boy of five years, he had an inkling for the
mountains, and once had wandered so far, that
he was found by his father in the den of an
old bear, playing with her cubs. To tramp
among the mountains, with gun and dog, is
Peter’s chief and only happiness. He is probably
one of the most perfect specimens of a
hunter now living; and very few, I imagine,
could have survived the dangers to which he
has exposed himself. He seems to be one of
those iron mortals that cannot die with age
and infirmity,—or be killed by man, rock, or
4
water; he must be shivered by a stroke of
lightning. Although one of the wildest of
God’s creatures, Peter Hummel is as amiable
and kind-hearted a man as ever lived.
He is an original wit withal, and shrewd and
very laughable are many of his speeches, and
his stories are the cream of romance and genuine
mountain poetry.
But to return. We started on our tramp at
an early hour, he with a trout-basket in his
hand, containing our dinner, and I with my
sketch-book and a “pilgrim staff.” After a
tiresome ascent of three hours at the almost
perpendicular side of a mountain, over ledges
and through gloomy ravines, we at last reached
the wished-for brook. All the day long were
we cheered by its happy song, as we descended,
now leaping from one deep pool to another,
and now scrambling over green-coated rocks,
under and around fallen trees, and along the
damp, slippery sides of the mountain, until we
reached its mouth on a plain, watered by a
charming river, and sprinkled with the rustic
residences of a sturdy Dutch yeomanry. We
were at home by sunset, having walked the
distance of twenty miles, and captured one
hundred and fifty trout, the most of which I
5
distributed among the farm-houses in my way,
on my return.
On another occasion, I had taken my sketch-book
and some fishing tackle, and gone up
a mountain road, when, after having outlined
a few giant trees, whose bare arms were
extended upwards, as if they were praying to
be reclothed in their summer garniture, I found
myself on the banks of Schoharie Creek. In
the very first hole into which I peered, I discovered
a large trout, lying near the bottom,
just above a little bed of white sand, whence
rose the bubbles of a spring. It must have
been some thirty minutes, I think, that I stood
there against a tree, watching him with a
“yearning tenderness.” “He is so happy,”
thought I, “I will let him live.” Presently,
however, a beautiful fly lighted on the water,
which the greedy hermit swallowed in a minute,
and returned to his cool bed, with his conscience,
as I fancied, not one whit troubled by
what he had done. Involuntarily I began to
unwind my line, and having cut a pole, and
repeated to myself something about “diamond
cut diamond,” I baited my hook, and threw it
in. The rogue of a trout, however, saw me,
and scorned for a while to heed my bait. But I
6
coaxed and coaxed, until at last he darted for
it, apparently out of mere spite. Something,
then, like a miniature water-spout arose, and
the monarch of the brook was in a fair way of
sharing the same fate which had befallen the
innocent fly. I learned a salutary lesson from
this incident, and as I had yielded to the temptation
of the brook, I shouldered my sketch-book,
and descended the stream. At noon I
reached a farm-house, where I craved something
to eat. A first-rate dinner was given
me, which was seasoned by many questions,
and some information, concerning trout. That
afternoon, in company with a little boy, I visited
a neighboring stream, called the Roaring
Kill, where I caught one hundred and sixty
fish. I then returned to the farm-house, and
spent the evening in conversation with my
new acquaintances. After breakfast, on the
following morning, I set out for home, and
got there about noon, having made two additions
to my sketches. Long shall I remember
the evening spent with this family, and their
hospitality towards an entire stranger. A good
husband, a good wife, and two good daughters,
have been added to my list of friends.
Another of my trouting pilgrimages was to
7
a famous place called Stony Clove, among the
mountains of Shindaken, which are a continuation
of the Catskills, leading westward. It
is a deep perpendicular cut or gorge between
two mountains, from twenty to an hundred
feet in width, three thousand in depth, and
completely lined from base to summit by the
most luxuriant vegetation. It is watered by a
narrow but deep brook, which is so full of
trout, that some seven hundred were captured
by myself and two others in a single day.
When I tell you that this spot is only one
hundred miles from New York, you will be
surprised to hear that in its immediate vicinity
we saw no less than two bears, a doe with
two fawns, and a host of other less important
game. In some parts of it the sunshine never
enters, and cart loads of the purest ice may be
found there throughout the year. It is the loneliest
and most awful corner of the world that
I have ever seen,—none other I fancy could
make a man feel more utterly desolate. It is
a type of the valley of the shadow of death;
in single file did we have to pass through it,
and in single file must we pass into the grave.
To spend one day there, we had to encamp
two nights, and how we generally manage that
8
affair I will tell you presently. In returning from
Stony Clove, we took a circuitous route and
visited the Mountain House. We approached
it by the way of the celebrated Catskill Fall,
which I will describe to you in the graphic
language of Cooper, as you may not remember
the passage in his Pioneer. “Why there’s
a fall in the hills, where the water of two little
ponds, that lie near each other, breaks out of
their bounds, and runs over the rocks into the
valley. The stream is, may be, such a one
as would turn a mill, if so useless a thing
was wanted in the wilderness. But the Hand
that made that ‘Leap’ never made a mill!
There the water comes croaking and winding
among the rocks, first so slow that a trout
might swim in it, and then starting and running,
just like any creature that wanted to
make a fair spring, till it gets to where the
mountain divides, like the cleft foot of a deer,
leaving a deep hollow for the brook to tumble
into. The first pitch is nigh two hundred feet,
and the water looks like flakes of snow afore
it touches the bottom, and then gathers itself
together again for a new start, and, may be,
flutters over fifty feet of flat rock, before it
falls for another hundred, where it jumps from
9
shelf to shelf, first turning this way and that
way, striving to get out of the hollow, till it
finally comes to the plain.”
Our party on this occasion consisted of
three,—Peter Hummel, a bark-gatherer, and
myself. I had chosen these fellows for the
expedition, because of their friendship for me
and their willingness to go, and I now resolved
to give them a treat at the “Grand Hotel,”
which the wild fellows in their ignorance had
ever looked upon as a kind of paradise. You
are aware, I suppose, that the Mountain House
is an establishment vieing in its style of accommodations
with the best hotels of the city.
Between it and the Hudson there is, during
the summer, an hourly line of stages, and it is
the transient resort of thousands, who go there
for the novelty of the scenery. The edifice
itself stands on a cliff, within a few feet of the
edge, and commands a most magnificent prospect,
extending from Long Island Sound to
the Green and White mountains. The first
time I was there, I spent half the night at my
bedroom window, watching the fantastic performances
of a thunder-storm far below me,
which made the building tremble like a leaf,
and reminded me of Milton’s description of
10
hell; while the sky above was cloudless, and
studded with stars. Between this spot and
South Peak, “there’s the High Peak and the
Round Top, which lay back, like a father and
mother among their children, seeing they are
far above all the other hills.”
But to proceed. Coarsely and comically
dressed as we were, we made a very unique
appearance as we paraded into the office of
the hotel. I met a few acquaintances there,
to whom I introduced my comrades, and in a
short time each one of them was spinning a
mountain legend to a crowd of astonished and
delighted listeners. In due time I ushered
them into the dining-room, where was enacted
a scene which can be better imagined than
described. A Chinese in Victoria’s drawing-room,
would not be more completely out of
his element, or be the cause of heartier laughter,
than were these men among the soup,
ice-creams, and silver forks of the “Yankee
Palace,” as the house has been christened by
the Dutch under the mountains.
About the middle of the afternoon we commenced
descending the beautiful mountain
road, and a jolly time we had of it, I assure
you. A little while before there had been a
11
heavy shower, and a thousand happy rills
attended us with a song. A delightful nook
on this road is pointed out as the identical
spot where Rip Van Winkle slept away a score
of his life. I reached home in time to spend
the twilight hour in my room, musing upon
the solemn and much loved mountains. I had
but one companion, and that was a sweet
whip-poor-will, which nightly comes to my
window sill, to tell me a tale of its love or
of the woods and solitary wilderness.
But the most unique and interesting of my
fishing adventures, remains to be described.
I have heard a great deal about a certain lake
among the mountains, (the same alluded to
above,) and I desired to visit it, and spend a
night upon its shore. Having again spoken to
Peter Hummel, and invited a neighbor to accompany
us, whom they call White Yankee,
the noon-tide hour of last Thursday found us
on our winding way. And such a grotesque
appearance as we made, would have caused
you to laugh most heartily, I am sure. The
group was mostly animated, when climbing
the steep and rocky ravines which we were
compelled to pass through. There was Peter,
“long, lank, and lean,” and wild in his attire
12
and countenance as an eagle of the wilderness,
with an axe in his hand, and a huge knapsack
on his back, containing our provisions and
utensils for cooking. Next to him followed
White Yankee, with three blankets lashed
upon his back, a slouched white hat on his
head, and a half pound of tobacco in his
mouth. Crooked legged withal, and somewhat
sickly was this individual, and being
wholly unaccustomed to this kind of business,
he went along groaning, grunting, and sweating,
as if he was “sent for, and didn’t want
to come.” In the rear trotted along your humble
friend, with a gun upon his shoulder, a
powder-horn and shot-pouch at his side, cowhide
boots on his feet, and a cap on his head—his
beard half an inch long, and his long hair
streaming in the wind.
We reached our place of destination about
five o’clock, and halted under a large impending
rock, which was to be our sleeping place.
We were emphatically under the “shadow of
a rock, in a weary land.” Our first business was
to build a fire, which we did with about one cord
of green and dry wood. Eighty poles were then
cut, to which we fastened our lines. The old
canoe in the lake was bailed out, and, having
13
baited our hooks with the small fish which
we brought with us, we arranged the poles
around the lake, in about seven feet water.
We then prepared and ate our supper, and
awaited the coming on of night. During this
interval, I learned from Peter the following
particulars concerning the lake. It was originally
discovered by a hunter named Shew,
after whom it has always been called. It was
estimated to cover about fifty acres, and, in
some places, to be more than two hundred feet
in depth. For my part, however, I should have
said that it did not contain five acres, but the
mountains, which lower above it on every
side, are calculated to deceive the eye; but,
as to its depth, I could fancy it to be bottomless,
for the water is apparently as black as ink.
To the number of trout in it there seems to
be no end. It is supposed they reach it, when
small, through the brook already mentioned,
when they increase in size, and multiply.
Peter says he caught one there once which
weighed a little over five pounds, and a
speckled, common trout, too. It also abounds
in green and scarlet lizards, which would be a
serious drawback to the pleasures of the fastidious.
I asked Peter many questions concerning
14
his adventures about this lake, and he told
me that the number of “harmless murders”
which he had committed here were two or
three hundred. In one day, he shot three
deer; at another time, a dozen turkeys; at
another, twenty ducks; one night, an old
bear; and again, half a dozen coons; and, on
one occasion, annihilated a den of thirty-seven
rattlesnakes. This will give you some idea of
the stories which I hear from this man; but
you cannot conceive the peculiar enjoyment
they afford me: it is because they are associated
with my “boyhood’s home,”—my wilderness
home, in my much-loved Michigan.
At nine o’clock, we lighted a torch and
went to examine our lines; and it was my
peculiarly good fortune to haul out not less
than forty-one trout, weighing from one to
two pounds a-piece. Now, if this wasn’t
sport, I should like to know what is? These
we put into a spring of the coldest water I
ever tasted, and then “laid down in our
loneliness,” as Coleridge would have said on
the occasion. Branches of hemlock constituted
our couch, and my station was between
Peter and White Yankee. Little did I dream,
when I first saw these two bipeds, that I should
15
ever have them for my bedfellows. But
who, alas! can always have the bedfellow he
desires? Think you that we could not sleep
soundly in that lap of the forest, between the
sheltering rock and the roaring fire? Yea,
my friends were in the land of Nod in less
than a dozen minutes; but it was hard for
me to go to sleep, tired as I was, in the midst
of such a scene. There I lay, flat upon my
back, a stone and my cap for a pillow, wrapt
up in my blanket, with nothing but my nose
and eyes exposed to the chilly night air. Oh!
what pictures did my fancy conjure up, as I
looked upon the army of trunks around me,
glistening in the fire-light. One moment they
were a troop of Indians from the spirit-land,
come to revisit again the hunting-grounds of
their fathers, and weeping that the white man
had desecrated their soil; and again, I fancied
them to be a congress of wild animals, assembled
together to try, execute, and devour us,
for the depredations our fellows had committed
upon their kind for the last one hundred
years. By and by, a star peered upon me
from between the branches of a tree, and my
thoughts ascended heavenward. And now,
16
my eyes twinkled and blinked in sympathy
with the star, and I was a dreamer.
An hour after the witching time of night, I
was startled from my sleep by a bellowing
halloo from Peter, who said it was time to
examine the lines again. Had you heard the
echoes which were then awakened, far and
near, you would have thought yourself in
enchanted land. But there were living answers
to that shout, for a frightened fox began
to bark; an owl commenced its horrible hootings;
a partridge its drumming; and a wolf
its howl. There was not a breeze stirring, and
“Nought was seen, in the vault on high,
But the moon, and the stars, and a cloudless sky,
And a river of white in the welkin blue.”
Peter and Yankee went out to haul in the
trout, but I remained on shore, to attempt a
drawing, by moonlight, of the lake before me.
The opposite side of the mountain, with its
dark tangled forest, was perfectly mirrored in
the waters below, the whole seeming as solid
and variegated as a tablet of Egyptian marble.
The canoe with its inmates noiselessly pursued
its way, making the stillness more profound.
In the water at my feet I distinctly
17
saw lizards sporting about, and I could not but
wonder why such creatures were created.
I thought, with the Ancient Mariner,
“A thousand slimy things lived on,
And so did I.”
Again we retired to rest, and slept till day-break.
We visited our hooks once more, and
took them up, and found that we had one
hundred and two trout, averaging more than a
pound a-piece. We then partook of a substantial
breakfast of this delicious fish, which
were cooked by me as well as anybody could
do it, and, having gathered up our plunder,
started for home.
The accidents we met with during the
night were harmless, though they might have
proved serious. A paper of Locofoco matches,
which Peter carried in his breeches pocket,
took fire, and gave him such a scorching that
he bellowed lustily. White Yankee, in his
restless slumber, rolled so near our watch-fire,
that he barely escaped with one corner of his
blanket, the remainder having been consumed.
As for me, I only got pitched into the water
up to my middle, while endeavoring to reach
the end of a log which extended into the
18
lake. In descending the mountain, I shot three
partridges, and confoundedly frightened a fox,
and by noon was in my snug studio, commencing
a picture from one of my last sketches.
But lo! my candle is flickering in the socket,
and I must say, Good night!
19
A SPRING DAY
May is near its close, and I am still at work
in the valley of the Hudson. Spring is indeed
come again, and this, for the present year, has
been its day of triumph. The moment I
awoke, at dawn, this morning, I knew by intuition
that it would be so, and I bounded
from my couch like a startled deer, impatient
for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon the
earth once more, and a new life is given me
of enjoyment and hope. The year is in its
childhood, and my heart clings to it with a
sympathy, that I feel must be immortal and
divine. What I have done to-day, I cannot
tell: I only know that my body has been
tremulous with feeling, and my eyes almost
blinded with seeing. Every hour has been
fraught with a new emotion of delight, and
presented to my vision numberless pictures of
20
surpassing beauty. I have held communion
with the sky, the mountains, the streams, the
woods, and the fields: and these, if you please,
shall be themes of my present letter.
The sky! It has been of as deep an azure,
and as serene, as ever canopied the world. It
seemed as if you could look through it, into
the illimitable home of the angels—could
almost behold the glory which surrounds the
Invisible. Three clouds alone have attracted
my attention. One was the offspring of the
dawn, and encircled by a rim of gold; the
next was the daughter of noon, and white as a
pearl; and the last, of evening, and robed in
deepest crimson. Wayward and coquettish
creatures were these clouds! Their chief ambition
seemed to be to display their charms to
the best advantage, as if conscious of their
loveliness; and, at sunset, when the light lay
pillowed on the mountains, it was a joyous
sight to see them, side by side, like three
sweet sisters, as they were, going home. Each
one was anxious to favor the world with its
own last smile, so that, by their changing
places so often, you would have thought they
were all unwilling to depart. But they were
the ministers of the Sun, and he would not
21
tarry for them; and, while he beckoned them
to follow on, the Evening Star took his station
in the sky, and bade them depart: and
when I looked again, they were gone. Never
more, thought I, will those clouds be a source
of joy to a human heart. And in this respect,
also, they seemed to me to be the emblems of
those beautiful but thoughtless maidens, who
spend the flower of youth trifling with the
affections of all whom they have the power to
fascinate.
The mountains! In honor of the season
which has just clothed them in the richest
green, they have displayed every one of their
varied and interesting charms. At noon, as I
lay under the shadow of a tree, watching
them “with a look made of all sweet accord,”
my face was freshened by a breeze. It
seemed to come from the summit of South
Peak, and to be the voice of the Catskills. I
listened, and these were the words which
echoed through my ear.
“Of all the seasons, oh, Spring! thou art
the most beloved, and to us, always the most
welcome. Joy and gladness ever attend thy
coming, for we know that the ‘winter is past,
the rains are over and gone, the time of the
22
singing of birds is come, and the voice of the
turtle is heard in our land.’ And we know,
too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered
blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the
husbandman may sow his seed, which shall
yield him a thousand fold at the harvest.
Thou releasest the rivers from their icy fetters,
that the wings of commerce may be unfurled
once more. Thou givest food to the cattle
upon a thousand hills, that they, in their turn,
may furnish man with necessary food, and
also assist him in his domestic labors. Thou
coverest the earth with a garniture of freshest
loveliness, that the senses of man may be
gratified, and his thoughts directed to Him
who hath created all things, and pronounced
them good. And, finally, thou art the hope of
the year, and thine admonitions, which are of
the future, have a tendency to emancipate the
thoughts of man from this world, and the
troubles which may surround him here, and
fix them upon that clime where an everlasting
spring abides.” “The voice in my dreaming
ear melted away,” and I heard the roaring of
the streams as they fretted their way down
the rocky steeps.
The streams! Such “trumpets” as they
23
have, blown to-day, would, I am afraid, have
caused Mr. Wordsworth to exclaim:
“The cataracts—make a devilish noise up yonder.”
The fact is, “all the earth is gay,” and all the
springs among the mountains “giving themselves
up to jollity,” the streams are full to
overflowing, and rush along with a “vindictive
looseness,” because of the burden they
have to bear. The falls and cascades, which
make such exquisite pictures in the summer
months, are now fearful to behold, for, in their
anger, every now and then they toss some
giant tree into an abyss of foam, which makes
one fear the effects of an earthquake. But,
after the streams have left the mountains,
and are running through the bottom lands,
they still seem to be displeased at something,
and at every turn they take, delve into the
“bowels of the harmless earth,” making it
dangerous for the angler to approach too near,
but rendering the haunt of the trout more spacious
and commodious than before. The
streams are about the only things I cannot
praise to-day, and I hope it will not rain for a
month to come, if this is the way they intend
to act whenever we have a number of delightful
showers.
24
The woods! A goodly portion of the day
have I spent in one of their most secret
recesses. I went with Shakspeare under my
arm, but could not read, any more than fly, so
I stretched myself at full length on a huge
log, and kept a sharp look-out for anything
that might send me a waking dream. The
brotherhood of trees clustered around me,
laden with leaves just bursting into full maturity,
and possessing that delicate and peculiar
green, which lasts but a single day, and
never returns. A fitful breeze swept through
them, so that ever and anon I fancied a gushing
fountain to be near, or that a company of
ladies fair were come to visit me, and that I
heard the rustle of their silken kirtles. And
now my eyes rested on a tree, that was entirely
leafless, and almost without a limb. Instead
of grass at its foot, was a heap of dry leaves,
and not a bush or vine grew anywhere near it,
but around its neighbors they grew in great
abundance. It seemed branded with a curse,
alone, forsaken of its own, and despised
by all. Can this, thought I, be an emblem of
any human being? Strange that it should be,
but it is nevertheless too true. Only one week
ago, I saw a poor miserable maniac, bound
25
hand and foot, driven from “home and all its
treasures,” and carried to a dark, damp prison-house
in a neighboring town. We can be
reconciled to the mystery of a poisonous reptile’s
existence, but it is very hard to understand
for what good purpose a maniac is created.
But to return. Another object I
noticed, was a little tree about five feet high,
completely covered with blossoms of a gaudy
hue. At first, I tried to gather something
poetical out of this thing, but could not to
save my life. It caused me a real hearty laugh
as the idea expanded, for it reminded me of a
certain maiden lady of my acquaintance, who
is old, stunted, very fond of tall men, and
always strutting round under a weight of
jewelry. But oh, what beautiful flowers did I
notice in that shady grove, whose whispering
thrilled me with delight! Their names? I
cannot tell them to you—they ought to have
no names, any more than a cloud or a foam-bell
on the river. Some were blue, some
white, some purple, and some scarlet. There
were little parties of them on every side, and
as the wind swayed their delicate stems, I
could not but fancy they were living creatures,
the personified thoughts perhaps of happy and
26
innocent children. Occasionally, too, I noticed
a sort of straggler peeping at me from
beside a hillock of moss, or from under the
branches of a fallen tree, as if surprised at my
temerity in entering its secluded haunt. Birds
also were around me in that greenwood sanctuary,
singing their hymns of praise to the
Father of mercies for the return of spring.
The nests of the females being already built,
they had nothing to do but be happy, anticipating
the time when they themselves should
be the “dealers-out of some small blessings”
to their own dear helpless broods. As to their
mates, they were about as independent, restless
and noisy as might be expected, very
much as any rational man would be who
was the husband of a young and beautiful
wife.
But the open fields to-day have superabounded
with pictures to please and instruct
the mind. I know not where to begin to describe
them. Shall it be at the very threshold
of our farm-house? Well, then, only look
at those lilac trees in the garden, actually top-heavy
with purple and white flowering pyramids.
The old farmer has just cut a number
of large branches, and given them to his little
27
daughter to carry to her mother, who will distribute
them between the mantel-piece, the
table, and the fire-place of the family sitting-room.
But what ambrosial odor is that which
now salutes the senses? It comes not from
the variegated corner of the garden, where the
tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the blue bell,
and the lily of the valley are vieing to outstrip
each other in their attire; nor, from that
clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with buttercups,
dandelions, strawberry blossoms, and
honeysuckles; but from the orchard, every
one of whose trees are completely covered with
snow-white blossoms. And from their numberless
petals, emanates the murmur of bees,
as they are busy extracting stores of honey.
Oh, what an abundance of fruit—of apples,
cherries, peaches, and pears, do these sweet
blossoms promise! But, next week there may
be a bitter frost; and this is the lesson which
my heart learns. Now that I am in the spring-time
of life, my hopes, in number and beauty,
are like the blossoms of trees, and I know not
but they may even on the morrow be withered
by the chilly breath of the grave. But let us
loiter farther on. The western slope of this
gentle hill is equally divided, and of two different
28
shades of green; one is planted with
rye, and the other with wheat. The eastern
slope of the hill has lately been loosened by
the plough, and is of a sombre color, but to
my eye not less pleasing than the green. And
this view is enlivened with figures besides—for
a farmer and two boys are planting corn,
the latter opening the bed with their hoes, and
the farmer dropping in the seed (which he carries
in a bag slung at his side), and pushing it
with his foot. And now, fluttering over their
heads is a roguish bob-o-link, scolding about
something in their wake, at a respectful distance,
and hopping along the ground are a
number of robins, and on the nearest fence a
meadow-lark and bluebird are “holding on
for a bite.” But there is no end to these rural
pictures, so I will just take you into this
neighboring meadow-pasture, then into the
poultry yard at home, and conclude my present
epistle.
Here we are, then, in the midst of various
domestic animals. Yonder, a couple of black
colts are chasing each other in play, while
their venerable mother (for they are brothers,
though not twins) is standing a little way off,
watching their antics, and twisting about her
29
ears, as she remembers the happy days of her
own colthood. Here are some half dozen
hearty cows, lying down and grazing, each one
with a “pledge of affection” sporting about
her. There are six or eight oxen, eating
away as fast as they can, while one, who
seems to be a sentinel, occasionally rolls up
his eye to see if the farmer is coming to
renew his song of “haw! gee! gee! haw!”
Under the shadow of that old oak, whose portrait
I mean to take to-morrow, is a flock of
sheep, with their lambs bounding beside them,
as to the “tabor’s sound;” but to me there
comes no “thought of grief” at the sight,
wherein I must be suffered to disagree with
Wordsworth, to whom I have already alluded
once or twice, and whose celebrated and most
wonderful ode has been echoing in my heart
all the day long. Some of the lines in it are
appropriate to the day, the charms of which I
am attempting to make you feel, and you
will oblige me by reading and inwardly digesting,
for the hundredth time, as I know it
will be, the following fragments of a whole,
and yet really complete poems:—
“The sunshine is a glorious birth.”
30
“The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.”
“And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm.”
“Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.”
“Full soon thy soul shalt have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as fate, and deep almost as life.”
“O joy, that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive.”
“To me, the meanest flower that blows, can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
Strange, that an immortal man, after dwelling
upon such poetry, should be willing
to go into a poultry yard. But why not? I
should rather do this willingly, than be compelled,
as I have been, and may be again, to
hear a man say, after reading to him Wordsworth’s
great Ode—“Why! of what use is
such stuff as that? what does it prove? will
it furnish a man with bread and butter? will
it make the pot boil?” The people of the
poultry yard have been in such glee to-day,
and contributed so much to the gladness of
the day, that I must pay them a passing tribute.
31
In the first place, our old gobbler, with
his retinue of turkey wives, has been on the
point of bursting with pride ever since sunrise.
If the Grand Sultan of Turkey (who must be
the father of all turkeys) cuts the same kind
of capers in the presence of his hundred ladies,
that must be a great country for lean people
to “laugh and grow fat.” Our ring-tailed
gobbler is a feathered personification of Jack
Falstaff, possessing his prominent trait of
cowardice to perfection. I flourished a red
handkerchief in his face this morning, and,
by the way he strutted round and gobbled,
you would have thought he was going to
devour you. About ten minutes after this,
I threw down a handful of corn, which was
intended for him. While he was busy picking
it up, a certain rooster stept along side and
commenced picking too: the intruder, having
got in the way of the gobbler, was suddenly
pushed aside; whereupon the gentleman with
spurs chuckled and “showed fight,” but
the gobbler for a moment heeded him not.
This the rooster could not bear, so he pounced
upon his enemy, and whipt him without
mercy, until the coward and fool ran away,
with his long train of affectionate wives following
behind.
32
The roosters, hens and chickens, which
have figured in the yard to-day, would more
than number a hundred, and such cackling,
crowing, chuckling, and crying as they have
made, was anything but a “concord of sweet
sounds.” But the creatures have been happy,
and it was therefore a pleasure to look at
them. A young hen this morning made her
first appearance with a large brood of chickens,
yellow as gold, and this caused quite a sensation
among the feathered husbands generally.
The mother, as she rambled about, seemed
to say by her pompous air, to her daughterless
friends—“ar’nt they beautiful? don’t you
wish you had a few?” It was also very funny
to see with what looks of astonishment the
youthful roosters surveyed these “infant phenomenons.”
As to our ducks, and geese, and
guinea hens, they have minded their business
pretty well—the two former paddling about
the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter
“between meals” roaming at large through
the orchard and garden, altogether the most
beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes.
A mountaineer, who is to take this letter
to the post-office, is waiting for me below,
and I must close,—hoping that the country
33
figures I have endeavored to sketch may
have a tendency to make you feel a portion
of that joy, which has characterized this delightful
Spring Day.
34
SOUTH PEAK MOUNTAINS.
I commence this letter in the language of
Leather-Stocking: “You know the Catskills,
lad, for you must have seen them on your
left, as you followed the river up from York,
looking as blue as a piece of clear sky, and holding
the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls
over the head of an Indian chief at a council-fire.”
Yes, everybody is acquainted with the
name of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities
of scenery. They are situated about
eight miles from the Hudson, rise to an average
elevation of thirty-eight hundred feet, and
running in a straight line from north to south,
cover a space of some twenty-five miles. The
fertile valley on the east is as beautiful as heart
could desire, watered by the Catskill, Plauterkill,
and Esopus Creeks, inhabited by a sturdy
Dutch yeomanry, and is the mother of those
three most flourishing towns, Catskill, Saugerties,
35
and Kingston. The upland on the west,
for some thirty miles, is rugged, dreary, and
thinly settled, but the winding valley of Schoharie,
beyond, is possessed of a thousand
charms peculiarly American. The mountains
themselves are covered with dense forests,
abounding in cliffs and waterfalls, and for the
most part untrodden by the footsteps of men.
Looking at them from the Hudson, the eye is
attracted by two deep hollows, which are
called “cloves.” That one nearest to the
Mountain House, Catskill Clove, is distinguished
for a remarkable fall, which is familiar
to the world through the pen of Bryant and
the pencil of Cole; but it is fast filling up with
habitations of improvement, while the other,
Plauterkill Clove, though yet possessing much
of its original glory, is certain of the same
destiny. The clove whence issues the Esopus
is among the Shandaken mountains, and is not
visible from the Hudson.
My nominal residence at the present time is
at the mouth of Plauterkill Clove. I came
into the country to study,—to forget the busy
world, and give myself up entirely to the hallowing
influences of nature, and oh, how
many “mysteries sublime,” has she revealed
36
to me in my journeyings among the dear, dear
Catskills!
To the west, and only half a mile from, my
abode, are the beautiful mountains, whose
graceful outlines fade away to the north, like
the waves of the sea when covered with a
visible atmosphere. The nearest, and to me
most beloved of these, is called South Peak.
It is nearly four thousand feet in height, and
covered from base to summit by one vast
forest of trees, varying from eighty to a hundred
feet. Like most of its brethren, it is a
perfectly wild and uncultivated wilderness,
richly abounding in all the interesting features
of mountain scenery. Like a corner stone,
it stands at the junction of the northern and
western ranges of the Catskills, and as its
huge form looms up against the evening
sky, it inspires one with awe, as if it were the
ruler of the world; and yet I have learned to
love it as a friend. Its name, its image, and
every tree, and shrub, and vine, which spring
from its rocky bosom, can never be forgotten.
I have reflected upon it when reposing in the
noontide sunshine, or enveloped in clouds,
when holding communion with the most
holy night, when trembling under the influence
37
of a thunder-storm, or encircled by a
rainbow. It has filled my soul with images
of beauty and sublimity, and made me feel the
omnipotence of God.
A day and night has it just been my privilege
to spend on this mountain, accompanied by a
friend. We started at an early hour yesterday
morning, equipped in our brown fustians, and
laden with well-filled knapsacks, one of us
with a hatchet in his belt, and the other with
a brace of pistols. We were bound to the
extreme summit of the peak, where we intended
to spend the night, see the rising of the
sun, and return at our leisure on the following
day. But when I tell you, my friend, that
our course lay right up the almost perpendicular
side of the mountain, where was no path
save that formed by a torrent or a bear, you
will readily believe it was somewhat rare and
wild. But this was what we delighted in, so
we shouted “Excelsior,” and commenced the
ascent. The air was excessively sultry, and
the very first effort we made caused the perspiration
to start most profusely; upward, upward,
was our course,—now climbing through
a tangled thicket, or under the spray of a
cascade, and then again supporting ourselves
38
by the roots of saplings, or scrambling under a
fallen tree,—now, like the samphire gatherer,
scaling a precipice, and then again clambering
over a rock, or “shinning” up a hemlock
tree, to reach a desired point. Our first halt
was made at a singular spot called “Hunter’s
Hole,” which is a spacious cavern or pit, forty
feet deep and twenty wide, and approached
only by a crack in the mountain sufficiently
large to admit a man. There is a story
connected with it worth recording. Many
years ago, a farmer, residing at the foot of the
mountain, having missed a favorite dog, and
being anxious for his safety, called together
his neighbors, and offered a reward for the
safe return of his canine friend. Always
ready to do a kind deed, a number of his
neighbors immediately started in different directions
for the hunt. A barking sound having
issued from this cavern, it was discovered,
and, at the bottom of it, the lost dog, which
had probably fallen in while chasing a fox.
“But how is he to be extricated from this
hole?” was the general inquiry of the assembled
hunters. Not one of all the group would
venture to descend, under any circumstances;
so the poor animal remained a prisoner for
39
another night. But the next morning he was
released, and by none other than a brave boy,
the son of the farmer, and playmate of the dog.
A large number of men were present on the
occasion. A strong rope was tied around
the body of the boy, and he was gently lowered
down. Having reached the bottom, and
by the aid of his lamp discovered that he was
in a “real nice place,” the little rogue thought
he would have some sport; so he continued
to pull down, more rope, until he had made a
coil of two hundred feet, which was bewildering
enough to the crowd above; but nothing
happened to him, and the dog was raised.
The young hero having played his trick so
well, it was generally supposed, for a long time
after, that this cavern was two hundred feet in
depth, and none were found sufficiently bold to
venture in. The bravery of the boy, however,
was eventually the cause of his death, for he was
cut down by a cannon ball in the war of 1812.
The next remarkable place that we attained
in our ascent was the Bear Bank, where, in
the winter, may ever be found an abundance
of those charming creatures. It is said
that they have often, on a clear day, been
seen sunning themselves, even from as far
40
as the Hudson. We were now on a beetling
precipice three hundred feet high, where, under
the shadow of a huge pine, we enjoyed a slice
of bread and pork, without the “fixens to
match.” Instead of a dessert of strawberries
and ice-cream, we were furnished by venerable
dame nature with a thunder-storm. It was
one that we had noticed making a great commotion
in the valley below, and which,
having discovered two bipeds going toward its
home, the sky, seemed to have come up there
to frighten us back again. But, “knowing
that nature never did betray the heart that
loved her,” we awaited the thunder-storm’s
reply to our obstinate refusal to descend.
The cloud was yet below us, but its unseen
herald, a strong east wind, told us that the
conflict had commenced. Presently a peal
of thunder resounded through the vast profound,
which caused the mountain to tremble
to its deep foundation. And then followed
another and another, as the storm increased,
and the rain and hail poured down in floods.
Thinking it safer to expose ourselves to the
storm than remain under the pine, we retreated
without delay, when we were suddenly enveloped
in the heart of the cloud, only a few
41
rods distant; a stroke of vivid lighting blinded
us, and the towering forest monarch, even
upon his proud throne, was smitten to the
earth. We were in the midst of an unwritten
epic poem about that time, but we could not
then appreciate its beauties, for another peal
of thunder, and another stroke of lightning,
attracted our whole attention. Soon as these
had passed, a terrible gale followed in their
wake, tumbling down piles of loose rocks, and
bending to the dust, as if in passion, the resisting
forms of an army of trees, and a glorious
rainbow spanned the mountain like that distinguishing
circle around the temples of the
mighty and holy, as portrayed by the painters
of old. The commotion lasted for an hour,
when the region of the Bear Bank became as
serene as the slumber of a babe. A spirit of
silent and holy prayer seemed to be brooding
over that scene of marvellous loveliness, and
with a shadow of thoughtfulness at our hearts
we resumed our upward march.
The next place where we halted to get
breath was upon a sort of peninsula, called the
Eagle’s Nest, where it is said an Indian child
was carried by one of those birds and cruelly
destroyed, and whence the frantic mother,
42
with the mangled body of her babe, leaped
into the terrible abyss below. From this point
we discovered a host of clouds assembled in
council above High Peak, as if discussing the
parched condition of the earth, and the speediest
mode of affording relief to a still greater
extent than they had done; and far away to
the west, was another assembly of clouds,
vieing, like sporting children, to outrun and
overleap each other in their aerial amphitheatre.
After this, we surmounted another lofty cliff,
celebrated for rattlesnakes. Here the rocks
were literally covered with the white bones of
these reptiles, slaughtered by the hunter in
by-gone years, and we saw a couple that were
alive. One was about four feet long, and the
other half this size, which seemed to be the
offspring of the old one, for, when discovered,
they were playing together, like an affectionate
mother with her tender child. Strange, that
even in creatures, the sight of which begets in
man only abhorrence and fear, should be found
one of the first and most cherished principles
of humanity! The law of love is indeed universal.
Soon as we appeared the sport ceased,
and the venomous creatures, in the twinkling
43
of an eye, coiled themselves up in the attitude
of battle. But the conflict was of short duration,
and to know the result you need only
look into my cabinet of curiosities.
Higher up yet was it our lot to climb. We
went a little out of our course to obtain a
bird’s-eye view of Shew’s Lake. In its tranquil
bosom the glowing evening sky was perfectly
reflected, and the silence surrounding it so
profound, that we could almost hear the ripples
made by a solitary wild duck, as it swam from
one shore to the other in its utter loneliness.
And the thought entered my mind, that, as the
infant of Bethlehem was tenderly protected
by the parents who watched over its slumbers,
so was this exquisite lake cradled and protected
in the lap of the mountains.
One sight more did we behold before reaching
the summit. It was the sunset hour, and
on a jutting cliff, which commanded an immense
view, our eyes were delighted by a
solitary deer, standing still, and looking down
upon the silent void below, which was then
covered with a deep purple atmosphere, causing
the prospect to resemble the boundless ocean.
It was the last of its race, we could not but
fancy, bidding the human world good night,
44
previous to seeking its heathery couch in a
nameless ravine.
Such are some of the scenes we enjoyed in
our ascent. One effort more and the long-desired
eminence was attained, which was a
little nearer the evening star than we had ever
been before. It was now the shadowy hour
of twilight, and as we were about done over
with fatigue, it was not long before we
had pitched our leafy tent, eaten some supper,
offered up a prayer, and yielded ourselves to
the embrace of sleep, “dear mother of fresh
thoughts and joyous health.”
At midnight, a cooling breath of air having
passed across my face, I was awakened from a
fearful dream, which left me in a nervous and
excited state of mind. A strange and solemn
gloom had taken possession of my spirit,
which was enhanced by the melancholy song
of a neighboring hemlock grove. Our encampment
having been made a little below
the summit of the peak, and feeling anxious
to behold the prospect at that hour from that
point, I arose, without awaking my companion,
and seated myself on the topmost rock,
which was bare of trees and shrubs, and covered
by a rich moss, softer and more beautiful than
45
a Turkey carpet. But oh, how can I describe
the scene that burst upon my enraptured
vision? It was unlike anything I had ever
seen before, creating a “lone, lost feeling,”
which I supposed could only be realized by a
wanderer in the heart of an uninhabited wilderness,
or on the ocean a thousand leagues
from land. Above, around, and beneath me,
ay, far beneath me, were the cold, bright
stars, and to the east, the “old moon with the
young moon in her arms.” In the west
were floating a little band of pearly clouds,
which I fancied to be winged chariots from
the city of the living God, and that they were
crowded with children, the absent and loved
of other years, who, in a frolic of blissful joy,
were out upon the fields of heaven. On my
left reposed the long, broad valley of the
Hudson, with its cities, towns, villages, woods,
hills, and plains, whose crowded highway was
diminished to a narrow girdle of deep blue.
To the south, hill beyond hill, field beyond
field, receded to the sky, occasionally enlivened
by a peaceful lake. On my right, a
multitudinous array of rugged mountains lay
piled up, apparently as impassable as the bottomless
pit. To the north, the king of the
46
Catskills bared his bosom to the moonlight, as
if demanding and expecting the homage of
the world. Such was the scene that surrounded
me at that witching hour of the
night, and think you, that it did not animate
my spirit with new life, and expand my
love for the invisible Creator of all? Oh,
yes, and I longed for the timbrel of Miriam, or
the harp of David, that I might sing aloud this
song of praise,—“Praise the Lord, O my soul,
and all that is within me, bless his holy name.
Praise him, O earth, for he hath crowned thee
with blessings numberless as the sands of
ocean. Praise him, ye children of men, for
he healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up
their wounds. Praise him, all ye starry hosts
of heaven, for he telleth your numbers and
calleth you names. Praise him, ye heaven of
heavens, for he commanded and ye were
created. Praise ye him, all ye his angels, for
he hath crowned you with immortality. Let
everything that hath breath sing praises unto
the Lord forever, for his manifold and infinite
attributes.” The song ended, the weight
upon my spirit was departed, and I sought my
couch once more, and slumbered until the
dawn.
47
We saw the sun rise, as a matter of course,
which event is described in the following brief
rhapsody: it will be more distinctly understood
by those who are familiar with the
mountain.
He comes! he comes! the “king of the
bright day!” The crimson and golden clouds
are parting, and he bursts on the bewildered
sight! One moment more, and the whole earth
rejoices in his beams; and these are not more
welcome to the prince than the peasant, to the
philosopher than the idiot. All, alike, are
made happy by the blessed sunshine. But
look! on either side and beneath the sun,
what an array of new-born clouds are gathering!—like
a band of cavaliers, preparing to
accompany their leader on a journey. Out of
the Atlantic have they just risen; at noon
they will have pitched their tents on the
cerulean plains of heaven; and when the
hours of day are numbered, the far-off waters
of the Pacific will again receive them in its
cool embrace. Hark! was not that the roar of
waves? No; naught but the report of thunder
in the valley below. Can it be? can it be?
are the two oceans coming together? God
have mercy upon us! we are on a rock in the
48
midst of an illimitable sea, and the tide is
rising—rapidly. Strange! it is still as death,
and yet the oceans are covered with billows.
Lo! the naked masts of a Ship on fire! Now
she is gone, and from her grave ascends the
emblem of her fate. Yonder, as if a reef were
hidden there to impede their course, the waves
are struggling in despair—now leaping to the
very sky, and now plunging into a deep abyss.
And when they have passed the unseen
enemy, how beautiful are their various evolutions,
as they hasten to the distant shore!
Another look, and what a change! The mists
of morning are being exhaled by the sun,
already the world of waters is dispersed, and
in the broad valley of the Hudson, far, far beneath
me, are reposing all the enchanting
features of the green earth.
We descended the mountain by a circuitous
route, that we might enjoy the luxury of passing
through the Plauterkill Clove. The same
spring that gives rise to Schoharie Creek,
which is a tributary of the Mohawk, also
gives rise to this wild mountain stream. In
its very infancy it begins to leap and laugh
with the gladness of a boy. From its source
to my dwelling-place the distance is only two
49
miles, and yet it has a fall of twenty-five hundred
feet; but the remainder of its course,
until it reaches the Esopus creek, is calm and
peaceful, and on every side and at every turn
is protected by the farm-houses of a sturdy
yeomanry. The wild gorge or dell, through
which it passes, abounds in waterfalls of surpassing
beauty, varying from ten to a hundred
and fifty feet in height, whose rocks are green
with the moss of centuries, and whose brows
are ever wreathed with the most exquisite of
vines and flowers. There’s the Double Leap,
with its almost fathomless pool, containing a
hermit trout that has laughed at the angler’s
skill for a score of years; the Mountain Spirit,
haunted by the disembodied spirit of an Indian
girl, who lost her life there while pursuing
a phantom of the brain; and the Blue
Bell Fall, which is forever guarded by a multitudinous
array of those charming flowers.
Caverns, too, and chasms are there, dark,
deep, chilly, and damp, where the toad, the
lizard and snake, and strange families of insects,
are perpetually multiplying and actually
seeming to enjoy their loathsome lives; the
Black Chasm, the Gray Chasm, and the
Devil’s Chamber, with perpendicular walls of
50
twice the height of a tall mast, and with a
wainscoting of pines and hemlocks, that have
“braved a thousand years the battle and the
breeze.” Plauterkill Clove is an eddy of the great
and tumultuous world, and in itself a world of
unwritten poetry, whose primitive loveliness
has not yet been disfigured by the influences
of mammon, and God grant that it may continue
so forever. It is endeared to my heart
for being a favorite haunt of solitude, and for
having been consecrated by a brotherhood
of friends to the pure religion of nature; and
they always enter there as into a holy sanctuary.
You may imagine, then, my friend,
what was our mode of descending through the
dell, and as to our feelings as we emerged
under the open sky, they were allied to those
of a pilgrim in a strange land, passing through
the dim twilight of a dream-like cathedral.
And now we stood upon a ledge whence
could be obtained a view of the dear old
mountain we were leaving behind, and as
we contemplated its graceful lines and delicate
hues of blueish green, we could not but admire,
in the abstract, the sublimity and solemnity
of its admonitions as a preacher, its
faithfulness as a friend, and the grandeur of
51
its conceptions as a poet. We reached home
about noon, thankful to God for the love of
nature which he has so deeply implanted in
our hearts, and, as we hope, happier and better
men.
52
A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.
I have been whiling away a little time this
morning in recording a queer medley of
thoughts, which occupied my mind during the
tedious hours of the past night. Their cause
and import I will leave you to guess.
It is well. My long, long dream of two
years,—my dream of heart-gladness is at an
end. I saw her, and was a lover, which is
but another name for slave. She became my
promised bride, and I was happy,—thoughtlessly
happy. She proved herself to be a
faithless and unworthy creature, and the link
which bound us together was broken. And
so, my dream is ended, and I am free.
A child, with a basket on his arm, was
gathering flowers in a meadow on a bright
spring morning. There was no end to the
number that he plucked, and none, as he
53
thought, in the world, could be compared to
them in loveliness. And thus was it with my
hopes,—but the flowers withered, and my
hopes are gone.
Softly!—was not that a footstep, and did
I not see the gleaming of a silken kirtle? No;
it was only an echo and a reflection from the
past. I know it, for I am alone, utterly
alone.
O how truly hath it been written by the
poet, that Art is long and time is fleeting!
What a cheerless thought is this to the ambitious
Painter! Was I wrong to set my life
upon that cast! At any rate, I will stand the
hazard of the die. I sometimes think that
the cup which others drink, the cup of fame,
will never be quaffed by me. Well, what
matter? Was I born, merely to create a
name? No, no, no! I was brought into the
wilderness of life to be tried by pain, sickness,
and sorrow, and to leave it as becomes a Christian
is my chief ambition. Fame, which I
had hoped to win, I panted after, that another’s
happiness might be promoted. But she has
frowned upon me, and an impassable ocean is
forever spread between our hearts. Be it so.
54
Once, a serpent secreted itself within the
petals of a flower. I pressed that flower to
my bosom, and the serpent stung me. But I
rejoice that the agony of the pain is over and
gone.
A strange excitement is upon me,—with
all my wooing sleep will not come to my
relief. O how painful it is to count the
slowly lagging hours, throughout the silent
watches of this summer night! Restless am
I as a wave of the sea, and, may be, as useless
and insignificant. The pulsations of my
mind are as fitful as the breeze which breathes
upon me through my open window, but like
that breeze they hasten to one point, which is
the heart of a poor dreamer.
I cannot, with Othello, feel that I have
thrown away a pearl. It was the shell of a
pearl only, whose heart was a living worm.
Little things! Of these is the world composed,
and that man is a fool who looks upon
them with contempt. Yes, it is a little thing
to say, “I love you with all my heart, and will
follow you to the end.” But when believed,
if this proves to be the mockery of a hypocritical
55
heart, who can describe the consequences
that may result to the believer? Fatal
they may be to the soul, as the bite of Tarantula
to the body, unless our thoughts are
attracted by a strain of melody emanating
from the throne of Deity. And to that great
Being am I deeply thankful, for having upheld
me in my trying hour.
It hath been whispered in my ear, that the
being whom I lately cherished as my life-blood,
now mentions my name with a scornful
smile. And why? not because of my
inferior wealth, or family, or education, for
with respect to these I am her superior,—but
because I loved her as an angel. How little
did I think of this, when her head has been
pillowed on my bosom, and I have seen and
felt the throbbings of her own! Yet, even
then she nourished the spirit that would
“damn” a queen. She tried to break my
heart,—she failed,—but what matter? She
must answer for the deed. When she comes
to die, if not till then, when she come to
“tread the wine-press alone,” then must she
repent her folly and ingratitude, and it is my
prayer that she may be among the redeemed
56
in heaven. Then will she be purified from
the corruptions which cling to her here, and
become a worthy subject of heavenly solicitude
and love.
Where, O where are all the blissful dreams
upon which my heart has so long existed?
Vanished, like the shadow of a cloud, and I
am a companionless pilgrim through the world.
Who can comprehend the misery of a desolate
human heart? I thought she loved me with
a spotless passion, and yet, while anguish rends
my brow to-night, she is sweetly sleeping and
dreaming on her couch of down. Surely,
surely it must be a sin to love. What have I
done, that my heart-strings should be snapt
asunder,—that I must kiss the dust and be
unhappy?
If you give a beggar a loaf of bread to save
his life, and he spurns you with an oath, you
cannot but exclaim, “O horrible ingratitude?”
But what should be thought of those to whom
you had given away your heart, if they
should reciprocate with the damnable lie?
“Begone, thou art a villain,—touch not the
hem of our garments,—we are pure, but thou
art polluted.”
57
It was the noontide hour, and as I was
passing along a lonely and unfrequented road,
I discovered a pair of turtle doves quietly
cooing to each other on a sandy hillock in the
sunshine. It was a picture of exquisite happiness,
and yet the longer I gazed, the more
deeply did it affect my heart, so that when I
left the spot, I found that my eyes were filled
with tears. The last time that I had wept
before, was when I beheld the wreck of my
greatest hope. When, I wonder, shall I be
compelled to weep again?
O how my heart clings to the hour of our
first acknowledgment of love! aye, and to all
the blissful hours that have been mine since
then in her society! Like a wealthy prince
I gloried in my rare possession, and could not
believe that aught on earth would ever make
me a beggar. But,—the treasure that I
doted on took unto itself wings, and like a
beautiful but unclean bird has flown away, to
delight and to deceive some other unsatisfied
mortal. I am a beggar now. O will not
some of the poor and forsaken, that I have
cheered with a kind word when I was happy,
come forth now and welcome me with a smile
of pure affection?
58
I loved her, and fondly anticipated that she
would one day become the star of my home.
Home! what place upon the earth is dearer to
the heart of man? How pleasing is the anticipation
of the absent school-boy as he looks
forward to the close of the term, when he shall
be welcomed to the fireside of home! The poor
farmer toils unceasingly through the long days
of summer, cheered by the comforts of home,
which he fondly hopes will be the crown of
his coming winter evenings! How fortunate is
that man who can say—“mine is a happy
home!” How thankful should he be! But
is there no consolation for those who are
homeless and friendless in the world? Ah
yes, there is, and it is as sweet as it is invaluable.
Our elder Brother, the meek and lowly
Saviour, when upon the earth, was compelled
to exclaim,—“The foxes have holes, and the
birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man
hath not where to lay his head.” Homeless
and unhappy Christian, cheer up! cheer up!
A few more days, and you will be an inhabitant
of that blessed world beyond the skies,
“where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest.” Yonder, is the home
which I pant for now.
59
Friendship is one of the most beautiful and
delicate plants that flourish in the garden of
human passions, and to my mind is a holier
emotion than love. What though I am no
more a Lover! have I not a few well-tried
friends, whom I “grapple to my soul with
looks of steel?” Why then should there be
a weight upon my spirit? Long enough have
I played the fool. O that I may be wise
enough to renounce my folly!
How prone are we, who know not what it
is to want, to forget that the world is full of
suffering! We do not sympathize with those
who suffer, and are contented to think only
of ourselves. If, to be hungry, and naked,
and friendless, is to suffer, what must be his
condition, whose heart craves for the sympathy
of love, and is destitute of those endearing
attentions, which refine and elevate the soul?
There is a river, in a much-loved mountain
and, whose waters are sometimes brackish
and sometimes clear, and which sometimes
hastens to the sea singing a plaintive under-song
of loveliness. I know not why it is, but
it seems to me, that such is the river of my
life.
60
The smiles of woman! Sweet words. How
many and beautiful beyond compare are the
scenes which they recall to mind, whose charms
are heightened by the smiles of a mother, a
sister, a companion, or friend! All these, is it
my privilege to claim, but yet the whole of my
heart is not occupied. Who would wish to
live in a world, where the lovely form and
tender sympathies of woman were not known?
It would be more desolate than the flowerless
wilderness. Once, I thought to have toiled
for a distinguished name, that I might be
able to return a worthy recompense, for the
smiles of the maiden whom I loved. I
hoped to become affluent, that I might in
future years make my wife and children
happy, and nourish the light which illumines
the fireside circle, which light is the smile of
woman. But,—who can tell what shall be
on the morrow?
Welcome, thrice welcome, thou blessed
night-wind that fannest my feverish brow,
and banishes from my heart that pang of
agony. Oh! I am a child again,—and bitter,
bitter, bitter tears are the only witnesses, that
my blood is cold and clotted. Can I endure
61
this suffering? Is it possible, that these are
the consequences of unrequited affection? Is
it,—there that breeze again! it is a messenger
from the bosom of God, and this is the burthen
of its mission. “Child of sin and sorrow,
thy days of darkness upon the earth are now
commencing, and the period arrived, for thy
nobler nature to assert its rightful supremacy.
Terrible indeed will be the conflict, but fail not
to struggle with all thy might for the mastery.
If thou yieldest to this world, thy perfect happiness
will be lost forever; but if thou conquerest
on behalf of eternity, thy bliss will be as endless
as its cycle, and more glorious than thy fondest
dream.”
Once, I was dreaming only of manhood,
and knew not what it was to love. Now,
that I can love, there is not a being in the
wide world whom I am privileged to love.
Love! what is it but another name for
jealousy, selfishness, and lust? Aye, this is
the conclusion of the whole matter, if one
woman that I know is a representative of her
sex. But I rejoice in the conviction that
here is a Love, which is as pure as the
diamond, and lasting as the soul, which but
62
blossoms in this world, bearing its fruit
throughout the untold years of the great hereafter.
She, who merits and enjoys that love, is
the daughter of Heaven, and the hope of the
world. If we but prove faithful to her, she
will never abandon us in our pilgrimage to
Jerusalem.
Look! the drapery of my couch is flooded
with moonlight,—affording my bodily and
mortal vision a most exquisite pleasure. And
why? Because I feel that I am not utterly
unloved. Surely, the blessed Queen of Night
would not thus make my heart glad, if I were
doomed to be forever a brother to the desolate
and unknown!
Dear, dear girl, a thousand blessings rest
upon thee for that pressure of thy soft hand
upon my throbbing temples! It has soothed
my pain, and hushed the wild tumult of my
heart. Come near, come near, thou heavenly
messenger, and let me press thy lips with a
holy kiss, and then I will lie down again and
be at peace. There!—’twas but a vision,
and again my agony returns. O, my brain is
on fire—see! see! the moon is veiled in
blood, all the stars are falling, the air is beginning
63
to simmer, the earth is swelling, and
yet,—I am calmly going to pillow my head
on a soft brown clod in the silent city of forgetfulness,
the same which men call a grave-yard.
Where can the body find a more
untroubled home?
Love! It is not this that weighs my spirit
down. I never loved a woman, and wherefore
should I repine? I loved, but it was an ideal
creature, a being of the mind. Such, we know,
are never false,—I am once more happy.
A light from heaven is beaming upon my
soul, and, thanks to the breaking day, my
sleepless night is ended.
64
COLE’S IMAGINATIVE PAINTINGS.
According to my promise, and to commemorate
my visit to his place of residence,
I herewith send you my mite of information
concerning the productions of that man whom
we delight to honor, as unquestionably the
most gifted landscape painter of the present
age. In my own opinion, none superior to
him have ever existed, when we consider, in
connection with his felicity of artistic execution,
the poetic genius which his productions
display. Having for years been a student of
his art, and a warm lover of his pictures, I will
describe some of the imaginative works of this
Poet-Painter. First, however, a few words
about the man himself.
Thomas Cole was born in England, but
brought to this country in childhood. As his
parents, before his birth, had resided in the
United States, it is with the fullest propriety that
65
he is called an American painter. At any rate,
his attachment to this country is so strong,
that he has been heard to remark: “I would
give my left arm, could I but identify myself
with America, by saying that I was born
here.” The incidents of his youth and manhood,
as recorded in “Dunlap’s History of the
Arts of Design,” are among the most interesting
things of the kind, and it is with reluctance
that I refrain from inserting them in this
place. Let it suffice, however, to state, that
the genius which was born with him, was
fostered by intimate and long continued acquaintance
with the scenery of the Western
States, when as yet they were a comparative
wilderness. While toiling for a reputation,
he resided for a few years at a time in Philadelphia,
Pittsburg, Chillicothe, Steubenville,
and New York city; and, having visited
Europe a number of times, established his
reputation, and married a wife, he retired to
the beautiful town of Catskill, on the Hudson,
where he now resides, one of the most amiable
of men, the best of husbands and fathers, and
the most talented of living landscape painters.
The number of his imaginative paintings is
about twenty, and his actual views somewhere
66
between fifty and a hundred. Out of the
former, I intend to select my especial favorites,
of which I shall attempt to convey the best
idea in my power for your benefit, namely,
The Course of Empire, The Departure and
Return, Dream of Arcadia, Past and Present,
and The Voyage of Life. On these alone am
I willing to base my previous assertion, that
no landscape painter superior to Cole has ever
lived. Of his other productions I shall say
nothing, only giving the names of those which
I have seen, by way of making you acquainted
with the character of his subjects. They are
as follows: The Architect’s Dream, Paradise,
Scene from Manfred, Expulsion from Eden,
Angels appearing to the Shepherds, Heroic
Composition, Notch of the White Mountains,
Italian Scenery, View of Florence, View in
Rome, Schroon Mountain, Tornado in an
American Forest, Mount Holyoke after a
Storm, A Roman Aqueduct, Niagara, Mount
Ætna, Lake George, New England Scenery,
Distant View of the Catskill Mountains, and a
number of smaller views among the mountains.
The Course of Empire is a series, of five
paintings, representing the History of a Scene—an
67
epitome of that of Man. None but a
great mind would have dared to choose so vast
a subject, requiring the united attributes of
poet, philosopher, and painter; and very few
could have accomplished it so successfully.
In the first picture we have a perfectly wild
scene of rocks, mountains, woods, and a bay
of the ocean, reposing in the luxuriance of a
ripe Spring. The clouds of night are being
dissipated by the beams of the rising sun. On
the opposite side of the bay rises a lofty
promontory, crowned by a singular isolated
rock, which would ever be a conspicuous landmark
to the mariner. As the same locality is
preserved in each picture of the series, this
rock identifies it, although the position of the
spectator changes in the several pictures. The
chase being the most characteristic occupation
of savage life, in the foreground we see an
Indian clothed in skins, pursuing a wounded
deer, which is bounding down a narrow
ravine. On a rock, in the middle ground, are
other Indians, with their dogs, surrounding
another deer. On the bosom of a little river
below are a number of canoes passing down
the stream, while many more are drawn up on
the shore. On an elevation beyond these is a
68
cluster of wigwams, and a number of Indians
dancing round a fire. In this picture we have
the first rudiments of society. Men are already
banded together for mutual aid in the chase.
In the canoes, huts, and weapons, we perceive
that the useful arts have commenced,
and in the singing, which usually accompanies
the dance of savages, we behold the germs of
music and poetry. The Empire is asserted,
to a limited degree, over sea, land, and the
animal kingdom.
Ages have passed away, and in the second
picture we have the Simple or Arcadian State
of Society. The time of day is a little before
noon, and the season early summer. The
“untracked and rude” has been tamed and
softened. Shepherds are tending their flocks;
a solitary ploughman, with his oxen, is turning
up the soil; and in the rude vessels passing
into the haven of a growing village, and in
the skeleton of a barque building on the shore,
we perceive the commencement of Commerce.
From a rude temple on a hill the smoke of
sacrifice is ascending to the sky, symbolizing
the spirit of Religion. In the foreground, on
the left hand, is seated an old man, who, by
describing strange figures in the sand, seems
69
to have made some geometrical discovery,
demonstrating the infancy of Science. On
the right hand is a woman with a distaff,
about crossing a stone bridge; beside her, a
boy is drawing on a stone the figure of a man
with a sword; and beyond these, ascending
the road, a soldier is partly seen. Under some
noble trees, in the middle distance, are a
number of peasants dancing to the music of
pipe and timbrel. All these things show us
that society is steadily progressing in its march
of usefulness and power.
Ages have again passed away, and in the
third picture we have a magnificent city. It
is now mid-day, and early Autumn. The Bay
is now surrounded by piles of architecture,
temples, colonnades, and domes. It is a day
of rejoicing. The spacious harbor is crowded
with vessels, war-galleys, ships, and barques,
their silken sails glistening in the sunshine.
Moving over a massive stone bridge, in the foreground,
is a triumphal procession. The conqueror,
robed in purple, is mounted on a car
drawn by an elephant, and surrounded by captives
and a numerous train of guards and servants,
many of them bearing pictures and golden
treasures. As he is about to pass the triumphal
70
arch, beautiful girls strew flowers in his path;
gay festoons of drapery hang from the clustered
columns; golden trophies glitter in the sun,
and incense rises from silver censers. Before
a Doric temple, on the left, a multitude of
white-robed priests are standing on the marble
steps, while near them a religious ceremony
is being performed before a number of altars.
The statue of Minerva, with a Victory in her
hand, stands above the building of the Caryatides,
on a columned pedestal, near which is
a company of musicians, with cymbals, “trumpets
also, and shawms.” From the lofty
portico of a palace, an imperial personage is
watching the procession, surrounded by her
children, attendants, and guards. Nations
have been subjugated, man has reached the
summit of human glory. Wealth, power,
knowledge, and taste have worked together
and accomplished the highest meed of human
achievement and Empire.
Another change—and lo! in the fourth
picture, the Vicious State, or State of Destruction.
Behold the consequences of luxury, in
the weakened and debased condition of mankind.
A savage enemy has entered the once
proud and happy city; a fierce tempest is
71
raging; walls and colonnades are lying in the
dust, and temples and palaces are being consumed
by the torch of the incendiary. The
fire of vengeance is swallowing up the devoted
city. An arch of the bridge, over which the
triumphal procession had before passed, has
been battered down, and broken pillars, ruins
of war-engines, and the temporary bridge
which has been thrown over, indicate that this
has been the scene of direst contention. Now
there is a terrible conflict on the bridge, whose
insecurity accelerates the horror of the conflict.
Horses, and men, and chariots are precipitated
into the raging waves. War-galleys
are contending; others in flames; and others
still, sinking beneath the prow of a superior
foe. Smoke and flames are issuing from the
falling and prostrate edifices; and along the
battlements and in the blocked-up streets the
conflict is dreadful indeed. The foreground
is strewed with the bodies of the dead and
dying. Some have fallen into the basin of a
fountain, tinging the water with blood. One
female is sitting in mute despair over the dead
body of her son; another leaping over a battlement,
to escape the grasp of a ruffian
soldier; and other soldiers drag a woman by
72
the hair down the steps, that form the pedestal
of a mutilated colossal statue, whose shattered
head lies on the pavement below. A barbarous
enemy has conquered the city; Carnage
and Destruction have asserted their frightful
Empire.
The last and most impressive picture of this
series is the scene of Desolation. The sun
has just departed, and the moon is ascending
the twilight sky over the ocean, near the place
where the sun rose in the first picture. The
shades of evening are gradually stealing over
the shattered and ivy-grown ruins of that once
great city. A lonely column rises in the foreground,
on whose capital a solitary heron has
built her nest, and at the foot of it her mate is
standing in the water, both of them apparently
conscious of being a living mockery. The
Doric temple and triumphal bridge may still
be identified among the ruins, which are
laved by the waters of the tranquil sea. But
though man and his works have perished, the
steep promontory with its isolated rock, still
rears itself against the sky, unmoved, unchanged.
Time has consumed the works of
man, and art is resolving into its elemental
nature. The gorgeous pageant has passed,
73
the roar of battle has ceased, the multitude
has mingled with the dust, the Empire is
extinct.
The first, second, and last of these paintings
are considered the best of Mr. Cole’s productions,
not only in the poetry they portray, but
in their execution. The style is more varied
and natural, and has less the appearance of
paint than in many of his late productions.
As to the third and fourth paintings, the conception
of both is exceedingly fine and poetical,
but deficient in execution. The architecture
is admirably done, but the numerous
figures, which it was necessary to introduce,
are poorly drawn and arranged. It would be,
perhaps, too much to ask that an artist should
be a great painter of scenery, and also a master
of the human figure. As a whole, the Course
of Empire is a work of art worthy of any
nation or any painter of woman born. These
pictures were painted for the late Luman
Reed, at a cost of eight thousand dollars.
Surely it were a blessing to the Fine Arts in
this country, were such patrons more frequently
found.
The Departure and Return, exhibit a poetical
representation of the Feudal times. The
74
Departure represents early morning in spring.
As you look upon the picture, you can almost
hear the fall of waters, and feel the pleasant
breeze of the hour and season. In the distance
is seen a church, whose spire is gilded
by the beams of the rising sun; and in the
foreground is a magnificent castle, looming to
the sky, the seeming lord and guardian of the
world. Coming forth from one of its massy
gates is a band of mounted cavaliers, who are
going to the wars, full of life and hope and
gladness. The leader, in a splendid dress, is
mounted on a noble charger, whose flashing
eye and extended nostrils show that he is impatient
for the fight. Turn your eyes away,
and they are gone.
Imagine that months have passed, and look
upon the Return. It is now evening, the
season autumn, but the same section of country.
The castle is now in the distance, and
the church in the foreground. Toil-worn, a
few only are returning home by a woodland
path; and their leader, dying or wounded,
is conveyed upon a litter carried by men.
His steed, with heavy step, is following
behind. As they approach the church a
party of monks are seen coming out, and are
75
taken by surprise, to meet the small remnant
of brave warriors just returned from a long
and tedious campaign.
How simple and yet how complete is the
story here revealed! As these are among the
artist’s early pictures, they are distinguished
for their truth and unmannered style; and as
compositions, are unsurpassed.
The “Dream of Arcadia” is the perfect
personification of the sweetest dream of poetry
and romance. It is composed of temples,
vine-clad mountains, streams, cascades, trees,
shepherds and minstrels, everything in fact
which poets have described as making Arcady
the most beautiful land under the sun.
The “Past and Present” consists of two
pictures. The first is a tournament near a
castle. The second is the same spot, but
with the castle gone to decay. On the field
where we beheld the brave deeds of chivalry,
a single shepherd boy is tending his sheep.
The first of these we think poorly managed,
but the last is without a single fault,—it is
superb.
The “Voyage of Life” is a series of fine
pictures, allegorically portraying the prominent
features of man’s life, viz., childhood, youth,
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manhood, and old ago. The subject is one of
such universal interest, that it were almost
impossible to treat it in an entirely original
manner, but no one can deny that the conception
of the painter displays a high and rare
order of poetic power.
In the first we behold the dawn of a summer
morning. A translucent stream is issuing
from an unknown source out of a deep cavern
in the side of a mountain. Floating gently
down the stream is a golden boat, made of the
sculptured figures of the Hours, while the
prow is formed by the present hour holding
forth an emblem of Time. It is filled with
flowers, and on these a little child is seated,
tossing them with his upraised hands, and
smiling with new-born joy, as he looks upon
the unnumbered beauties and glories of this
bright world around him; while a guardian
angel is at the helm, with his wings lovingly
and protectingly extended over the child.
Love, purity, and beauty emanate like incense
from the sky, the earth, and water, so that
the heart of the gazer seems to forget the
world, and lose itself in a dream of heaven.
A few fleeting years are gone, and behold
the change! The Stream of Life is widened,
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and its current strong and irresistible, but it
flows through a country of surpassing loveliness.
The Voyager, who is now a youth, has
taken the helm into his own hands, and the
dismissed angel stands upon the shore looking
at him with “a look made of all sweet accord,”
as if he said in his heart, “God be with thee,
thoughtless mortal!” But the youth heeds
not his angel, for his eyes are now riveted by
an airy castle pictured against the sky, dome
above dome, reaching to the very zenith. The
phantom of worldly happiness and worldly
ambition has absorbed the imagination and
eager gaze of the wayward voyager, and
as he urges his frail bark onward, he dreams
not of the dangers which may await him in
his way. To the boat, only a few flowers
are now clinging, and on closer observation we
perceive that the castle in the air, apparently
so real, has only a white cloud for its foundation,
and that ere long the stream makes a
sudden turn, rushing with the fury of a maddened
steed down a terrible ravine. The
moral of the picture it is needless for us to
elucidate.
Another change, and lo! the verge of a
cataract and a fearful storm. The rudderless
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bark is just about to plunge into the abyss
below, while the voyager (now in the prime
of manhood) is imploring the only aid, that
can avail him in the trying hour, that of
heaven. Demoniacal images are holding forth
their temptations in the clouds around him,
but he heeds them not. His confidence in
God supports him, the previous agony of his
soul is dispelled or subdued, by a reflection of
immortal light stealing through the storm, and
by the smiles of his guardian angel, visibly
stationed in the far-off sky.
The Voyage of Life is ended, and our
voyager, now white with hoary hairs, has
reached that point where the waters of time
and eternity mingle together—a bold conception,
which is finely embodied by the daring
genius of the painter. The hour-glass is gone,
and the shattered bark is ready to dissolve into
the fathomless waters beneath. The old man
is on his knees, with clasped hands and his
eyes turned heavenward, for the greenness of
earth is forever departed, and a gloom is upon
the ocean of Eternity. But just above the
form of our good voyager is hovering his
angel, who is about to transport him to his
home; and, as the eye wanders upward, an
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infinite host of heavenly ministers are seen
ascending and descending the cloudy steps
which lead to the bosom of God. Death is
swallowed up in life, the glory of heaven has
eclipsed that of the earth, and our voyager is
safe in the haven of eternal rest. And thus
endeth the allegory of Human Life.
With regard to the mechanical execution of
these paintings, I consider them not equal to
some of the earlier efforts of the same pencil.
They are deficient in atmosphere, and have
too much the appearance of paint. The water
in the first, second, and third pictures, is superior,
and the knowledge of perspective in
the last of them is masterly. In all of them
the figures are very fine, considering the difficulty
of managing such peculiar characters.
In the first I am pleased with the simplicity
of the composition; in the second, with the
variety, there being portrayed the elm of England,
the plains of Tuscany, the palm of tropic
climes, the mountains of Switzerland, and the
oak of America; in the third, with the genius
displayed in using the very storm to tell a
story; and in the fourth, with the management
of the light, and the apparent reality of
those rays of glory. These pictures were
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painted for the late Samuel Ward, of New
York, and the price received for them was five
thousand dollars.
Thus have I attempted to describe the
prominent imaginative paintings of Thomas
Cole, with the object in view, of making you
acquainted with the fact, that great acquisitions
have been and are being made to the Fine
Arts, even in our own country. His is a name
which we should not willingly let die. A
man of fine, exalted genius, by his pencil he
has done a great deal of good, not only to his
chosen art, by becoming one of its masters,
but also in a moral point of view. And this
reminds me of the influences, which may be
exerted by the landscape painter. That these
are of importance no one can deny. Is not
painting as well the result and expression of
thought as writing? What though, instead of
pen, ink, and paper, the painter uses canvass,
a pencil, and the colors of the rainbow, yet
these, if he is a poet in his soul, can display
his power to scarcely less effect than though,
to give utterance to his “thoughts that glow,”
his means were the “words that burn.” With
these, if he is a wise and good man, he may
portray, to every eye that rests upon his canvass,
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the loveliness of virtue and religion, or
the deformity and wretchedness of a vicious
life. He may warn the worldling of his folly
and impending doom, and encourage the
Christian in his pilgrimage to heaven. He
may delineate the marvellous beauty of nature,
so as to lead the mind upward to its Creator,
or proclaim the ravages of time, that we may
take heed to our ways and prepare ourselves
for a safe departure from this world, into that
beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
A goodly portion of all these things have been
accomplished by Thomas Cole. As yet, he is
the only landscape painter in this country who
has attempted imaginative painting, and the
success which has followed him in his career,
even in a pecuniary point of view, affords
great encouragement to our young painters in
this department of the art. Cole has indeed
done some great things, but a thousandfold
more he has left undone. He has but set a
noble example, which ought to be extensively
followed. Mind, we do not mean by this that
his subjects ought to be imitated. Far from
it; because they are not stamped with a national
character, as the productions of all
painters should be. Excepting his actual
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views of American scenery, the paintings of
Cole might have been produced had he never
set foot upon our soil. Let our young artists
aspire to something above a mere copy of
nature, or even a picture of the fancy; let
them paint the visions of their imagination.
No other country ever offered such advantages
as our own. Let our young painters use their
pencils to illustrate the thousands of scenes,
strange, wild, and beautiful, of our early history.
Let them aim high, and their achievements
will be distinguished. Let them
remember that theirs is a noble destiny.
What though ancient wisdom and modern
poetry have told us that “art is long and time
is fleeting!”—let them toil and toil with
nature as their guide, and they will assuredly
have their reward.
83
LAKE HORICON.
If circumstances alone could make one
poetical, then might you expect from me on
this occasion a letter of rare excellence and
beauty. My sketch book is my desk, my
canopy from the sunshine an elm tree, the
carpet under my feet a rich green sprinkled
with flowers, the music in my ear of singing
birds, and the prospect before me, north, east,
and south, the tranquil bosom of Lake George,
with its islands and surrounding mountains,
whose waters, directly at my side, are alive
with many kinds of fish, sporting together on a
bed of sand. Yes, the far-famed Lake George
is my subject, but in what I write I shall not
use that title,—for I do not like the idea of
christening what belongs to us with the name
of an English monarch, however much his
memory deserves to be respected. Shall it be
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Lake St. Sacrament, then? No! for that was
given to it by the Pope and the French nation.
Horicon,—a musical and appropriate word,
meaning pure water, and given it by the poor
Indian,—is the name which rightfully belongs
to the lake which is now my theme.
Lake Horicon is one of the few objects in
Nature, that did not disappoint me after reading
the descriptions of travellers. I verily
believe, that in point of mere beauty it has
not its equal in the world. Its length is
thirty-four miles, and its width from two to
four. Its islands number about three hundred,
and vary from ten feet to a mile in
length;—a great many of them are located in
the centre of the lake, which place is called the
Narrows. It is completely surrounded with
mountains, the most prominent of which are,
Black Mountain on the east of the Narrows,
Tongue Mountain directly opposite, and French
Mountain at the southern extremity. The
first is the most lofty, and remarkable for its
wildness, and the superb prospect therefrom;
the second is also wild and uninhabited, but distinguished
for its dens of rattlesnakes; and the
latter is somewhat cultivated, but memorable
for having been the camping ground of the
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French during the Revolutionary war. The
whole eastern border is yet a comparative
wilderness, but along the western shore are
some respectable farms, and a good coach road
from Caldwell to Ticonderoga, which affords
many admirable views of the sky-blue lake.
There are three public houses here which I
can recommend,—the Lake House for those
who are fond of company,—Lyman’s Tavern
for the hunter of scenery and lover of quiet,—and
Garfield’s House for the fisherman. A
nice little steamboat, commanded by a gentleman,
passes through the lake every morning
and evening (excepting Sundays), which is a
convenient affair to the traveller, but an eye-sore
to the admirer of the wilderness. When,
in addition to all these things, it is remembered,
that Horicon is the centre of a region
made classic, by the exploits of civilized and
savage warfare, it can safely be pronounced
one of the most interesting portions of our
country for the summer tourist to visit. I
have looked upon it from many a peak whence
might be seen almost every rood of its shore.
I have sailed into every one of its bays, and,
like the pearl diver, have repeatedly descended
into its cold blue chambers, so that I have
86
learned to love it as a faithful and well tried
friend. Since the day of my arrival here, I
have kept a journal of my adventures, and, as
a memorial of Horicon, I will extract therefrom
and embody in this letter the following
passages.
Six oil sketches have I executed upon the
Lake to-day. One of them was a view of the
distant mountains, whose various outlines
were concentrated at one point, and whose
color was of that delicate dreamy blue, created
by a sunlight atmosphere, with the sun beyond.
In the middle distance was a flock of
islands, with a sail boat in their midst, and in the
foreground a cluster of rocks, surmounted by a
single cedar, which seemed to be the sentinel
of a fortress. Another was of the ruins of
Fort George, with a background of dark
green mountains, and made more desolate by
a flock of sheep sleeping in one of its shady
moats. Another was of a rowing race between
two rival fishermen, at the time when
they were only a dozen rods from the goal,
and when every nerve of their aged frames
was strained to the utmost. Another was of
a neat log-cabin on a quiet lawn near the
87
water, at whose threshold a couple of ragged
but beautiful children were playing with a
large dog, and from whose chimney ascended
the blue smoke with a thousand fantastic evolutions.
Another was of a huge pine tree,
which towered conspicuously above its kindred
on the mountain side, and which seemed
to me an appropriate symbol of Webster in the
midst of a vast concourse of his fellow men.
And the last was of a thunder-storm, driven
away from a mountain top by the mild radiance
of a rainbow, which partly encircled Horicon
in a loving embrace.
I have been a fishing to-day, and, while
enduring some poor sport, indited in my mind
the following information, for the benefit of
my piscatorial friends. The days of trout-fishing
in Lake Horicon are nearly at an end.
A few years ago it abounded in this fine fish,
which were frequently caught weighing twenty
pounds, but their average weight at the
present is not more than one pound and a half,
and they are scarce even at that. In taking them
you first have to obtain a sufficient quantity of
sapling bark to reach the bottom in sixty feet
of water, to one end of which must be fastened
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a stone, and to the other a stick of wood,
which designates your fishing ground, and is
called a buoy. A variety of more common
fish are then caught, such as suckers, perch,
and eels, which are cut up and deposited, some
half a peck at a time, in the vicinity of the
buoy. In a few days the trout will begin to
assemble, and so long as you keep them well
fed, a brace of them may be captured at
almost any time during the summer. But the
fact is, this is only another way for “paying too
dear for the whistle.” The best angling, after
all, is for the common brook trout, which is
a bolder biting fish, and full as good for the
table as the salmon trout. The cause of the
great decrease in the large trout of this lake is
this,—in the Autumn, when they have sought
the shores for the purpose of spawning, the
neighboring barbarians have been accustomed
to spear them by torch-light; and if the
heartless business does not cease, the result
will be, that in a few years they will be
extinct. There are two other kinds of trout
in the lake, however, which yet afford good
sport,—the silver trout, caught in the summer,
and the fall-trout. But the black-bass, upon
the whole, is now mostly valued by the fisherman.
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They are in their prime in the summer
months. They vary from one to five pounds
in weight; and are taken by trolling and with
a drop line, and afford fine fun. Their haunts
are along the rocky shores, and it is often the
case that on a still day you may see them
from your boat swimming about in herds,
when the water is twenty feet deep. They
have a queer fashion when hooked, of leaping
out of the water for the purpose of getting
clear, and it is seldom that a novice in the
gentle art can keep them from succeeding.
But alas, their numbers also are fast diminishing,
by the same means and the same hands
that have killed the trout. My advice to
those who come here exclusively for the purpose
of fishing is, to continue their journey to
the sources of the Hudson, Schroon Lake,
Long Lake, and Lake Pleasant, in whose
several waters there seems to be no end to
every variety of trout, and where may be
found much wild and beautiful scenery. The
angler of the present day will be disappointed
in Lake Horicon.
When issuing from the Narrows on your
way down the Horicon, the most attractive
90
object, next to the mountains, is a strip of low
sandy land extending into the lake, called
Sabbath Day Point. It was so christened by
Abercrombie, who encamped and spent the
Sabbath there, when on his way to Ticonderoga,
where he was so sadly defeated. I
look upon it as one of the most enchanting
places in the world; but the pageant with
which it is associated was not only enchanting,
and beautiful, and grand, but perfectly magnificent.
Only look at the picture, which I am
attempting to reproduce upon canvass. It is
the sunset hour, and before you, far up in the
upper air, and companion of the Evening star
and a host of glowing clouds, rises the majestic
form of Black Mountain, enveloped in a
mantle of rosy atmosphere. The bosom of
the Lake is without a ripple, and every cliff,
ravine, and island, has its counterpart in the
pure waters. A blast of martial music from
drums, fifes, bagpipes, and bugle horns, now
falls upon the ear, and the immense procession
comes in sight; one thousand and thirty-five
battaux, containing an army of seventeen
thousand souls, headed by the brave Abercrombie
and the red cross of England,—the
scarlet uniforms and glistening bayonets forming
91
a line of light against the darker background
of the mountain. And behind a log
in the foreground is a crouching Indian runner,
who, with the speed of a hawk, will carry the
tidings to the French nation that an army is
coming—“numerous as the leaves upon the
trees.” Far from the strange scene fly the
affrighted denizens of mountain and wave,—while
thousands of human hearts are beating
happily at the prospect of victory, whose
bodies in a few hours will be food for the
raven on the plains of Ticonderoga.
A goodly portion of this day have I been
musing upon the olden times, while rambling
about Fort George, and Fort William Henry.
Long and with peculiar interest did I linger
about the spot near the latter, where were
cruelly massacred the followers of Monroe, at
which time Montcalm linked his name to the
title of a heartless Frenchman, and the name
of Webb became identified with all that is
justly despised by the human heart. I profess
myself to be an enemy to wrong and outrage
of every kind, and yet a lover and defender of
the Indian race; but when I picked up one
after another the flinty heads of arrows, which
92
were mementos of an awful butchery, my
spirit revolted against the Red man, and for a
moment I felt a desire to condemn him. Yes,
I will condemn that particular band of murderers,
but I cannot but defend the race. Cruel
and treacherous they were, I will allow, but
do we forget the treatment they ever met with
from the white man? The most righteous of
battles have ever been fought for the sake of
sires and wives and children, and for what else
did the poor Indian fight, when driven from
the home of his youth into an unknown wilderness,
to become thereafter a by-word and a
reproach among the nations? “Indians,” said
we, “we would have your lands, and if you
will not be satisfied with the gewgaws we
proffer, out powder and balls will teach you
that power is but another name for right.”
And this is the principle that has guided the
white man ever since in his warfare against
the aborigines of our country. Oh, I cannot
believe that we shall ever be a happy and
prosperous people, until the King of kings shall
have forgiven us for having, with a yoke of
tyranny, almost annihilated an hundred nations.
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A portion of this afternoon I whiled away
on a little island, which attracted my attention
by its charming variety of foliage. It is not
more than one hundred feet across at the
widest part, and is encircled by a yellow sand-bank,
and shielded by a regiment of variegated
rocks. But what could I find there to interest
me, it may be inquired. My answer is this:
That island, hidden in one of the bays of
Horicon, is an Insect city, and more populous
than was Rome in the days of her glory.
There the honey-bee has his oaken tower, the
wasp and humble-bee their grassy nests, the
spider his den, the butterfly his hammock, the
grasshopper his domain, the beetle and cricket
and hornet their decayed stump, and the toiling
ant her palace of sand. There they were
born, there they flourish and multiply, and
there they die, symbolizing the career and
destiny of man. I was a “distinguished
stranger” in that city, and I must confess
that it gratified my ambition to be welcomed
with such manifestations of regard as
the inhabitants thought proper to bestow.
My approach was heralded by the song
of a kingly bee; and when I had thrown
myself upon a mossy bank, multitudes of people
94
gathered round, and, with their eyes
intently fixed upon me, stood still, and let
“expressive silence muse my praise.” To
the “natives” I was emphatically a source of
astonishment; and as I wished to gather instruction
from the event, I wondered in my
heart whether I would be a happier man if
my presence in a human city should create a
kindred excitement. At any rate it would be
a “great excitement on a small capital.”
While quietly eating my dinner this noon, in
the shady recess of an island near Black
Mountain, I was startled by the yell of a peck
of hounds coming down one of its ravines. I
knew that the chase was after a deer, so I
waited in breathless anxiety for his appearance.
Five minutes had hardly elapsed before I
discovered a noble buck at bay on the extreme
summit of a bluff which extended into
the lake. There were five dogs yelping about
him, but the “antlered monarch” fought them
like a hero. His hoof was the most dangerous
weapon he could wield, and it seemed to me
that the earth actually trembled every time
that he struck at his enemies. Presently, to
my great joy, one of the hounds was killed, and
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another so disabled, that he retired from the
contest. But the hunters made their appearance,
and I knew that the scene would soon
come to a tragic close. And when the buck
beheld them, I could not but believe that over
his face a “tablet of agonizing thoughts was
traced,” for he fell upon his knees, then made
a sudden wheel, and with a frightful bound, as
a ball passed through his heart, cleared the
rock and fell into the lake far below. The
waters closed over him, and methought that
the waves of Horicon and the leaves of the
forest murmured a requiem above the grave of
the wilderness king. I turned away with a
tear in my eye, and partly resolved that I
would never again have a dog for my friend,
or respect the character of a hunter; but then I
looked into the crystal waters of the lake, and
thought of the beam in my own eye, and
stood convicted of a kindred cruelty.
One of the most singular precipices overlooking
Horicon is about five miles from the
outlet, and known as Rogers’ Slide. It is
some four hundred feet high, and at one point
not a fissure or sprig can be discerned to
mar the polished surface of the rock till it
96
reaches the water. Once on a time in the
winter, the said Rogers was pursued by a
band of Indians to this spot, where, after
throwing down his knapsack, he carefully
retraced the steps of his snow-shoes for a
short distance, and descending the hill by a
circuitous route, continued his way across the
frozen lake. The Indians, on coming to the
jumping-off-place, discovered their enemy on
the icy plain; but when they saw the neglected
knapsack below, and no signs of returning
footsteps where they stood, they thought
the devil must be in the man, and gave up the
pursuit.
The most famous, and one of the most
beautiful islands in this lake, is Diamond
Island, so called from the fact that it abounds
in crystallized quartz. It is half a mile in
length, but the last place in the world which
would be thought of as the scene of a battle.
It is memorable for the attack made by the
Americans on the British, who had a garrison
there, in 1777. The American detachment
was commanded by Col. Brown, and being
elated with his recent triumphs on Lake
Champlain, he resolved to attack Diamond
97
Island. The battle was bloody, and the
British fought like brave men “long and
well”; the Americans were defeated, and this
misfortune was followed by the sufferings of a
most painful retreat over the almost impassable
mountains between the Lake and what is now
Whitehall. While wandering about the island
it was a difficult matter for me to realize, that
it had ever resounded with the roar of cannon,
the dismal wail of war, and the shout of victory.
That spot is now covered with woods,
whose shadowy groves are the abode of a
thousand birds, forever singing a song of peace
or love, as if to condemn the ambition and
cruelty of man.
In the vicinity of French Mountain is an
island which is celebrated as the burial place of
a rattle-snake hunter, named Belden. From
all that I can learn, he must have been a
strange mortal indeed. His birth-place and
early history were alike unknown. When he
first made his appearance at this Lake, his
only companions were a brotherhood of rattlesnakes,
by exhibiting which he professed to
have obtained his living; and it is said that,
during the remainder of his life, he acquired a
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handsome sum of money by selling the oil
and gall of his favorite reptile. And I have
recently been told that the present market
price of a fat snake, when dead, is not less
than half a dollar. Another mode peculiar
to old Belden for making money, was to
suffer himself to be bitten, at some tavern, after
which he would return to his cabin to apply
the remedy, when he would come forth again
just as good as new. But he was not always
to be a solemn trifler. For a week had the
old man been missing, and on a pleasant
August morning, his body was found on the
island alluded to, sadly mutilated and bloated,
and it was certain that he had died actually
surrounded with rattlesnakes. His death-bed
became his grave, and rattlesnakes were his
only watchers,—and thus endeth the story of
his life.
But this reminds me of two little adventures.
The other day as I was seated near
the edge of a sand bar, near the mouth of a
brook, sketching a group of trees and the
sunset clouds beyond, I was startled by an
immense black snake, that landed at my side,
and pursued its way directly under my legs,
upon which my drawing-book was resting.
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Owing to my perfect silence, the creature had
probably looked upon me as a mere stump.
But what was my surprise a few moments
after, when reseated in the same place, to find
another snake, and that a large spotted adder,
passing along the same track the former had
pursued. The first fright had almost disabled
me from using the pencil, but when the
second came, I gave a lusty yell, and forgetful
of the fine arts, started for home on the keen
run.
At another time, when returning from a
fishing excursion, in a boat, accompanied by a
couple of greenhorns, we discovered on the
water, near Tongue Mountain, an immense
rattlesnake, with his head turned towards us.
As the oarsman in the bow of the boat struck
at him with his oar, the snake coiled round it,
and the fool was in the very act of dropping
the devilish thing in my lap at the stern of the
boat. I had heard the creature rattle, and not
knowing what I did, as he hung suspended
over me, overboard I went, and did not look
behind till I had reached the land. The consequence
was, that for one while I was perfectly
disgusted even with Lake Horicon, and
resolved to leave it without delay. The
100
snake was killed without doing any harm,
however, but such a blowing up as I gave
the greenhorn actually made his hair stand
straight with fear.
One more snake story and I’ll stop. On the
north side of Black Mountain is a cluster of
some half-dozen houses, in a vale, which spot
is called the Bosom, but from what cause I do
not know. The presiding geniuses of the
place are a band of girls, weighing two hundred
pounds a piece, who farm it with their
fathers for a living, but whose principal
amusement is rattlesnake hunting. Their
favorite playground is the notorious cliff on
Tongue Mountain, where they go with naked
feet (rowing their own boats across the Lake),
and pull out by their tails from the rocks the
pretty playthings, and, snapping them to
death, lay them away in a basket as trophies
of their skill. I was told that in one day last
year they killed the incredible number of
eleven hundred. What delicious wives would
these Horicon ladies make! Now that the
Florida Indians have been driven from their
country by bloodhounds, would it not be a
good idea for Congress to secure the services
of these amazons for the purpose of exterminating
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the rattlesnakes upon our mountains.
This latter movement would be the most
ridiculous, but the inhumanity of the former
is without a parallel.
A clear and tranquil summer night, and I
am alone on the pebbly beach of this paragon
of lakes. The countless hosts of heaven are
beaming upon me with a silent joy, and more
impressive and holy than a poet’s dream, are
the surrounding mountains, as they stand reflected
in the unruffled waters. Listen! what
sound is that, so like the wail of a spirit?
Only a loon, the lonely night-watcher of
Horicon, whose melancholy moan, as it breaks
the profound stillness, carries my fancy back
to the olden Indian times, ere the white man
had crossed the ocean. All these mountains
and this beautiful Lake were then the heritage
of a brave and noble-hearted people, who
made war only upon the denizens of the forest,
whose lives were peaceful as a dream, and
whose manly forms, decorated with the plumes
of the eagle, the feathers of the scarlet bird,
and the robe of the bounding stag, tended
but to make the scenery of the wilderness
beautiful as an earthly Eden. Here was the
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quiet wigwam village, and there the secluded
abode of the thoughtful chief. Here, unmolested,
the Indian child played with the spotted
fawn, and the “Indian lover wooed his
dusky mate;” here the Indian hunter, in the
“sunset of his life,” watched, with holy awe,
the sunset in the west, and here the ancient
Indian prophetess sung her uncouth but religious
chant. Gone,—all, all gone,—and
the desolate creature of the waves, now pealing
forth another wail, seems the only memorial
that they have left behind. There,—my
recent aspirations are all quelled, I can
walk no farther to night;—there is a tear in
my eye and a sadness in my soul, and I must
seek my home. It is such a blessed night,
that it seems almost sinful that a blight should
rest upon the spirit of man; yet on mine a
gloom will sometimes fall, nor can I tell from
whence the cloud that makes me wretched.
To prayer!!
Here endeth a lover’s tribute to the sky-blue
and ice-cold Horicon.
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BURLINGTON.
Of all the towns which I have ever seen,
Burlington in Vermont is decidedly the most
beautiful. It stands on the shore of Lake
Champlain, and from the water to its eastern
extremity is a regular elevation, which rises to
the height of some three hundred feet. Its
streets are broad and regularly laid out, the
generality of its buildings elegant, and its
inhabitants well educated, refined, and wealthy.
My visit here is now about to close, and
I cannot but follow the impulses of my
heart, by giving you a brief account of its
principal picturesque attraction, and some information
concerning a few of its public men.
As a matter of course, my first subject is
Lake Champlain. In approaching it from the
south, and particularly from Horicon, one is
apt to form a wrong opinion of its picturesque
features; but one cannot pass through it without
104
being lavish in its praise. It extends, in a
straight line from south to north, somewhat over
a hundred miles, and lies between the States
of Vermont and New York. It is the gateway
between the country on the St. Lawrence
and that on the Hudson, and it is therefore
extensively navigated by vessels and steamboats.
The steamer Burlington, Captain
Sherman, is unquestionably the finest boat in
the Union; not on account of its size, but considering
the admirable discipline with which it
is commanded. Lake Champlain is surrounded
with flourishing villages, whose population is
generally made up of New Englanders and
Canadians. Its width varies from half a mile
to thirteen, but its waters are muddy, excepting
in the vicinity of Burlington. Its islands
are not numerous, but one of them, Grand Isle,
is sufficiently large to support four villages.
Its scenery may be denominated bold; rising
from the water on the west are the Adirondack
Mountains, and at some distance on the east
the beautiful Green Mountains, whose glorious
commanders are Mansfield Mountain and
the Camel’s Hump. Owing to the width of
the Lake at Burlington, and the beauty of the
western mountains, the sunsets that are here
105
visible are exceedingly superb. O that I
could strike the lyre of the poet, that I might
celebrate in song some of those which have
transported my spirit to the realms of bliss.
The classic associations of this Lake are uncommonly
interesting. Here are the moss-covered
ruins of Ticonderoga and Crown Point,
whose present occupants are the snake, the
lizzard, and toad. Leaden and iron balls,
broken bayonets, and English flints, have I
picked up on their ramparts, which I cannot
look upon without thinking of death-struggles
and the horrible shout of war. And there too
is Plattsburg, in whose waters Commodore
McDonough vindicated the honor of the Stars
and Stripes of Freedom. As to the fishing of
this lake, I have but a word to say. Excepting
trout, every variety of fresh-water fish is
found here in abundance; but the water is not
pure, which is ever a serious drawback to my
enjoyment in wetting the line. Lake Champlain
received its present name from a French
nobleman, who discovered it in 1609, and who
died at Quebec in 1635.
The associations I am now to speak of, are
of a personal character; and the first, of the
three names before me, is that of Joseph
106
Torrey, the present Professor of Moral and
Intellectual Philosophy in the University of
Vermont. As a citizen, he is one of the most
amiable and beloved of men. As one of the
faculty of the University, he occupies a high
rank, and is a particular favorite with all his
students. A pleasing evidence of the latter
fact I noticed a few days since, when it was
reported among the students that the Professor
had returned from a visit to the Springs for his
health. I was in company with some half-dozen
of them at the time, and these are the
remarks they made. “How is his health”?
“I hope he has improved”! “Now shall I
be happy,—for ever since he went away, the
recitation-room has been a cheerless place to
me.” “Now shall I be advised as to my
essay”! “Now shall my poem be corrected”!
“Now, in my troubles, shall I have the sympathies
of a true friend”! Much more meaning
is contained in these simple phrases than
what meets the eye. Surely, if any man is
to be envied, it is he who has a place in the
affections of all who know him. As a scholar,
too, Professor Torrey occupies an exalted
station, as will be proven to the world in due
time. He has never published anything but
107
an occasional article for a review, and the
memoir of President Marsh (who was his
predecessor in the University), as contained in
the admirable volume of his Remains, which
should occupy a conspicuous place in the library
of every American scholar and Christian.
The memoir is indeed a rare specimen of that
kind of writing,—beautifully written, and
pervaded by a spirit of refinement that is delightful.
But I was mostly interested in Mr.
Torrey as a man of taste in the Fine Arts.
In everything but the mere execution, he is a
genuine artist, and long may I remember the
counsels of his experience and knowledge. A
course of Lectures on the Arts forms a portion
of his instruction as Professor, and I trust that
they will eventually be published for the
benefit of our country. He has also translated,
from the German of Schelling, a most admirable
discourse entitled “Relation of the Arts
of Design to Nature;” a copy of which ought
to be in the possession of every young artist.
Mr. Torrey has been an extensive traveller in
Europe, and being a lover and an acute observer
of everything connected with Literature
and Art, it is a perfect luxury to hear him
expatiate upon “the wonders he has seen.”
108
He also examines everything with the eye of a
philosopher, and his conclusions are ever of
practical utility. Not only can he analyze in a
profound manner the principles of metaphysical
learning, but, with the genuine feelings of a
poet, descant upon the triumphs of poetic
genius, or point out the mind-charms of a
Claude or Titian. He is—but I will not say
all that I would, for I fear that at our next
meeting he would chide me for my boyish
personalities. Let me conclude then with the
advice, that, if you ever chance to meet the
Professor in your travels, you must endeavor
to secure an introduction, which I am sure
you cannot but ever remember with unfeigned
pleasure.
John Henry Hopkins, D. D., Bishop of Vermont,
is another of the principal attractions of
Burlington. The history of his life, the expression
of his countenance, and his general
deportment, all speak of the “peace of God.”
Considering the number and diversity of his
acquirements, I think him a very remarkable
man. He is not only in point of character
well worthy of his exalted station as Bishop,
but as a theologian learned and eloquent to an
uncommon degree. His contributions to the
109
world of Letters are of rare value, having published
volumes entitled “Christianity Vindicated;”
“The Primitive Church;” “The
Primitive Creed;” “The Church of Rome;”
“British Reformation;” and “Letters to the
Clergy.” His style of writing is persuasive,
vigorous, and clear, and all his conclusions
seem to have been formed in full view of the
Bible, which is a virtue worth noticing in
these degenerate days. Unlike the bigoted
followers of Pusey, he is a charitable Episcopalian,—deserving
and enjoying the love and
esteem of every orthodox denomination. It is
because of his honesty and soundness, I suppose,
that some of his own church are disaffected
with his straight-forward conduct.
Bishop Hopkins, as a divine, is of the same
school with the late Bishop White, and therefore
among the most eminently wise and good
of his age and country.
The Bishop of Vermont is also a man of
remarkable taste with regard to Architecture,
Music, and Painting; in which departments, as
an amateur, he has done himself great credit.
Not only did he plan and superintend the
building of an edifice for his recent school, but
has published an interesting book on Architecture,
110
wherein he appears to be as much at
home as a Christopher Wren. Knowing the
market to be full of sentimental nonsense in
the way of songs, he composed, for the benefit
of his own children, a few with a moral tone,
which he also set to music, and are now published
as a worthy tribute to his fine feelings and
the correctness of his ear. But he ranks still
higher as a man of taste in the capacity of a
Painter. The Vermont Drawing Book, which
he published, is an evidence of his ability as a
draftsman. The family portraits which adorn
his walls, prove him to have an accurate eye
for color, and an uncommon knowledge of
effect;—and his oil sketches of scenes from
Nature, give token of an ardent devotion to
Nature. But the best, in my opinion, of all
his artistical productions, is a picture representing
“our Saviour blessing little children.” Its
conception, grouping, and execution, are all of
very great merit, and I am persuaded will one
day be looked upon with peculiar interest by
the lovers and judges of art in this country.
Though done in water colors, and considered
by the artist as a mere sketch for a larger picture,
there are some heads in it that would
have called forth a compliment even from the
111
lamented Allston. Would that he could be
influenced to send it, for exhibition, to our
National Academy! And thus endeth my
humble tribute of applause to a gifted man.
I now come to the Hon. George P. Marsh,
of whom, if I were to follow the bent of my
feelings, I could write a complete volume.
Though yet in the early prime of life, he is a
sage in learning and wisdom. After leaving
college he settled in Burlington, where he has
since resided, dividing his time between his
legal profession and the retirement of his
study. With a large and liberal heart, he
possesses all the endearing and interesting
qualities which belong to the true and accomplished
gentleman. Like all truly great men,
he is exceedingly retiring and modest in his
deportment, and one of that rare class who are
never excited by the voice of fame. About
two years ago, almost without his knowledge,
he was elected to a seat in the lower house
of Congress, where he at once began to make
an impression as a Statesman. Though few
have been his public speeches, they are remarkable
for sound political logic, and the
classic elegance of their language. As an
orator, he is not showy and passionate, but
plain, forcible, and earnest.
112
But it is in the walks of private life, that
Mr. Marsh is to be mostly admired. His
knowledge of the Fine Arts is probably more
extensive than that of any other man in this
country, and his critical taste is equal to his
knowledge; but that department peculiarly
his hobby, is Engraving. He has a perfect
passion for line engravings; and it is unquestionably
true, that his collection is the most
valuable and extensive in the Union. He is
well acquainted with the history of this art
from the earliest period, and also with its
various mechanical ramifications. He is as
familiar with the lives and peculiar styles of
the Painters and Engravers of antiquity, as
with his household affairs; and when he talks
to you on his favorite theme, it is not to
display his learning, but to make you realize
the exalted attributes and mission of universal
Art.
As an author, Mr. Marsh has done but little
in extent, but enough to secure a seat beside
such men as Edward Everett, with whom
he has been compared. He has published
(among his numerous things of the kind) a
pamphlet entitled “The Goths in New-England,”
which is a fine specimen of chaste
113
writing and beautiful thought; also another
on the “History of the Mechanic Arts,” which
contains a great deal of rare and important information.
He has also written an “Icelandic
Grammar” of 150 pages, which created quite
a sensation among the learned of Europe a few
years ago. As to his scholarship,—it can be
said of him, that he is a master in some
twelve of the principal modern and ancient
languages. He has not learned them merely
for the purpose of being considered a literary
prodigy, but to multiply his means of acquiring
information, which information is intended
to accomplish some substantial end. He is
not a visionary, but a devoted lover of truth,
whether it be in History, Poetry, or the Arts.
But my chief object in speaking of this
gentleman, was to introduce a passing notice
of his Library, which is undoubtedly the most
unique in the country. The building itself,
which stands near his dwelling, is of brick,
and arranged throughout with great taste.
You enter it, as it was often my privilege, and
find yourself in a perfect wilderness of gorgeous
books, and portfolios of engravings. Of books
Mr. Marsh owns some five thousand volumes.
His collection of Scandinavian Literature is
114
supposed to be the most complete that can be
found out of the Northern Kingdoms. To
give you an idea of this literary treasure, I
will mention a few of the rarest specimens. In
old Northern Literature, here may be found
the Arna Magnæan editions of old Icelandic
Sagas, all those of Suhm, all those of the
Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and in
fact all those printed at Copenhagen and
Stockholm, as well as in Iceland, with scarcely
an exception. This Library also contains
the great editions of Heimskringla, the two
Eddas, Kongs-Skugg-Sjo, Konunga, Styrilse,
the Scriptores Rerum Danicarum, Scriptores
Rerum Svecicarum, Dansk Magazin,
the two complete editions of Olaus Magnus,
Saxo Grammaticus, the works of Bartholinus,
Torfaus, Schöning, Suhm, Pontoppidan,
Grundtvig, Petersen, Rask, the Aplantica of
Rudbeck, the great works of Sjöborg, Liljegren,
Geijer, Cronholm, and Strinnholm, all
the collections of old Icelandic, Danish, and
Swedish laws, and almost all the writers, ancient
and modern, who have treated of the language,
literature, or history of the ancient Scandinavian
race.
In modern Danish Literature, here may be
115
found the works of Holberg, Wessel, Ewald,
Hejberg, Baggesen, Ochlenschlseger, Nyerup,
Ingemann, with other celebrated authors; in
Swedish, those of Leopold Oxenstjerna, Bellmann,
Franzen, Atterbom, Tegner, Frederika
Bremer, and indeed almost all the belles lettres
authors of Sweden, the Transactions of the
Royal Academy of Science, (more than one
hundred volumes,) those of the Swedish
Academy, and of the Royal Academy of
Literature, and many collections in documentary
history, besides numerous other works.
In Spanish and Portuguese, besides many
modern authors, here are numerous old chronicles,
such as the Madrid collection of old
Spanish Chronicles in seven volumes 4to.;
the Portuguese Livros ineditos da Historia
Portugueza, five volumes folio; Fernam
Lopez, de Brito, Duarte Nunez de Liam,
Damiam de Goes, de Barros, Castanheda,
Resende, Andrada, Osorio; also, de Menezes,
Mariana, and others of similar character. In
Italian, most of the best authors, who have
acquired a European reputation; several hundred
volumes of French works, including
many of the ancient chronicles; a fine collection
in German, including many editions of
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Reyneke de Vos, the Nibelungen, and other
works of the middle ages. In classical literature,
good editions of the most celebrated
Greek and Latin authors; and in English, a
choice collection of the best authors, among
which should be mentioned, as rare in this
country, Lord Berners’ Froissart, Roger Ascham,
the writings of King James I., John
Smith’s Virginia (edition of 1624), Amadis
de Gaul, and Palmerin of England. In lexicography,
the best dictionaries and grammars in
all the languages of Western Europe, and
many biographical dictionaries and other works
of reference in various languages. Many
works too, are here, on astrology, alchemy,
witchcraft, and magic; and a goodly number
of works on the situation of Plato’s Atlantis
and Elysian Fields, such as Rudbeck’s Atlantica,
Goropius Becanus, de Grave Republique
des Champs Elysées, and a host of others in
every department of learning, the mere mention
of which would cause the bookworm a
thrill of delight.
In the department of Art, Mr. Marsh possesses
the Musée Français, Musée Royal,
(proof before letters) Liber Veritatis, Houghton
Galley, Florence Gallery, Publications of
117
Dilettanti Society, and many other illustrated
works and collections of engravings; the
works of Bartsch, Ottley, Mengs, Visconti,
Winchelmann, and other writers on the history
and theory of Art; old illustrated works,
among which are the original editions of
Teuerdanck and Der Weiss Kunig; and
many thousand steel engravings, including
many originals by Albert Dürer, Luke of
Leyden, Lucas Cranach, Aldegreuer, Wierx,
the Sadelers Nauteuil, (among others the celebrated
Louis XIV., size of life, and a proof of
the Cadet a la Perle, by Masson,) Edelink,
Drevet, Marc Antonio, and other old engravers
of the Italian school, Callot, Ostade,
Rembrandt, (including a most superb impression
of the Christ Healing the Sick, the hundred
guilder Piece, and the portrait of Renier
Ansloo,) Waterloo, Woollett, Sharp, Strange,
Earlom, Wille, Ficquet, Schmidt, Longhi, and
Morghen; in short, nearly all the works of all
the greatest masters in chalcography, from the
time of Dürer to the present day. It were
folly for me to praise these various works, and
I have alluded to them merely for the purpose
of letting you know something of the taste
and possessions of Mr. Marsh. His library is
118
one of the most glorious places it has ever
been my fortune to visit, and the day that I
became acquainted with the man, I cannot but
consider as an era in my life. Morning, noon,
and evening did I linger with the master-spirits
of olden time, collected in that delightful
place, and though I often stood in mute
admiration of their genius, I was sometimes
compelled to shed a tear, as I thought of the
miserable destiny, as a writer or painter, which
will probably be mine. Thank God, there is
no such thing as ambition in that blessed
world above the stars, which I hope to attain,—no
ambition to harass the soul,—for then
will it be free to revel, and forever, in its holy
and godlike conceptions. But a truce to this
strain of thought, and also to the Lions of
Burlington, of whom I now take my leave
with a respectful bow.
P. S. As you may probably be induced to
visit Burlington, after what I have written, I
cannot leave the place without mentioning
two more of its personal attractions—Judge
Meech the farmer, and John H. Peck the
merchant. Of the former, who resides just
without the town, I would remark, that his
119
mortal part is six feet and a half high, and
weighs nearly four hundred pounds, and a
perfect counterpart in body as well as mind of
the immortal Jack Falstaff. He is the proprietor
of the largest grazing farm in New
England, which contains three thousand acres,
and at the present moment gives food to
nearly four thousand sheep. The Judge is
one of the most hospitable of men, and having
spent a portion of his life as a trapper in the
wilderness, and another as a member of Congress,
there is no end to his fund of stories,
which he tells with an admirable grace.
One concerning himself, is to the following
effect. Once on a time, when young, poor,
and somewhat idle in his habits, he chanced
to stop at a country store where he was
known, for the purpose of purchasing a handkerchief,
which the shopkeeper refused to let
him have upon credit. The youth was so
exasperated, that he swore he would one day
purchase the whole property of the man; and
it is a singular fact, that the identical store,
and all the possessions of that merchant, are
now incorporated in the immense estate of
Judge Meech. A similar story is told of Mr.
Astor (who once dealt in furs on Lake Champlain
120
with the Judge) and the Astor House, so
that it would actually seem as if some people
are born to become rich. And what is the
strangest thing of all, Mr. Meech is a great
trout fisherman, and of course a man of genius.
About a month ago he caught one thousand
in three days, which I can readily believe, but
I cannot vouch for the truth of the statement
I heard, that he ate two hundred and forty of
the little fellows at one meal! Fail not to
visit the Judge when you have an opportunity.
He will be glad to see you, or any other honest
man, and with his accomplished lady will show
you every variety of flowers, and an artificial
pond full of trout, and will refresh you with
the rarest kinds of fruit.
Of Mr. Peck, it will not do for me to say
but a single word, as he has never filled
any public station, and is therefore only a private
citizen. He is just such a man as I
suppose William Roscoe of Liverpool to have
been, according to the account of Washington
Irving—a perfect gentleman, a merchant
of the first rank, a lover of books and pictures,
and the giver of glorious dinners. A
thousand blessings rest upon his head, and
121
upon all the gentlemen of Burlington of my
acquaintance, whom I shall ever look upon as
among the true nobility of our land, and therefore
among the nobility of the earth.
122
TRIP TO PORTLAND.
Three loud knocks upon my bed-room
door at Burlington, awakened me from “a
deep dream of peace.” “The eastern stage is
ready,” said my landlord, as he handed me a
light; whereupon, in less than five minutes
after the hour of three I was on my way to
Portland, and inditing on the tablet of my
memory the following disjointed stage-coach
rhapsody.
A fine coach, fourteen passengers, and six
superb horses. My seat is on the outside, and
my eyes are on the alert for anything of peculiar
interest, which I may meet with in my
journey. Now does the beautiful range of the
Green Mountains meet my view. The day
is breaking, and lo! upon either side of me,
and like the two leaders of an army, rise the
peaks of Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s
Hump. Around the former the cloud-spirits
123
of early morning are picturing the fantastic
poetry of the sky; while just above the
summit of the other, may be seen the new
moon and the morning star, waiting for the
sun to come, like two sweet human sisters, for
the smiles and kisses of a returning father.
And now, as the sunbeams glide along the
earth, we are in the solitude of the mountains,
and the awakened mist-creatures are ascending
from the cool and silent nooks in the deep
ravines.
Young Dana’s description of a ship under
full sail is very fine, but it does not possess
the living beauty of that picture which is now
before me, in those six bay horses, straining
every nerve to eclipse the morning breeze.
Hold your breath, for the road is hard and
smooth as marble, and the extended nostrils of
those matchless steeds speak of a noble pride
within. There, the race is done, the victory
theirs, and now, as they trot steadily along,
what music in the champing of those bits and
the striking of those iron-bound hoofs! Of all
the soulless animals on earth, none do I love
so dearly as the horse,—I sometimes am inclined
to think that they have souls. I respect
a noble horse, more than I do some men.
124
Horses are the Indian chiefs of the brute
creation.
The Winooski, along whose banks is the
most picturesque stage route in Vermont, is an
uncommonly interesting stream,—rapid, clear,
and cold. It is remarkable for its falls
and narrow passes, where perpendicular rocks of a
hundred feet or more frown upon its solitary
pools. Its chief pictorial attraction is the
cataract at Waterbury, which is a deep and
jagged chasm in the granite mountain, whose
horrors are greatly increased by the sight and
the smothered howl of an avalanche of pure
white foam. On its banks, and forty miles
from its outlet near Burlington, is situated
Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. It is a
compact town, mostly built upon two streets,
and completely hemmed in by rich and cultivated
mountains. Its chief attractions to my
mind, however, during my short stay, was a
pair of deep black eyes, only half visible under
their drooping lids. O the dear, dear women, I
verily believe they will be the ruin of me!
During one of my rambles near Montpelier,
I discovered an isolated and abandoned dwelling,
which stands upon a little plot of green,
in the lap of the forest near the top of a mountain.
125
I entered its deserted chambers, and
spent a long time musing upon its solemn
admonitions. The cellar had become the
home of lizards and toads. The spider and
cricket were masters of the hearth, where once
had been spun the mountain legend, by an
old man to the only child of his widowed
son. They were, as I am told, the last of a
long line, which once flourished in Britain,
but with them their name would pass into
forgetfulness. Only the years of a single generation
have elapsed since then, but the
dwellers upon yonder mountain are sleeping in
the grave. And is this passing record of their
existence the only inheritance they have left
behind? Most true; but would it have been
better for them, or for us, had they bequeathed
to the world a noted name or immense possessions?
What is our life?
The route between Montpelier and Danville
lies along the Winooski, and is not less beautiful
than that down the river. Its chief
picture is Marshfield Waterfall. While at
Montpelier a pleasure ride was got up by some
of my friends, and as they were bound to the
east, and I was honored with an invitation, I
sent on my baggage and joined them, so that the
126
monotony of my journey was agreeably relieved.
We had our fishing-rods with us, and having
stopped at the fall, we caught a fine mess of
trout, which we had cooked for dinner at the
next tavern on our way,—and our dessert was
fine singing from the ladies, and good stories
from the lips of Senator Phelps, who was of the
party, and is celebrated for his conversational
powers. For further particulars concerning
that expedition, I would refer you to Mr.
George Langdon and Lady of Montpelier, and
to that pair of eyes, which I just now mentioned
as having beamed upon me with a
bewitching brilliancy. But alas! the dear creature
is already,—excuse me, I cannot, I will
not speak the hateful word. The lucky fellow
ought to carry a liberal and kind soul
hereafter, if he has never done so before.
At cock-crowing this morning I was again
in my seat outside of the stage-coach, anxiously
waiting for the mists to evaporate in
the east. The sun proved to be my friend,
and soon as he appeared, they vanished like a
frightened troop, and he was marching up the
sky in the plenitude of his glory. And then,
for the first time, did my vision rest upon the
White Mountains, as they reposed in the distance,
127
like a mighty herd of camels in the
solitude of the desert. In the charming valley
of the Connecticut we only tarried about ten
minutes, but long enough for me to hear the
mower whet his scythe, the “lark sing loud
and high,” and the pleasant tinkle of a cow-bell
far away in a broad meadow. While
there I took a sketch, wherein I introduced
the father of New England rivers, and the
bald peak of Mount Lafayette, with the storm-inflicted
scar upon its brow. A noble monument
is yonder mountain to the memory of a
noble man.
While breakfasting at Littleton this morning,
I came to the conclusion to leave my
baggage and visit Franconia. I jumped into
the stage, and after a very pleasant ride of
seventeen miles, found myself far into the
Notch, in the midst of whose scenery I am to
repose this night. I would not have missed
the trip even for a sincere love-smile from the
girl of my former idolatry. I reached here in
time to enjoy an early dinner with “mine
host”; after which I sallied forth to examine
the wonders of the place, but was so delighted
with everything around, that I did not take
time to make a single sketch. I saw the
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Flume, and was perfectly astonished. It is a
chasm in the mountain, thirty feet wide, about
a hundred deep, and some two thousand long,
and as regular in its shape as if it had been
cut by the hand of man. Bridging its centre
is a rock of many tons weight, which one
would suppose could only have been hurled
there from the heavens. Through its centre
flows a little brook, which soon passes over a
succession of rocky slides, and which are
almost as smooth and white as marble. And
to cap the climax, this Flume is the centre of
as perfect and holy a wilderness of scenery as
could be imagined.
I have also seen (what should be the pride
of the Merrimack, as it is upon one of its tributaries)
the most superb pool in this whole
country. The fall above it is not remarkable,
but the forest-covered rocks on either side,
and the pool itself, are wonderfully fine. In the
first place, you must remember, that the waters
of this whole region are cold as ice, and clear
as possible. The pool forms a circle of about
one hundred feet in diameter, and is said to
be fifty feet in depth. Owing to the fall, it is
the “head-quarters” of the trout, which are
found all along the stream in great abundance.
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After I had completed a drawing, I laid aside
my pencils and fixed my fishing rod. I threw
the line only about two hours and caught only
forty-five trout, but they were real beauties, I
assure you. Among them was the great-grandfather
of all trout,—he was only seventeen
inches long, and weighed only two pounds and
one ounce. It does take me, and no mistake,
to throw a scientific fly.
The Old Man of the Mountain, is another of
the lions of this place. It is a cone-shaped
mountain, (at the foot of which is a small
lake,) upon whose top are some rocks, which
have a resemblance to the profile of an old
man. It is really a very curious affair. There
the old fellow stands, as he has stood perhaps
for centuries, “looking the whole world in the
face.” I wonder if the thunder never frightens
him! and does the lightning play around his
brow without making him wink? His business
there, I suppose, is to protect the “ungranted
lands” of New Hampshire, or keep
Isaac Hill from lecturing the White Mountains
on Locofocoism. He need not trouble himself
as to the first fear, for they could not be
deeded even to a bear; and as to the second,
I don’t believe the mountains could ever be
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persuaded to go for the annexation of Texas.
Every plant upon them speaks of freedom,
and in their fastnesses does the eagle find a
home,—their banner-symbols are the stars
and stripes, and therefore they must be
Whigs.
And another curiosity, which everybody
goes to see, is called the Basin,—which is indeed
an exquisite little spot,—fit for the
abode of a very angel. It is formed in the
solid rock, and though twenty feet in depth,
you can see a sixpence at the bottom,—it is
so wonderfully clear. But the wild beauties
of this Notch, unknown to fame, are charming
beyond compare. There goes the midnight
warning of the clock, and I must retire. O
that my dreams may be of yonder star, now
just beaming with intense brightness above
the dark outline of the nearest mountain.
The distance from Knight’s tavern to the
western outlet of Franconia Notch is eight
miles. The eastern stage was to pass through
about the middle of the afternoon, so after
eating my breakfast I started on, intending to
enjoy a walk between the mountains. With
the conceptions and feelings that were with
me then, I should have been willing to die,
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for I was perfectly happy. Now, as I sat
upon a stone to sketch a mass of foliage, a
little red squirrel came within five feet of me,
and commenced a terrible chattering, as if his
lady-love had given him the “mitten,” and he
was blowing out against the whole female
sex; and now an old partridge with a score of
children came tripping along the shadowy
road, almost within my reach, and so fearless
of my presence, that I would not have harmed
one of them even for a crown. Both of these
were exceedingly simple pictures, and yet they
afforded me a world of pleasure. I thought of
the favorite haunts of these dear creatures,—the
hollow tree,—the bed of dry leaves,—the
cool spring,—the mossy yellow log,—the
rocky ledges overgrown with moss,—the
gurgling brooklet stealing through the trees,
with its fairy waterfalls in a green shadow
and its spots of vivid sunlight,—and of a
thousand other kindred gems in the wonderful
gallery of Nature. And now as I walked onward,
peering into the gloomy recesses of the
forest on either side, or fixed my eyes upon
the blue sky with a few white clouds floating
in their glory, many of my favorite songs
were remembered, and, in a style peculiarly132
my own, I poured them upon the air, whilst I
was answered by unnumbered mountain
echoes. Nothing had they to do with the
place or with each other, but like the pictures
around me, they were a divine food for my
soul,—so that I was in the perfect enjoyment
of a heavenly feast. Now, as I looked
through the opening trees, I saw an eagle
floating above the summit of a mighty cliff,—now,
with the speed of a falling star descending
far into the leafy depths, and then,
slowly but surely ascending, until hidden from
view by a passing cloud. Fly on, proud bird,
glorious symbol of my country’s freedom! O
what a god-like life is thine? Yes, thou art
the “sultan of the sky,” and from thy craggy
home forever lookest upon the abodes of man
with indifference and scorn. The war-whoop
of the Savage, the roar of artillery on the
bloody battle field, and the loud boom of the
ocean cannon, have fallen upon thy ear, and
thou hast listened, utterly heedless as to whom
belonged the victory. What strength and
power in thy pinions! traversing in an hour a
wider space
“Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails
Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve!”
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When thy hunger-shriek echoes through the
wilderness, with terror does the wild animal
seek his den, for thy talons are of iron and
thy eyes of fire. But what is thy message to
the sun? Far, far into the zenith art thou
gone, forever gone—emblem of a mighty
hope that once was mine.
My thoughts were upon the earth once
more, and my feet upon a hill out of the
woods, whence might be seen the long broad
valley of the Amonoosack, melting into that
of the Connecticut. Long and intently did I
gaze upon the landscape, with its unnumbered
farm-houses, reposing in the sunlight, and
surmounted by pyramids of light blue smoke,
and also upon the cattle gazing on a thousand
hills. Presently I heard the rattling wheels
of the stage-coach;—one more look over the
charming valley,—and I was in my seat beside
the coachman.
In view of the foregoing and forthcoming
facts, and though I am sometimes hard pushed
for the dollars needful, I cannot but conclude
that I am a most lucky fellow. My ride from
Franconia to Littleton was attended with this
interesting circumstance. A very pretty young
lady, who was in the stage, found it necessary
134
to change her seat to the outside on account
of the confinement within. Of course, I welcomed
her to my side with unalloyed pleasure.
The scenery was fine, but what do you suppose
I cared for that,—as I sat there talking
in a most eloquent strain to my companion,
with my right arm around her waist to keep
her from falling? That conduct of mine may
appear “shocking” to those who have “never
travelled,” but it was not only an act of politeness
but of absolute necessity. Neither, as
my patient’s smile told me, “was it bad to
take.” And O, how perfectly delightful it
was to have her cling to me, and to hear the
beating of her heart, as the driver swung his
whip and run his horses down the hills!
Animal magnetism is indeed a great invention,—and
I am a believer in it, so far as the touch
of a beautiful woman is concerned.
Away, away—thoughts of the human
world! for I am entering into the heart of the
White Mountains. Ah me! how can I describe
these glorious hierarchs of New England!
How solemnly do they raise their
rugged peaks to heaven! Now, in token of
their royalty, crowned with a diadem of
clouds; and now with every one of their
135
cliffs gleaming in the sunlight like the pictures
of a dream! For ages, have ye been the
playmates of the storm, and held communion
with the mysteries of the midnight sky. The
earliest beams of the morning have bathed you
in living light, and there too have been the
last kisses of departing day. Man and his
empires have arisen and decayed, but ye have
remained unchanged, a perpetual mockery.
Upon your summits, Time has never claimed
dominion. There, as of old, does the eagle
teach her brood to fly, and there does the
wild bear prowl after his prey. There do
thy waterfalls still leap and shout on their
way to the dells below, even as when the
tired Indian hunter, some hundred ages agone,
bent him to quaff the liquid element. There
still, does the rank grass rustle in the breeze,
and the pine, and cedar, and hemlock, take
part in the howling of the gale. Upon Man
alone falls the heavy curse of time; Nature
has never sinned, therefore is her glory immortal.
But how in thunder shall I get down from
this great poetical eminence? Why, by giving
you a simple matter-of-fact description. As
you know, the highest of these mountains
136
was christened after our beloved Washington,
and with it, as with him, are associated the
names of Jefferson, Madison, and Adams. Its
height is said to be six thousand and eight
hundred feet above the sea, but owing to its
situation in the centre of a brotherhood of hills,
it does not appear to be so grand an object as
South Peak Mountain among the Catskills.
Its summit, like most of its companions, is
destitute of vegetation, and is therefore more
desolate and monotonous. It is somewhat of
an undertaking to ascend Mount Washington,
though the trip is performed on horseback; but
if the weather is clear, the traveller will be
well repaid for his labor. The Painter will
be pleased with the views which he will
command in ascending the route from Crawford’s,
and which abounds in the wildest and
most diversified charms of mountain scenery.
But the prospect from the summit of Washington,
will mostly excite the soul of the Poet.
Not so much on account of what he will behold,
but for the breathless feeling, which will
make him deem himself for a moment to be
an angel or a god. And then, more than
ever, if he is a Christian, will he desire to be
alone, so as to anticipate the bliss of heaven
by a holy communion with the Invisible.
137
I spent a night upon this mountain, and my
best view of the prospect was at the break of
day, when, as Milton says,
“——morn, her rosy steps in th’ Eastern clime
Advancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearls,”
and,
“Wak’d by the circling hours, with rosy hand
Unbarr’d the gates of light;”
or when, in the language of Shakspeare,
“The grey-eyed morn smiled on the frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.”
Wonderfully vast, and strangely indistinct and
dreamy, was the scene spread out on every
side. To the west lay the superb Connecticut,
with its fertile valley reposing in the
gloom of night, while to the east, the ocean-bounded
prospect, just bursting into the life of
light, was faintly relieved by Winnepiseogee
and Sebago lakes, and like rockets along the
earth, wandered away the Merrimack, the
Saco, and the Androscoggin, to their ocean
home,—the whole forming an epic landscape,
such as we seldom behold excepting in our
dreams. Heavens! with what exquisite delight
did I gaze upon the scene, as in the eyes
of truth and fancy it expanded before my
mind. Yonder, in one of a hundred villages,
138
a young wife, with her first-born child at her
side, was in the midst of her morning dream;
and there, the pilgrim of fourscore years was
lying on his couch in a fitful slumber, as the
pains of age crept through his frame. There,
on the Atlantic shore, the fisherman in the
sheltering bay, hoisted anchor and spread his
sail for the sea;—and there, the life-star of
the lighthouse was extinguished, again at its
stated time to appear with increased brilliancy.
In reality, there was an ocean of mountains all
around me, but in the dim light of the hour,
and as I looked down upon them, it seemed to
me that I stood in the centre of a plain,
boundless as the universe; and though I could
not see them, I felt that I was in a region of
spirits, and that the summit of the mount was
holy ground. But the morning was advancing,
and the rising mists obscuring my vision,
and, as I did not wish to have that day-break
picture dissipated from my mind, I mounted
my faithful horse, and with a solemn awe at
heart descended the mountain.
The ride from the Notch House through
the Notch valley, which is some twelve miles
long, is perfectly magnificent. First is the Gap
itself, only some twenty feet in width, and
139
overhung with jagged rocks of wondrous
height, and then the tiny spring alive with
trout, which gives birth to the untamed Saco.
A few more downward steps, and you are in
full view of a bluff, whose storm-scathed brow
seems to prop the very heavens,—its deep
grey shadows strongly contrasting with the
deep blue sky. A little further on, and you
find yourself in an amphitheatre of mountains,
whose summits and sides are perfectly barren
and desolate, where the storms of a thousand
years have exhausted their fury. Downward
still and farther on, and you come to the
memorable Wiley cottage, whose inhabitants
perished in the avalanche or slide of 1826.
The storm had been unceasing for some
days upon the surrounding country, and the
dwellers of the cottage were startled at midnight
by the falling earth. They fled,—and
were buried in an instant; and up to the present
time, only one of the seven bodies has
ever been found. As it then stood, the dwelling
still stands—a monument of mysterious
escape, as well as of the incomprehensible
decrees of Providence. The Saco river, which
runs through the valley, was lifted from its
original bed, and forced into a new channel.
140
The whole place, which but a short time before
was “a beautiful and verdant opening amid the
surrounding rudeness and deep shadow, is now
like a stretch of desolate sea-shore after a
tempest,—full of wrecks, buried in sand and
rocks, crushed and ground to atoms.”
After witnessing so much of the grand and
gloomy, I was glad to reach the bottom of the
Notch valley, and to continue along the picturesque
Saco, through a very pleasant and
well cultivated country, to Conway. My last
view of Mount Washington and its lordly
companions was the most beautiful. The sun
was near his setting, and the whole western
sky was suffused with a glow of richest yellow
and crimson, where hung two immense
copper-colored clouds just touching the outline
of the mountains; and through the hazy
atmosphere the mountains themselves looked
cloud-like, but with more of the bright blue
of heaven upon them. In the extensive middle
distance faded away wood-crowned hills,
and in the foreground an exquisite little farm,
with the husbandman’s happy abode almost
hidden by groups of elms, and with the simple
figures, only a few paces off, of a little girl
sitting on a stone, with a bunch of summer
141
flowers in her hand, and a basket of berries
and a dog at her side. One more yearning
gaze upon the dear old mountains, and the
fountain of my affections was full, and I wept
like a very child.
Well, here I am at last in Portland. At
the time of starting this morning from Conway
it commenced raining, and all the way here
were we attended with refreshing showers.
There were six passengers, and it so happened
that we were acquainted with each other before
we reached the mountains, and having
for the most part enjoyed their scenery in
company, we were in a fitting mood to be
somewhat entertaining. Doctor Orville Dewy,
of New York, his lady and daughter, and
John Frothingham, of Montreal, and daughter,
are the friends whose names will ever be associated
with my recollections of the White
Mountains. The Doctor’s faculty for telling
a good story or cracking a joke, is well worthy
of the orator and writer; and if Mr. Frothingham
excels as a merchant in proportion to his
entertaining manner of relating his European
travels, he must indeed be a merchant prince.
As to the fair ladies, I cannot pay them a
better compliment than by letting
“Expressive silence muse their praise.”
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Portland is a thriving city of some twenty
thousand inhabitants, and commands a very
fine view of the ocean. If for no other reason,
it should interest the admirers of genius because
it is the native place of Mrs. Seba
Smith, Professor Longfellow, and John Neal.
I have just received an invitation to hear some
singing from the lips of one of my fellow-travellers,
and as I know it will be of the
rarest kind, I must conclude this rhapsody, and
migrate to the parlor.
143
MOOSEHEAD LAKE AND THE KENNEBECK.
Moosehead Lake is the largest and the
wildest in New England. It lies in the central
portion of the State of Maine, and distant
from the ocean about one hundred and
fifty miles. Its length is fifty miles, and its
width from five to fifteen. It is embosomed
among a brotherhood of mountains, whose
highest peak hath been christened with the
beautiful name of Katahden. All of them,
from base to summit, are covered with a dense
forest, in which the pine is by far the most
abundant. It is the grand centre of the only
wilderness region in New England, whose
principal denizens are wild beasts. During
the summer months, its tranquil waters remain
in unbroken solitude, unless some scenery-hunting
pilgrim, like myself, should happen to
steal along its shores in his birchen canoe.
144
But in the winter the case is very different,
for then, all along its borders, may be heard
the sound of the axe, wielded by a thousand
men. Then it is that an immense quantity of
logs are cut, which are manufactured into
lumber at the extensive mills down the Kennebeck,
which is the only outlet to the
Lake.
A winter at Moosehead must be attended
with much that is rare, and wild, and exciting,
not only to the wealthy proprietor who has a
hundred men to superintend, but even to the
toiling chopper himself. Look at a single
specimen of the gladdening scenes enacted in
that forest world. It is an awful night, the
winds wailing, the snow falling, and the forests
making a moan. Before you is a spacious,
but rudely built log cabin, almost covered
with snow. But now, above the shriek of
the storm, and the howl of the wolf, you hear
a long, loud shout, from a score of human
mouths. You enter the cabin, and lo, a merry
band of noble men, some lying on a buffalo-robe,
and some seated upon a log, while the
huge fire before them reveals every feature
and wrinkle of their countenances, and makes
a picture of the richest coloring. Now the
145
call is for a song, and a young man sings a
song of Scotland, which is his native land;
a mug of cider then goes round, after which
an old pioneer clears his throat for a hunting
legend of the times of old; now the cunning jest
is heard, and peals of hearty laughter shake
the building; and now a soul-stirring speech is
delivered in favor of Henry Clay. The fireplace
is again replenished, when with a happy
and contented mind each woodman retires to
his couch, to sleep, and to dream of his wife
and children, or of the buxom damsel whom
he loves.
The number of logs which these men cut
in a single winter is almost incredible, and
the business of conveying them to the lake
upon the snow gives employment to a great
many additional men and their oxen. The
consequence is, that large quantities of flour,
potatoes, pork, and hay, are consumed; and as
these things are mostly supplied by the farmers
of the Kennebeck, winter is the busiest season
of the year throughout the region. When
the lake is released from its icy fetters in the
spring, a new feature of the logging business
comes into operation, which is called rafting.
A large raft contains about eighteen thousand
146
logs, and covers a space of some ten acres.
In towing them to the Kennebeck, a small
steamboat is employed, which, when seen
from the summit of a hill, looks like a living
creature struggling with a mighty incubus.
But the most picturesque thing connected with
this business is a floating log-cabin, called a Raft
House, which ever attends a raft on its way to
the river. During the summer, as before stated,
Moosehead Lake is a perfect solitude, for the
“log chopper” has become a “log driver” on
the Kennebeck,—the little steamer being
moored in its sheltering bay, near the tavern
at the south end of the lake, and the toiling
oxen been permitted to enjoy their summer
sabbath on the farm of their master.
The islands of Moosehead Lake, of any size,
are only four; Moose and Deer Islands at the
southern extremity, Sugar Island in the large
eastern bay, and Farm Island in a north-western
direction from that. All of these are covered
with beautiful groves, but the time is not
far distant when they will be cultivated farms.
Trout are the principal fish that flourish in its
waters, and may be caught at any time in
great abundance. And thereby hangs a fish
story.
147
It was the sunset hour, and with one of my
companions I had gone to a rocky ledge for
the purpose of trying my luck. We cut each
of us a long pole, to which we fastened two
immensely long lines with stout hooks. Our
bait was squirrel meat, and I was the first to
throw my line. It had hardly reached the
water, before I had the pleasure of striking
and securing a two pound trout. This threw
my friend into a perfect fever of excitement,
so that he was everlastingly slow in cutting
up the squirrels; and it may be readily supposed
that I was somewhat excited myself, so
I grabbed the animal out of his hands, and in
less than a “jiffy,” and with my teeth, made
a number of good baits. The conclusion of
the whole matter was, that in less than forty
minutes we had caught nearly seventy pounds
of salmon trout, and some of them, I tell you,
were real smashers. But the trout of Moosehead
are not to be compared with those of
Horicon in point of delicacy, though they are
very large, and very abundant. The reason
of this is, that its waters are not remarkably
clear, and a good deal of its bottom is muddy.
Moose River, which is the principal tributary
to the Lake, is a narrow, deep, and picturesque
148
stream, where may be caught the common
trout, weighing from one to five pounds.
In this portion of Maine every variety of
forest game may be found, but the principal
kinds are the grey wolf, the black bear, the
deer, and the moose. Winter is the appropriate
season for their capture, when they afford
a deal of sport to the hunter, and furnish a
variety of food to the forest laborers. Deer
are so very plenty, that a certain resident told
me, that, in the deep snow of last winter, he
caught some dozen of them alive, and having
cut a slit in their ears, let them go, that they
might recount to their kindred their marvellous
escape. But the homeliest animal, the
most abundant, and the best for eating, is the
moose. I did not kill one, but spent a night
with an old hunter who did. During the
warm summer night these animals, for the
purpose of getting clear of the black-fly, are
in the habit of taking to the water, where,
with nothing but their heads in sight, they
remain for hours. It was the evening of one
of those cloudless nights, whose memory can
never die. We were alone far up the Moose
River, and it seemed to me, “we were the
first that ever burst into that forest sea.”
149
On board a swan-like birch canoe we embarked,
and with our rifles ready, we carefully
and silently descended the stream. How can
I describe the lovely pictures that we passed?
Now we peered into an ink-black recess in the
centre of a group of elms, where a thousand
fire-flies were revelling in joy;—and now a
solitary duck shot out into the stream from its
hidden home, behind a fallen and decayed
tree; now we watched the stars mirrored in
the sleeping waves, and now we listened to
the hoot of the owl, the drum of the partridge,
the song of a distant waterfall, or the
leap of a robber-trout. It was not far from
midnight when my companion whispered,
“Hush, hush!” and pointed to a dim spot
some hundred yards below. The first fire
was allotted me, so I took the best aim I
could, and fired. I heard the ball skip along
the water, and on coming near, found my
mark to be only a smooth rock. Two hours
more passed on, one small moose was killed,
and at day-break we were in our cabin fast
asleep.
The principal outlet to Moosehead Lake is
the Kennebeck, which “now demands my
song.” It is the second river in Maine, and
150
one of the most beautiful I have ever seen.
Instead of watering a wilderness, as I had
supposed, all along its valley for over a hundred
miles are fertile and extensive farms, with
here and there a thriving village, inhabited by
an intelligent and industrious people. Its principal
tributary is Dead River, and the spot at
the junction of the two is called the Forks.
The cultivated region stops here, and between
this point and Moosehead the distance is about
twenty-five miles, which is yet a forest wilderness.
The principal attraction at the Forks is a
capital tavern, kept by one Burnham, who is
a capital fellow to guide the lover of Nature
or the trout fisherman to Moxy Fall or Lake
Lanman, which are in the immediate vicinity.
The mountains about here are quite lofty,
and exceedingly picturesque, abounding in the
maple, the oak, the pine, and hemlock. Emptying
into the Kennebeck, a few miles north
of the Forks, is a superb mountain-stream,
named Moxy, after an Indian who was there
drowned. Winding for a long distance
among the rock of wild ravines, and eternally
singing to the woods a trumpet-song, it finally
makes a sudden plunge into a chasm more
151
than a hundred feet in depth. The perpendicular
rocks on either side rise to an immense
height, their tops crowned with a “peculiar
diadem of trees,” and their crevices
filled up with dark-green verdure, whence
occasionally issues, hanging gracefully in the
air, beautiful festoons of the ivy, and clusters
of the mountain blue-bell. The depth of the
pool was never told, and its waters wash
against the granite walls in a perpetual gloom.
On one occasion I visited it when there was a
high freshet, and saw what I could hardly
have believed from a description. I stood on
an elevated point, in front of the Fall, when
my eyes rested upon an immense log, some
sixty feet long, coming down the foaming
stream with all the fury of a maddened steed;
presently it reached the precipice,—then
cleaved its airy pathway down into the hell of
waters,—was completely out of sight for
three minutes, then, like a creature endowed
with life, shot upward again clear out of the
water, made another less desperate plunge, and
quietly pursued its course into the Kennebeck.
In speaking of Lake Lanman, it is necessary
that I should be a little egotistical. It is
152
a fairy-like sheet of pure water in the heart
of the mountain wilderness, only about a mile
in length, but full of trout. The proprietor
was of the party that accompanied me on my
first visit. While approaching it, the remark
was made, that it was yet without a name;
when it was agreed that it should be christened
after that individual, who should on that day
throw the most successful fly. As fortune
would have it, the honor was awarded to me;
and on a guide-board in the forest, three miles
from Burnham’s, may be seen the figure of a
hand, and the words “Lake Lanman.” There
stands my written name, exposed “to the peltings
of the pitiless storm;” and in a few
years, at the longest, it will be washed away,
and the tree which supports it be mingling
with the dust. O, will it be even thus with
the memory of name?
Not to attempt a description of the scenery
of the Kennebeck, which could be faithfully
given only by the pictures of a Cole or Durand,
I will take you down its beautiful valley, and
tell you what I know respecting its beautiful
villages.
The first in order is Bingham, situated on
a fertile “interval,” surrounded with picturesque
153
hills, charming and quiet as a summer
day, and containing within the jurisdiction of
its town an uncommonly fine farm, belonging
to a Mr. Parlin, who manufactures large quantities
of maple sugar.
Solon is the next village in the Kennebeck
valley, remarkable for nothing but Caritunk
Falls, which are twenty feet high, and run
through a gorge fifty feet wide. Here I saw
some twenty men “driving” the logs that had
been lodged all along the river when it was
low. It is a laborious life which these men
lead, but they receive good pay, and meet
with many interesting adventures. They generally
have the soul to enjoy fine scenery, and
therefore demand the respect of the intelligent
traveller.
Anson, though in the valley of the Kennebeck,
is situated on Seven Mile Brook, and is
a flourishing business place. From its neighboring
hills may be seen the sky-piercing
peaks of Mount Blue, Saddleback, Bigelow,
and Mount Abraham, which are the guardian
spirits of Maine. The town is distinguished
for its agricultural enterprise, and the abundance
of its wheat, having actually produced
more than is reported from any other town in
the State.
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Norridgwock, so named by the Kennebeck
Indians, because, when fighting with their
enemies at this place, they could find no-ridge-to-walk
upon, which was a desirable object. It
is a charming little village, and associated with
a celebrated Indian Chief named Bomazeen,
and also with a Jesuit Missionary, whose name
I do not remember. Not far from here is a
picturesque fall, also a picturesque bend of the
Kennebeck, where empties Sandy River, upon
which are many extensive farms.
Skowhegan is a thriving village, where
there are fine Falls, which I never could look
upon without thinking of the famous Glen’s
Falls in New York, of which they are a
perfect counterpart, though on a smaller scale.
Many and very dear to me are my recollections
of its “choice bits” of scenery, of the fine
singing I there heard, of the acquaintances
there formed, and of the pleasant literary communings
which were mine in company with
one of the best and most intellectual of women,
and who has for many years been my “guide,
counsellor, and friend.”
Waterville, the next town on the river, is
the seat of a Baptist College, and the head of
navigation on account of the Ticonic Falls.
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It is the centre of an extensive farming district,
which fact, together with the literary
taste of its people, make it an uncommonly
interesting place.
Augusta, the capital of the State, is also on
the Kennebeck, and with its State House and
other State buildings, its admirably conducted
hotels, its commanding churches, its large
bridge, and pleasant residences, is one of the
most picturesque and interesting towns in the
whole of New England.
Hallowell, two miles below Augusta, was
once a great place of business, and is still a
very pleasant place, though unable to compete
with its rival the Capital. In my mind it is
chiefly associated with some fine people, and
particularly with three beautiful sisters, who
are great lovers of poetry, and fine singers,
either with the piano or guitar.
Gardiner, further down, is a tremendous
place for saw-mills,—and lumbering I look
upon as one of the nicest and surest kinds of
business. It contains the handsomest church-building
in the State, and a number of fine
residences, belonging to its wealthy citizens,
of which that one belonging to Mr. Gardiner,
(after whom the place was named,) is the
finest.
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Bath is the next and most southern town on
the Kennebeck; it is quite a large place,
where there is a great deal of shipping done,
and is now in a flourishing condition. The
sail down the river from here is a most delightful
one, for the eye revels on a continual
succession of pleasant farms, quiet headlands,
solitary islands, and vessels of every kind passing
up and down the stream. Even to the
present day, the Kennebeck abounds in salmon,
which are caught with nets from the
first of May till mid-summer. To take them
with the hook is a leetle the tallest kind of
sport in all creation, and for the manner in
which I conquered a solitary individual, I refer
you to a certain passage in Scrope on Salmon
Fishing. Few are the rivers that I love more
than the Kennebeck, and very dear to me are
its manifold associations.
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LILLY LARNARD. — A SEA-SHORE ECHO.
I write from somewhere in Massachusetts,
and the following passage will give you an
idea of my theme:
All that life can rate
Worth name of life, in her hath estimate;
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all
That happiness and prime can happy call.
Shaks.
Lilly Larnard is an only child, the pride
of her mother, and the delight of her father,
who is the clergyman of our secluded and
beautiful village. I desire to make you acquainted
with this dear girl; but what can I
find to say which hath not been anticipated
by the poet? Her character is already revealed.
Well, then, I will say something
about her by way of illustration.
As I passed by her cottage this afternoon,
which stands on the southern extremity of the
green, about a hundred paces from the meeting
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house, I noticed an almost startling stillness
about the premises, as if the place were deserted;
but this was owing to the heat and
natural silence of the hour. The closed window-blinds,
half hidden by woodbine and
honey-suckle; the open doors, with a kitten
sunning itself upon the sill of one of them;
bespoke it not only inhabited, but the abode of
peace and contentment. In a green grape-vine
arbor beside the house sat our little heroine,
engaged in drawing some curious flowers,
which she had gathered in the meadow during
her morning walk. At this moment two of
her female cousins stopped at the front
gate, and called her to go with them on a
ramble through the woodlands. I had just
time to change from one hand to the other my
heavy string of trout, for I was returning home
from angling, when out she came, bounding
like a fawn, robed in white muslin, her gypsy
bonnet awry, and a crimson scarf thrown carelessly
over her shoulders. This simple dress
is a specimen of her taste in such matters, and
the very thing to correspond with her dark-brown
curling hair, regular pearly teeth, blue,
Madonna-like eyes, and blooming cheeks. A
snow-white terrier, her constant playmate and
159
companion, soon came following after, and
having licked the hands of the two friends, as
a token of recognition, leaped a neighboring
fence, and led the way across a clover-field.
When I turned to look again, the happy group
were crossing a rude bridge at the foot of a
hill, and following the path a short distance
they were lost to view.
Lilly Larnard is now in her sixteenth year.
She is passionately fond of the country; and
I do believe, could she obtain permission,
would spend half her time in the open air. If
she has but one summer hour to spare, she
goes no farther than her favorite brook, half a
mile from home, where she will angle away
her time, wandering up the stream to where
the overhanging trees throw a soft twilight
upon her path; and, if necessity requires it,
will off with her slippers, and wade in after a
bunch of lilies or some golden pebbles. The
neighboring farmer as he comes to the post-office
early in the morning, if he chances to
pass the parsonage, will most likely be saluted
by a sweet smile and bow. And from whom,
do you think? Why, from Lilly Larnard,
who is airing the parlor, dusting the furniture,
or arranging some creeping flowers beside the
160
door, with her pretty face almost hidden in a
“kerchief white.” And it may be, when
mowing in one of his fields in the afternoon,
he will be surprised by a hearty laugh in an
adjoining copse, and on looking round behold
a party of girls returning from the strawberry
hills, with Lilly as their leader. She is a pure-hearted
lover of nature, and everything, from
the nameless flower to the cloud-capt mountain,
hath a language which causes her to feel that
the attributes of God are infinite. For her
gayer hours, Nature “hath a tale of gladness,
and a smile and eloquence of beauty, and
glides into her darker musings, with a mild
and gentle sympathy, which steals away their
sharpness ere she is aware.”
But how does she busy herself at home? it
will be asked. She is an early riser; and the
first thing she does in the morning, after she
has left her room, is to put everything in its
place which is out of place. She kindly
directs and helps Betty, the servant, to perform
those numerous little household duties,
such as feeding the chickens and straining the
milk, not forgetting to give pussy a saucer
full of the warm, sweet liquid. She sets the
breakfast table, prepares the toast, and all those
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kindred delicacies, and pours out the coffee,
sitting like a fairy queen in the old high-backed
chair, with her parents on either side. And
when her father clasps his hands to implore
a blessing, she meekly bows her head, sweetly
responding to the solemn Amen. If anything
is wanted from the kitchen, she is up and
away, and back again almost in a minute, so
sprightly is she in all her movements. During
the forenoon she is generally helping her
mother to sew or knit, or do anything else
which is required to be done; or, if her father
wants her to read one of his chaste and deeply
religious sermons, the sweetness of her eloquent
voice makes it doubly impressive. In
the afternoon she is generally engaged in some
benevolent duty. Not one in a hundred is so
well acquainted with the poor of the parish.
She enters the abode of the poor widow,
and, besides administering to her temporal
wants, gives her the overflowing sympathy
of her own warm heart, administering at the
same time the consolations of religion. It
is a common sight to see her tripping along
the street, with a basket on her arm; and the
clerk, or more stately merchant, as he sees her
pass his door, takes particular pains to make a
162
bow, inwardly exclaiming,—“Who now is to
become the debtor of Lilly Larnard?” And
the stranger who may have met her in his
walk, fails not to inquire of his host, at evening,
the name of the lovely creature who
wears a white dress and gypsy bonnet.
Lilly is a Christian, not only a church-going
Christian, but her life is one continued
round of charitable deeds and pious duties,
almost worthy of an angel. She has a class
of little boys in the Sabbath school, and they
are all so fond of their amiable teacher, that I
do believe they would undergo almost any
trial for her sake. She loves her Bible too,
and would be unhappy were she deprived of
the privilege of reading it every day. When
she rises from her pillow at dawn, she kneels
beside her couch, and breathes her offering of
prayer; and so, too, when the day is closed
and she retires to repose.
Her father is a clergyman of easy fortune.
The prayer of his youth seems to have been
kindly answered by the Most High. About
one year ago he bought a beautiful chesnut
pony, and, all saddled and bridled, presented
it to Lilly on her fifteenth birth-day. As might
be expected, she was perfectly transported with
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the gift. “Oh! father,” she exclaimed, “how
I will try to merit your approbation in every
action of my life.”
A colored boy, named Tommy, is Lilly’s
groom and page, and he seems to love the
pony and his mistress above everything else
in the world. A smarter and better-hearted
page did not follow a high-born lady of
the feudal times. Lilly has now become a
first-rate rider; and often, when with her
friends, takes pleasure in boasting of her noble
accomplishment, and the speed of her horse.
When she has been out riding, she almost
always manages to canter through the middle
street of the village on her return. Sometimes
she is alone with her dog, and sometimes
with a female friend; but the forelock of her
pony is always surmounted by a few flowers,
or a cluster of green leaves, for she has a
queer notion of ransacking the most secluded
corners of the field and wood. Only a week
ago (the very day I caught that two-pound
trout), while standing upon a hill, I saw her
trying to leap a narrow but deep brook, and
she did not give up trying until she had accomplished
the deed. I thought that if her pony
had been gifted with the power of speech, he
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would have exclaimed, “Well done, you courageous
girl, you possess a wonderful deal of
spunk!”
Lilly left school about two years ago, because
her father chose to superintend her education
himself. She is a good scholar in everything
requisite for a lady. You could hardly
puzzle her with questions in history, geography,
or mathematics. Her modesty and simplicity
of character are so great, that you
would be surprised at the extent of her book-information
and practical knowledge. She
has a wonderful talent for making herself
agreeable under all circumstances. If she
meets a beggar woman in the street, she will
talk familiarly with her about her sorrows,
instructing her to bear up under every trial.
She is the universal favorite of the whole
village. All who know her, the poor and the
rich, from the child of three years to the
hoary head, all love her with the affection felt
toward a sister or daughter. She smiles with
those who smile, and weeps with those who
weep. Servant-girls consult with her about
purchasing a new dress, and little children
invite her to participate with them in their
pastimes.
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Lilly Larnard is a lover of poetry. Yes,
whether she sees it in the primrose and the
evening cloud; or hears it in the laughing
rivulet and the song of birds; or reads it in
the pages of Spenser, Milton, Shakspeare,
Wordsworth, or Coleridge. And she is a
writer, too, of sweet and soothing poetry, just
such as should always emanate from the pure-hearted.
To give you an idea of her poetic
powers, I will here quote her last effort, which
was written with a pencil on a fly-leaf of
Dana’s Poems while walking on the sea-shore;
for, be it known that the village of her
birth is within sound of the never-ceasing
roar of the Atlantic. The title of it is—
“Alone! and on the smooth, hard, sandy
shore of the boundless sea! A lovelier morning
never dawned upon the world of waters.
O! how balmy, how clear, how soul-subduing,
how invigorating is the air! Calmness sits
throned upon the unmoving clouds, whose
colors are like the sky, only of a brighter hue.
One of them, more ambitious than its fellows,
is swimming onward, a wanderer, and companionless.
O that I could rest upon its ‘unrolling
skirts,’ and take an aerial pilgrimage
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around the globe,—now looking down upon
its humming cities, and fruitful and cultivated
plains; and again, upon some unpeopled wilderness
or ocean solitude! But alas! the
peerless beauty of that light cloud will be
extinguished, when the sun shall have withdrawn
his influence, and, if not entirely dispersed,
will take another shape, and make its
home in darkness. And so have I seen a
man, when wandering from the heavenly
sunshine of religion, passing from his cradle
to the grave.
“As I gaze upward into yon blue dome, the
anxieties of life are all forgotten, and my
heart throbs with a quicker pulse, and beats
with an increasing thrill of joy. How holy
and serene those azure depths of air! Strange,
that aught so beautiful should canopy a world
of tears, decay, and death! Yonder sky is the
everlasting home of countless worlds; the vast
ethereal chamber, where are displayed the wonders
of the thunder, and lightning, and rainbow;
and a mirror, too, reflecting the glorious
majesty, the wisdom and power of the Omnipotent.
Lo! across my vision there is floating
another cloud, whiter than the driven
snow! Rearward, there trails along another,
167
and still another, until pile on pile they reach
upward to the very zenith; and oh, how
gorgeous the scenes which my fancy conjures
up, delighted with their changing loveliness!
One moment, I behold a group of
angels reclining at ease upon the summit of a
pearly battlement; and now, summoned by a
celestial strain of melody, they spread their
pinions for a higher flight,—a flight into the
diamond portals of the New Jerusalem. Again,
a river of pure white foam rolls swift but
noiseless through unpeopled valleys, hemmed
in by airy mountains of wondrous height,
until its waters empty into a tranquil sea,
boundless and ‘beautiful exceedingly;’ and
on this, a myriad of swanlike barges are gliding
to and fro, without a breeze, while the
voyagers are striking their golden harps, and
singing hymns of sweetest strain and holiest
import, whose echoes die away on the shadowy
waves. There! all these, like the dreams of
youth, are melting into nothingness;—and my
eyes now rest only upon the dark blue ocean.
“The green waves of the Atlantic, with their
undulating swell, come rolling in upon the
sand, making a plaintive music, sweeter than
the blended harmonies of a thousand instruments.
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Would that I might leap in and wrestle
with them, and, when overcome by fatigue,
lay my heated brow upon those cool watery
pillows, rocked to sleep as in a cradle, while
my lullaby would be the moaning of the sea.
The mists of morning are all dispelled, and
the glorious sunshine, emblem of God’s love,
is bathing with effulgent light the ocean before
me, and behind me the mountains and valleys
of my own loved country. Look! how the
white caps chase each other along the watery
plain, like the milk-white steeds, striving in
their freedom to outstrip the breeze. Whence
comes this breeze, and whither is it going?
Three days ago, at set of sun, it spread its
wing near to a sandy desert of Africa, where
a caravan of camels, and horses, and men, had
halted for the night; and at the dawning of
to-morrow, it will be sporting with the forest-trees
of the western wilderness!
“Far as the eye can reach, the sea is
‘sprinkled o’er with ships,’ their white sails
gleaming in the sunlight. One of them has
just returned from India, another from the
Pacific, and another from the Arctic Sea.
Years have elapsed since they departed hence.
They have been exposed to a thousand dangers,
169
but the great God, who holds the ocean
in the hollow of his hand, has conducted them
back to their desired homes. How many
silent prayers of thanksgiving, and what a
thrilling and joyous shout, will echo to the
shore, as those storm-beaten mariners drop
anchor in their native waters! Yonder, too,
are other ships, bound to the remotest corners
of the earth. They seem to rejoice in their
beauty and speed, and proud is their bearing;
but will they ever return? Alas! the shadowy
future alone can answer. Farewell, a long
farewell, ye snowy daughters of the ocean.”
But to return. Lilly Larnard is fond of
music, too, and plays delightfully on the harp.
Her voice is sweeter than the fall of waters
when heard at a distance in the stillness of the
twilight hour. She knows nothing of fashion,
and if she did, would consider it beneath her
dignity to be incommoded or swayed by it.
Instead of decking herself with gew-gaws, for
a brilliant appearance in the gay saloon, within
sound of the rude jest and foolish flattery, she
strives by watchfulness and care to purify her
daily conduct; for hers is not less prone to sin
than all other human hearts. “Necklaces
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does she sometimes wear, in her playful glee,
made of the purple fruit that feeds the small
birds in the moors, and beautiful is the gentle
stain then visible over the blue veins of her
swan-like bosom.” Beautiful as she is, a
feeling of vanity never yet entered the heart
of the rector’s daughter. She feels too deeply
the truth, that personal charms, which are the
only pride of weak-minded persons, time will
eventually transform into wrinkled homeliness;
and that an affectionate heart and good understanding
will endure, and become more perfect,
until the pilgrimage of life is ended.
Never has Lilly Larnard been more than
thirty miles away from the village of her birth.
She has read of cities, and the busy multitudes
that throng them; of armies and navies; of
politics and war; but all these things to her
are but as the visions of a dream. She is
ignorant of the real condition and character
of the great world, for nought but the echo
of its din has ever fallen upon her ear. She
listens with wonder to the deeds of which
I sometimes tell her I have been an unwilling
witness in the wilderness of men. She thinks
it strange, that the inhabitants of cities think
so much of the present life, and so little of the
171
future. Her days have been spent in innocence
beneath the blue dome of the illimitable
sky, inhaling the pure unadulterated air of
the country, now sporting in the sunshine, and
now sprinkled by a refreshing shower; while
the loveliest of flowers and birds, and holy
and tender affections, have been her hourly
companions; and her nights have passed away
in pleasant dreams of that bright world beyond
the stars.
172
LOUIS L. NOBLE. — PART I. — PART II.
You ask me to tell you who is Louis L.
Noble, to whom I dedicated a volume of
Essays some years ago? There is hardly a
task in the wide world that I could enter upon
with greater pleasure than the answering of
this question. And why? Because he is one
of my best friends, and a poet of rare genius
and power.
To come directly to the point, then, he is a
young clergyman of the Episcopal church,
whose present field of ministerial labor is in
North Carolina. He was born on the Susquehannah;
but having spent his boyhood in the
wilderness where I was born, there has ever
been (since our acquaintance commenced) a
delicate stream of sympathy flowing out of
one heart into the other. His poetry (and
this is perhaps the secret of my attachment to
it) is the offspring of that wilderness country
173
familiar to the world as Michigan, and his
themes I look upon as my own. He has
always been an admirer of the red man, and,
like me, in times past has associated with him
in the most intimate and familiar intercourse.
Therefore, when their customs inspire his pen,
you may depend upon the faithfulness of his
descriptions. He is a creature of impulse, and
whenever he strikes the lyre, it is because he
cannot help it, or because it affords him an
indescribable joy. He writes “with fury, and
corrects with care;” and I am not sure but he
sometimes weakens his conceptions by too
much pruning and artificial arrangement. He
is yet in the vigor of his days, and if his life
is spared, we have reason to expect great things
from his pen. In temper he is exceedingly amiable,
and in disposition variable as the shade,
but ever joyous as a strong-bodied and intellectual
boy,—a feeling which his philosophy
teaches him is a treasure beyond all price. In
person he is rather slender, but well formed
and sinewy, with dark complexion, hair like
the raven’s wing, and an eye as black, as keen,
and spirit-stirring as that of an Ottawa Chief.
He is one who cannot but be loved by all who
study his works, and to do this is the best
174
literary advice I can offer you or any of my
thinking friends.
And now, as an important portion of himself,
let me characterize his poetry, and give
you a few specimens. As yet, he has only
occasionally published in our prominent periodicals;
but a volume of his Poems is now in
press, and I prophecy that its appearance will
be a bright era in our Polite Literature. His
principal efforts, up to this time, are entitled
“Ni-ma-min,” “Tale of the Morning Wind,”
“Lines to a Swan,” “Love and Beauty,”
“The Cripple Boy,” the “Emigrant’s Burial,”
the “Girl of the Sky-blue Lake,” and some
fine songs and sonnets. A valuable and remarkable
feature of his poetry, is its suggestive
tendency. It is of a kind calculated to
purify the public taste, to make more happy
those who read it, to instil into the heart a
love for the beautiful and true, and to make
us at once conscious of our own littleness
in the sight of God, and of the exalted
attributes of the soul; or rather, makes a man
feel that he is but a man, and yet a portion of
the Invisible. It displays a consummate knowledge
of the Indian character, an ardent attachment
to the works of nature, and showing a
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remarkable mastery of language, and the writer
to be possessed of a mind of refined poetical
genius. You find nothing in it “long
drawn out”; every sentence has a meaning.
It contains no far-fetched conceptions and
images; and every portion of each poem is
closely cemented together, and pervaded by
one spirit, one idea. Take away the rhyme,
and it is poetry; take away the thought, and
you will find much poetry in the versification
alone. It breathes of the virgin wilderness,
and of its brave, hardy, and noble children;
and dearly, dearly do I love it, for it recalls to
mind the living joys of my wild, free, and
happy boyhood. I would rather have written
his forthcoming volume, than to have been
the author of all the fashionable novels of the
present century. If it be true, that “a thing of
beauty is a joy forever,” then must the poetry
of Noble be as enduring as the English language,
or the memory of the Indian race now
withering from the land. A thousand blessings
rest upon the poet of my boyhood’s
home! As to the faults of his poetry, I confess
that he has his share, because he is of “woman
born.” So far as my sagacity goes, the most
glaring ones are these. He is somewhat inclined
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to the mysticism of the German, and
sometimes makes use of epithets that remind
us of his favorite authors. In the next place,
his stories are not as clearly defined as they
should be; but what, after all, to the genuine
lover of poetry, is the mere story of a poem?
“Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,”
are what delight him, and it will probably be
only among kindred spirits that Noble will be
popular. The mass of people will likely pass
him by “as the idle wind, which they regard
not.” And why? Because their minds are
too narrow and weakly to enjoy anything superior
to the horrid and disgusting trash continually
teeming from the press. Noble’s poetry
is possessed of the true spirit of the nine, and
its gifted author need not doubt as to his reward,
which is the only one he desires, namely,
the approbation of sensible and refined minds.
And now, to back the foregoing opinions, I
mean to quote three poems, neither of which
shall be the longest and most ambitious he has
written, viz.; “Lines to a Swan Flying in the
Vale of the Huron,” “The Cripple Boy,” and
the “Girl of the Sky-blue Lake.” The Huron,
alluded to in the first, rises in the interior
of Michigan, and empties into Lake Erie.
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Its clear waters gave it the name of its more
mighty kinsman, Lake Huron. Now free your
imagination and give it wings.
O, what a still, bright night! It is the sleep
Of beauteous Nature in her bridal hall.
See, while the groves shadow the shining lake,
How the full moon does bathe their melting green!
I hear the dew-drop twang upon the pool,—
Hark, hark, what music! from the rampart hills,
How like a far off bugle, sweet and clear,
It searches through the list’ning wilderness!—
A swan—I know it by the trumpet-tone—
Winging her pathless way in the cool heavens,
Piping her midnight melody, she comes.
Beautiful bird! upon the dark, still world
Thou fallest like an angel—like a lone
Sweet angel from some sphere of harmony.
Where art thou, where?—no speck upon the blue
My vision marks, from whence thy music ranges.
And why this hour—this voiceless hour is thine—
And thine alone, I cannot tell. Perchance,
While all is hushed and silent but the heart,
E’en thou hast human sympathies for heaven,
And singest yonder in the holy deep
Because thou hast a pinion. If it be,
O for a wing, upon the aerial tide
To sail with thee, a minstrel mariner!
When to a rarer height thou wheelest up,
Hast thou that awful thrill of an ascension—
The lone, lost feeling in the vasty vault?—
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O, for thine ear, to hear the ascending tones
Range the ethereal chambers!—then to feel
A harmony, while from the eternal depth
Steals nought but the pure starlight evermore!—
And then to list the echoes, faint and mellow,
Far, far below, breathe from the hollow earth
For thee, soft, sweet petition, to return.
And hither, haply, thou wilt shape thy neck,
And settle, like a silvery cloud, to rest,
If thy wild image, flaring in the abyss,
Startle thee not aloft. Lone aeronaut,
That catchest, on thine airy looking-out,
Glassing the hollow darkness, many a lake,
Lay, for the night, thy lily bosom here,
There is the deep unsounded for thy bath,
The shallow for the shaking of thy plumes,
The dreamy cove, or cedar-wooded isle,
With galaxy of water-lilies, where,
Like mild Diana ’mong the quiet stars,
’Neath over-bending branches, thou wilt move,
Till early warblers shake the crystal shower,
And whistling pinions warn thee to thy voyage.
But where art thou!—lost—spirited away
To bowers of light by thy own dying whispers?
Or does some billow of the ocean air,
In its still roll around from zone to zone,
All breathless to the empyrean heave thee?—
There is a panting in the zenith—hush!—
The Swan—How strong her great wing times the silence!
She passes over high and quietly.
Now peals the living clarion anew,
One vocal shower falls in and fills the vale.
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What witchery in the wilderness it plays!—
Shrill snort the affrighted deer; across the lake
The loon, sole sentinel, screams loud alarm;
The shy fox barks; tingling in every vein
I feel the wild enchantment;—hark! they come,
The dulcet echoes from the distant hills,
Like fainter horns responsive all the while,
From misty isles, soft-stealing symphonies.
The bright, swift river of the bark canoe,
Threading the prairie ponds of Washtenung,
Thy day of romance wanes. Few summers more,
And the long night will pass away unwaked,
Save by the house-dog, or the village bell;
And she, thy minstrel queen, her ermine dip
In lonelier waters.
Ah! thou wilt not stoop:
Old Huron, haply, glistens on thy sky.
The chasing moon-beams, glancing on thy plumes,
Reveal thee now, a little beating blot,
Into the pale aurora fading.
There!—
Sinks gently back upon her flowery couch
The startled night:—tinkle the damp wood-vaults,
While slip the dew-pearls from their leafy curtain.
That last soft whispering note, how spirit-like!
While vainly yet my ear another waits,
A sad, sweet longing lingers in my heart.
Is not that a magnificent production? How
does it breathe of nature in her primitive loveliness,
and how completely does it wean us from
the world of flesh and blood into that other one
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of spiritual blessedness! How majestic, and yet
how sweet is the flowing of its numbers!—reminding
us of a strong but pleasant summer-evening
wind, which is wont to make us
strangely happy, even in our grief! Can anything
be more completely exquisite than the
few lines that I have marked? Is there
anything in Dana, Bryant, or Longfellow, that
can eclipse them? or even in the very best of
England’s modern poets? There may be, but
I have never been able to discover them,
although I almost know by heart the poetry
of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Wilson, Cowper,
Goldsmith, Beattie, Shelly, Scott, Rogers,
Campbell, and Mrs. Hemans.
Now comes “The Cripple Boy,” of its kind,
one of the sweetest and most affecting things
I ever read; and I willingly acknowledge that
it has often blinded my eyes with tears.
Such poetry softens the heart, and prepares
us to sympathize with the unfortunate, and
look with kindly feeling upon our fellows. It
smooths the rugged pathway of life, by telling
us that it is not the whole of life to live, nor
the whole of death to die. We read, and our
hearts cannot but be made wiser, even as the
story of the Ancient Mariner made the heart
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of the Wedding Guest, and caused him to renounce
his anticipated pleasure. Read and see.
Upon an Indian rush-mat, spread
Where burr-oak boughs a coolness shed,
Alone he sat,—a cripple-child,—
With eyes so large, so dark and wild,
And fingers, thin and pale to see,
Locked upon his trembling knee.
A-gathering nuts so blithe and gay,
The children early tripped away;
And he his mother had besought
Under the oak to have him brought;—
It was ever his seat when black-birds sung
The wavy rustling tops among;—
They calmed his pain,—they cheered his loneliness—
The gales,—the music of the wilderness.
Upon a prairie, wide and wild,
Looked off that suffering cripple-child:
The hour was breezy, the hour was bright;—
O, ’twas a lively, a lovely sight!—
An eagle, sailing to and fro
Around a flitting cloud so white,
Across the billowy grass below
Darting swift their shadows’ light;
And mingled noises, sweet and clear,
Noises out of the ringing wood,
Were pleasing trouble in his ear,
A shock how pleasant to his blood.
O, happy world!—Beauty and Blessing slept
On everything but him—he felt, and wept.
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Humming a lightsome tune of yore;
Beside the open log-house door,
Tears upon his sickly cheek
Saw his mother, and so did speak;—
“What makes his mother’s Henry weep?
You and I the cottage keep;
They hunt the nuts and clusters blue,
Weary lads, for me and you;
And yonder see the quiet sheep;—
Why now—I wonder why you weep!”—
“Mother, I wish that I could be
A sailor on the breezy sea!”
“A sailor on the stormy sea, my son!—
What ails the boy!—what have the breezes done!”
“I do!—I wish that I could be
A sailor on the rolling sea;
In the shadow of the sails
I would ride and rock all day,
Going whither blow the gales,
As I have heard a seaman say:
I would, I guess, come back again
For my mother, now and then,
And the curling fire so bright,
When the prairie burns at night;
And tell the wonders I had seen
Away upon the ocean green;”—
“Hush! hush! talk not about the ocean so;
Better at home a hunter hale to go.”
Between a tear and sigh he smiled;
And thus spake on the cripple-child:—
“I would I were a hunter hale,
Nimbler than the nimble doe,
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Bounding lightly down the dale,—
But that will never be, I know!
Behind our house the woodlands lie;
A prairie wide and green before;
And I have seen them with my eye
A thousand times or more;
Yet in the woods I never strayed,
Or on the prairie-border played;
O, mother dear, that I could only be
A sailor-boy upon the rocking sea!”
You would have turned with a tear,
A tear upon your cheek;
She wept aloud, the woman dear,
And further could not speak;
The boy’s it was a bitter lot
She always felt, I trow;
Yet never till then its bitterness
At heart had grieved her so.
Nature had waked the eternal wish—
—Liberty, far and wide!
And now, to win him health, with joy,
She would that morn have died.
Till noon she kept the shady door-way chair,
But never a measure of that ancient air.
Piped the March-wind;—pinched and slow
The deer were trooping in the snow;
He saw them out of the cottage door,
The lame boy sitting upon the floor:
“Mother, mother, how long will it be
Till the prairie go like a waving sea?
Will the bare woods ever be green—and when?
O, will it ever be summer again?”—
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She looked in silence on her child:
That large eye, ever so dark and wild,
Oh me, how bright!—it may have been
That he was grown so pale and thin.
It came, the emerald month, and sweetly shed
Beauty for grief, and garlands for the dead.
The Girl of the Sky-blue Lake, is a simple
Indian ballad, teeming with pictures as fresh
and exquisite to behold as a full-blown wild
rose of the wilderness. Some of its versification
is remarkably fine, and the idea of the
story pleasing and mournful to the soul,—attributes
which I fancy are indispensable to
the perfection of any poetry; for there is no
such thing as poetry without truth, and truth
is ever a subject of solemn consideration.
“Push off, push off the birch canoe,
The wave and the wood are still;
The screaming loon is fast asleep,
And so is the whip-poor-will.
The moonlight-blowing flowers I love—
On yon little isle they grow;—”
So said a black-eyed Ottawa girl,
In silvery accents low.
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“Off, off with the bark canoe, my boy,
And tarry till I come back—”
“No, sister,” said the red-neck’d boy,
“The panther will smell my track.
Our boat upon the deep shall rock,
And in it the paddles three;
My little grey dog my bow shall watch,
But I will keep with thee.”
“Now, nay, across the lake I go
Alone to the flow’ry isle;
I’ll come e’er the big owl screams for day,
So tarry thou here the while.
Thou art a bounding hunter bold,
As the wolf and the panther know;
And thou shalt whoop at the water-stars
That flash in the skies below;
And when the still woods halloo back,
The braver wilt thou grow.”
Now half-way over the sky-blue lake
Hath paddled the wild red girl;
Kneeling, a wearied arm she rests,—
The waters round her curl.
Away she looks, with beating heart,
Away to the purple isle;
Beneath it swings a bright round moon;
She listeneth all the while,—
Heard she one far shrill whistle-sound,
Her sadness were a smile.
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The lake was still as still could be,
And bright as a warrior’s blade;
And, save the dash of the leaping fish,
Not a waking sound was made.
The lovely bright-eyed Ottawa girl
Hath bent o’er the low canoe,
And smoothed anew her raven hair
In the glass of the shining blue.
And now is at the islet’s edge
The stem of her birchen bark:
And so is the bare, the springy foot
Of a hunter tall and dark.
“My deer-eyed dove,” the hunter breathed—
And the maid fell at his knee:
Along its lash a bright tear flashed,
And thus again spake he.
“My dark-eyed dove, the twisted shells,
With tints of the blood-red snow,
I’ve brought thee now, and scarlet bird,
And skin of the spotted doe.”
The red girl of the sky-blue lake,
She loves that chieftain bold:—
He loves again: but hatred lurks,
And ever by day and by night it works
In the heart of her father old.
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And hither, when the swan leads off
Her brood on the sleeping swell,
Beneath a climbing vine they meet,
With tenderest words, in accents sweet,
The tale of their loves to tell.
The Indian boy is fast asleep,
And dew on his wolf-skin gray,
Hath cried him weary long ago;
His little grey dog is moaning low,
And the big owl screams for day.
Poor lonely sleeping Indian boy,—
How wild are his fitful dreams?
—In mirth she comes; and sinking now
To the water-moon she seems.
A wolf is trotting in the brake,
All under the panthers’ limb;
But they have licked a fawn’s sweet blood,
And careless are grown of him.
Then darker grew the shadowy woods,
And bent with a crackling sound;
Shines through the dark the flashing foam
On the pebbled beach around.
Too late the warning loon has yell’d
To the shallow-wading crane;
For now the thunder blast is up,
And whirls the driving rain.
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O, red girl of the sky-blue lake,
Look well to thy dancing bark;
The wind is loud, the wave is white,
And the breaking morn is dark;
The wind is loud, the wave is white,
Look well to thy slender oar:
The loon hath need of its wing of jet
To battle the might of the waves, that fret
Along to the foamy shore.
Alone, upon the frothy beach,
In the still and pleasant morn,
The Ottawa child is waiting yet,
But frightened and forlorn.
His eyes are red, his hair is wild;
He hath donned his wolf-skin gray;
His shivering dog is moaning low;
The child hath turned him round to go,—
He can no longer stay.
Yet once, with aching heart, he looks
To the isle of flowers again;
It seems a sleeping bank of green
Upon a silvery plain.
Within its shade, the voiceless swans
Are sailing two by two;
But never his eye can catch a glimpse
Of the maiden’s birch canoe;—
The bow-neck’d swans are all that move
Upon the silvery blue.
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Turn home, heart-broken child! turn home;
That bark is in the deep;
And she has gone with the tinted shells
To their own green caves to sleep.
Her spirit owns a brighter isle
Than floats the moon below;
Where never the thunder-blast is heard,
She lists to the song of the scarlet bird,
And plays with the beautiful doe.
There! for this letter you owe me an oyster
supper,—but if you will give me that beautiful
engraving from Claude, hanging in your
study, I will call the matter settled.
190
THE UNHAPPY STRANGER.
I was a passenger on board one of those
noble steamers which navigate the Sound.
The hurly-burly attending our departure from
the dock was at last ended, and I had a good
opportunity to wander quietly about the boat,
studying, as it is my wont to do, the variously
marked countenances of my fellow passengers.
When the supper bell rang, there was a general
movement made towards the after-cabin,
and as I fell in with the crowd, I happened to
cast my eye upon the only group left behind.
This was composed of a middle-aged man and
his three children. The latter were getting
ready to retire to rest, and the youngest one, a
sweet little girl of perhaps three years of age,
ever and anon kept questioning her father as
follows—“where’s mother, pa?—pa, where’s
mother? When will she come back?” The
kind and delicate attentions of the father, as he
191
smoothed the pillows and laid them in their
nest, tended to interest my feelings; and, when
at the supper-table, my fancy was busy with
the scene just witnessed.
It was now quite late; the lazily-uttered
joke, and the less frequent peal of laughter,
seemed to announce the spiritual presence
of repose. The newspaper, the book, and
checker-board, were gradually laid aside, and
in a little while nearly all the berth-curtains
were drawn up, and their occupants in the
arms of sleep. Many of the lamps were out,
and those that did remain produced a dim,
solemn twilight throughout the cabin—the
only part at all animated being that corner
where the boot-black was engaged in his appropriate
duty. The cause of my own wakefulness
it is unnecessary to relate; suffice it
to say, it was entirely dispelled by the following
incident.
Just as I was about to retire, the sigh of a
burdened heart smote my ear, and as I turned,
I beheld an individual sitting near a berth,
with his face resting upon the pillow, weeping
bitterly. He was a fine, intelligent looking
man, in the prime of life; and on nearer
observation, I found him to be the identical
192
one, who had before attracted my attention.
I approached his seat, and, in as kind a tone
as possible, inquired the cause of his unhappiness;
adding, that I should be pleased to do
for him anything he might desire. For a
moment, a fresh flood of tears was my only
answer; but these he soon wiped away, and
extending to me his hand, he thus began to
speak.
“I am grateful to you, my dear Sir, for your
expressions of kindness and sympathy towards
me, but the weight which is resting upon my
spirit cannot be easily dispelled. I have been
sorely afflicted of late, and the associations
connected with that event are what caused
me to forget myself, and give vent to my
emotions in tears. To be found weeping like
a child, in the midst of a multitude of strangers,
may be considered a weakness, I hope not
a sin; but that you may understand my conduct,
I will relate to you the cause.
“One short month ago, as I paused to consider
my condition, I fancied myself to be one
of the happiest of men. My cottage-home,
which stands in one of the fairest valleys of
New Hampshire, was then a perfect picture of
contentment and peace. A much-loved wife,
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and three children, were then the joys of my
existence. Every pleasurable emotion which
I enjoyed was participated in by her, who was
my first and only love. From our united
hearts, every morning and evening, ascended
a deep-felt prayer of gratitude to our Heavenly
Father; and from the same source sprang
every hope concerning the temporal prospects
of our children, and, to us and them, of the life
beyond the grave. We were at peace with
God, and with regard to this world, we had
everything we desired.
“The time of harvest being now ended, and
an urgent invitation having been received
from my father-in-law, I concluded to take
my family, and make a visit to the pleasant
village in New Jersey, where my wife and I
were children together, and where we had
plighted our early love-vows. All things
were ready, and, leaving our homestead to the
care of a servant, we started on our journey,—reaching
in due time, and in safety, our
place of destination.
“We found our friends all well, and glad
to see us. Not a care or trouble rested on a
single heart. Thankful for the blessings of
the past and present, all our prospects of the
194
future were as bright as heart could desire.
‘Old familiar faces’ greeted us at every corner,
old friendships were again revived, and
a thousand delightful associations crowded
around us, so that we had nothing to do but
be happy.
“Thus had two weeks passed away, when,
on the very night previous to our intended departure
for home, my wife was suddenly taken
ill, and when the morrow dawned,—I was a
widower, and my children motherless. The
idol of my heart, instead of returning to her
earthly home, was summoned by her Maker
to that blessed home above the stars, where
the happiness of the redeemed will never end.
God is great, and His will be done; but,
alas, it almost breaks my heart to think of
those bitter, bitter words—‘never more.’ I
cannot bear to think of it; never more upon
the earth shall I behold that beauteous form,
and listen to that heavenly voice, which were
my delight and pride. To my eye, the greenness
of earth is forever departed. O who can
tell what a day or an hour may bring forth?
O how lonely, lonely, is my poor, poor, poor
heart!”
These last words of my stranger friend
195
were uttered in a smothered tone, and with a
drooping head; and, though he held my arm
after I had risen to go, I tore myself away,
for I thought it my duty to retire.
When I awoke in the morning, after a
troubled sleep, I found the boat was at the
dock, and the day somewhat advanced. My
first thought was concerning the unhappy
stranger, with whom I longed to have another
interview; but in making diligent search I
found that he was gone, and with him his
three sweet orphan children. His form, and
the few words he had spoken, seemed to me
like a dream. O yes, they were indeed the
substance of a vision—a dream of human
life. Surely, surely life is but a vapor, which
appeareth for a little season, and then vanisheth
away. As the great Jeremy Taylor hath
eloquently written: “Death meets us everywhere,
and is procured by every instrument,
and in all chances, and enters in at many
doors; by violence and secret influence, by
the aspect of a star, by the emissions of a
cloud and the melting of a vapor, by the fall
of a chariot and the stumbling of a stone, by
a full meal or an empty stomach, by watching
at the wine, or by watching at prayers,
196
by the sun or the moon, by a heat or a cold,
by sleepless nights or sleeping days, by water
frozen into the hardness and sharpness of a
dagger, or water thawed into the floods of a
river, by a hair or a raisin, by violent motion,
or sitting still, by severity or dissolution, by
God’s mercy or God’s anger, by everything
in providence and everything in manners,
by everything in nature and everything in
chance. We take pains to heap up things
useful to our life, and get our death in the
purchase; and the person is snatched away,
and the goods remain. And all this is the
law and constitution of nature; it is a punishment
to our sins, the unalterable event of
providence, and the decree of heaven. The
chains that confine us to this condition are
strong as destiny, and immutable as the eternal
laws of God.”
This picture of man’s condition is indeed
most melancholy, but let us remember it is
not a hopeless one. Only let us keep the
commandments, and confide in the promises of
the Invisible, and we shall eventually find that
the laws regulating our final redemption will
prove to be as immutable as those concerning
our earthly condition.
197
A WEEK IN A FISHING SMACK.
On Monday morning of last week I started
from Norwich, bound to New London, and
from thence to any other portion of the world
where I might have some sport in the way
of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour
after landing from the steamboat, I had boarded
the handsome smack Orleans, Captain Keeney,
and by dint of much persuasion secured a
berth on board to accompany him on a fishing
voyage. In addition to my previous preparation,
I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt
and tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly
equipped, the sails were hoisted, and we were
on our course for Nantucket. An intimate
acquaintance was soon formed between myself
and crew, which consisted of the master,
two sailors, and the cook. The whole time
that I spent in their company was six days, as
I reached home on the following Saturday
198
evening. The incidents that I met with were
somewhat new, as a matter of course, and I
employed a few moments of every evening
during my absence, in briefly recording the
events of the past day; and that medley I
now put together as a literary chowder.
Monday Evening. My observations to-day
have been limited to our little vessel, in consequence
of a dense fog, which drenched us
to the skin, and seems likely to continue us
in this state of preservation. I have obtained
some information, however, concerning the
character of an interesting class of men,
which may be new to you. Smack-fishermen
are a brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted
race, and as my Captain tells me, spend nine-tenths
of their time “rocked in the cradle of
the deep.” Their vessels, or smacks, are generally
of about forty tons burthen; the number
of those which supply New York and
Boston with fish is said to be near a thousand,
and they are all at home anywhere on the
coast between the Kennebeck and the Delaware.
Of the perils which these fishermen
endure, and the privations they suffer, how
little is known or thought by the great world
at large! Yet I believe there is as much
199
genuine happiness in their lives, as in those
of any other class. Their fathers were fishermen
before them, and as they themselves
have mostly been born within hearing of the
surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as
their fitting home, their only home, and would
not part with it for a palace or a crown. Four
is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and
the master is invariably called a skipper. Most
of them are worthy husbands and fathers,
whose families are snugly harbored in some
convenient seaport, with enough and to
spare of the good things of life. They are a
jovial set of men, hailing each other upon the
ocean as friends, and meeting upon land as
brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the
handsomest and swiftest that floats, and very
exciting are the races they sometimes run.
Their affection for their own vessel is like
that of the Arab for his steed, and like the
Arab, too, they have been known even to weep
over the grave of their darling and their
pride.
The kinds of fish which they mostly bring
to market are shad, salmon, lobsters, mackerel,
cod, bluefish, haddock, blackfish, paugies, bass,
and halibut. The first three are generally
200
purchased of local fisherman, but all the rest
are caught by themselves. The haunts of the
blackfish are rocky reefs, those of the bass and
bluefish in the vicinity of sandy shoals or
tide rips, and those of the remainder in about
fifteen fathom water. These are the varieties
they capture by way of business, but when in
a frolicsome mood they frequently attack a
sword-fish, a shark, or black whale; and soul-thrilling
indeed, and laughable withal, are the
yarns they spin concerning these exploits.
As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is
just what it should be, and what they would
have it, although it would be “positively
shocking” to a Bond Street gentleman of leisure.
But they always possess a good appetite,
which is what money cannot purchase, and
without which the greatest delicacy in the
world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish,
sea-biscuit, corned-beef and pork, potatoes,
onions, and pancakes, constitute their provisions,
and what besides these would a reasonable
man desire? It is with a mixture of some
of these, that a chowder is concocted, and
where can anything more delicious be found,
even at the tables of the Astor and American?
And with these ingredients, moreover, they
201
manage very well to keep body and soul together,
unless a storm on a rock-bound coast
happens to make a sudden separation.
I have just been on deck, and must say that
I resume my pen with a heavier heart. The
fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular
gale of wind is blowing from the north, and
the waves, seemingly in a revengeful mood,
are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper,
like the Ancient Mariner, had shot another
albatros. But like a fearless man, as he is, he
stands at the helm, watching the sails with a
steady eye, and the men with their storm-jackets
on are standing by, muttering something
about the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere
on our lee. Never before have I so
distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s
simile, when he compares a wave to a
drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it
in their power to cause a mighty mischief, and
both become exhausted and perish,—one upon
a sandy beach, and the other, sweeping over
the peninsula of time, finds a grave on the
shore of oblivion. Heavens! how the wind
whistles, and the waters roar! Aye, but a still
small voice salutes my ear, and I lay me down
to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips, and a
202
feeling of security at my heart, as I place
implicit confidence in Him who holdeth the
ocean in the hollow of his hand.
Tuesday Evening. I was awakened out of
a deep sleep this morning by the following
salutation from the skipper, as he patted me
on the shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning,
and you ought to be up,—the fog is gone, and
the wind is down; won’t you come up and
take the helm awhile,—so that the boys and
I may obtain a little sleep before reaching
the fishing-ground, which will be about ten
o’clock?” I was delighted to accept the invitation,
and in a very short time the sailors
were asleep, and I in my new station, proud as
a king, and happy as a sinless boy. And oh
that I could describe the scene that fascinated
my eyes as I lay there upon the deck, with one
arm reposing on the rudder, and my other hand
grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt
before, when standing on the famous precipice
of Niagara, that then, more than ever, I desired
God to be my friend. I also felt, that if the
world did not demand the feeble services of
my life, I should wish to remain upon the
ocean forever, provided I could have “one
fair being for my minister.” More earnestly
203
than ever did I long for a complete mastery of
my art. The fact of being out sight of land,
where the blue element announced that the
ocean was soundless, filled my soul with that
“lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be
the eagle’s, when journeying to the zenith of
the sky. The sun had just risen above the
waves, and the whole Eastern portion of the
heavens was flooded with the most exquisite
coloring I ever beheld,—from the deepest crimson
to the faintest and most delicate purple,
from the darkest yellow to an almost invisible
green; and all blended, too, in a myriad of
forms of marvellous loveliness. A reflection
of this scene was also visible in the remaining
quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable
deep, whose bosom is studded with many
a gallant and glittering ship,
that have the plain
Of ocean for their own domain.
The waves are lulling themselves to rest,
and a balmy breeze is wandering by, as if
seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the
grand rumpus last night; whereby I learn, that
the offspring of a “rough and stormy sire,” are
sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to
the children of men. But look, even the
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dwellers in the sea and of the sea are participating
in the hilarity of this bright autumnal
morning! Here, a school of herring are skipping
along like a frolicsome party of vagabonds
as they are,—and yonder a shark has leaped
out of the water, to display the symmetry of
his form and the largeness of his jaw, and
looking as if he thought “that land lubber
would make me a first-rate breakfast;”
there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,”
or some other outlandish game; and, a
little beyond them, a gentleman sword-fish is
swaggering along to parts unknown, to fight a
duel in cold blood with some equally cold-blooded
native of the Atlantic; and now, a
flock of gulls are cleaving their course to the
South, to the floating body perhaps of a
drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered
a league or two away,—and now,
again, I notice a flock of petrels, hastening
onward to where the winds blow and the
waves are white. Such are the pictures I
beheld in my brief period of command. It
may have been but fancy, but I thought my
little vessel was trying to eclipse her former
beauty and her former speed. One thing I
know, that she “walked the water like a thing
205
of life.” I fancied, too, that I was the identical
last man whom Campbell saw in his vision,
and that I was then bound to the haven
of eternal rest. But my shipmates returning
from the land of Nod, and a certain clamor
within my own body having caught my ear,
I became convinced that to break my fast
would make me happier than anything else just
at that time, and I was soon as contented as an
alderman at five P. M. About two hours after
this we reached our fishing place, which was
twenty miles east of Nantucket. We then
lowered the jib and topsail, and having luffed
and fastened the mainsheet, so that the smack
could easily float, we hauled out our lines and
commenced fishing, baiting our hooks with
clams, of which we had some ten bushels on
board. Cod fishing (for we were on a codding
cruize) is rather dull sport; it is, in fact,
what I would call hard labor. In six hours
we had caught all the skipper wanted, or that
the well would hold, so we made sail again,
bound to New York; and at supper-time the
deck of our smack was as clean and dry, as if
it had never been pressed save by the feet of
ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce southerly
wind sprang up, so that we were compelled to
206
make a harbor; and just as I am closing this
record, we are anchoring at Nantucket, with
a score of storm-beaten whales on our starboard
bow.
Wednesday Evening. The weather to-day
has been quite threatening, and the skipper
thought it best to remain at our moorings; but
with me the day has not been devoid of interest;
for, in my sailor garb, I have been
strolling about the town, studying the great
and solemn drama of life, while playfully acting
a subordinate part myself. This morning, as
it happened, I went into the public grave-yard,
and spent an hour conning over the rude
inscriptions to the memory of the departed.
In that city of the dead I saw a number of the
living walking to and fro, but there was one
who attracted my particular attention. He
was a seaman of noble presence, seated upon
an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon
a smaller one beside it, his head reclined upon
one hand, while the other was occasionally
passed across his face, as if wiping away a
tear. I hailed him with a few kind questions,
and my answer was the following brief tale.
“Yes, sir, four years ago I shipped aboard
that whaler yonder, leaving behind me, in a
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sweet little cottage of my own, a dear, first-rate
mother, a good wife, and an only boy.
They were all in the enjoyment of good
health, and happy; and, when we were under
sail, and I saw from the mast-head how
kindly they waved their handkerchiefs beside
my door, I too was happy, even in my hour of
grief. Since that time I have circumnavigated
the globe, and every rare curiosity I
could obtain was intended for my darling
ones at home. Last Saturday our ship returned.
And while yet a league from port, I
was again at the mast head, looking with an
anxious heart towards my nest upon the shore.
I saw that the blinds were closed, and that all
around was very still; but ‘they are only
gone a visiting,’ thought I, and rejoiced at
heart. I landed, flew to my dwelling, and
found it locked. The flagging in my yard
attracted my notice, and I thought it strange
that the rank grass had been suffered to grow
over it so thickly. The old minister passed
by my gate, and running to him with extended
hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh
Mr. B.,’ said he, ‘you must bless the Lord,—he
gave them to you, and he hath taken them
away.’ And as the thought stole into my
208
brain, my suffering, Sir, was intense, and I
longed to die. And there they are, my wife
and darling child, and, a step or two beyond,
my dear old mother. Peace to their memories.
As for me, I am a victim to blight and desolation,
and that sacred song which my mother
used to be so fond of singing on Sabbath evenings
long ago, that song I can understand
now:—
‘I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o’er the way;
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here,
Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its cheer.’
In a few days I mean to deliver up my property
to the Seaman’s Friend Society, and
then launching upon the deep once more, become,
and forever, a wanderer from my native
land.”
Such is the simple story I heard in the
Nantucket grave-yard, and I have pondered
much upon the world of woe which must be
hidden in the breast of that old mariner. May
the tale not have been recorded in vain.
After dinner, to-day, I got into company
with some fishermen who were going after
bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had
captured, with my own hands, two big bass
209
and some dozen bluefish,—which I packed
in ice as a present to some New York
friends.
At my present time of writing, which is near
ten o’clock at night, we are weighing anchor,
and the skipper tells me we shall be in New
York by to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before
coming on board this evening, I lounged into
a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely
with a company of whalemen there, as if I
had ever been a bonâ fide member of the craft.
I heard a great deal that interested me, and
was sorry that I could not remain longer.
There were some in that company lately
arrived from every portion of the world, and
yet they were engaged in the same business,
and had journeyed on the same mighty highway
of nations. One was descanting upon
the coral islands of the Torrid zone, another
upon the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea, a
third was describing the coast of California, and
another the waters that lave the Eastern shore
of Asia. The more I listened to these men
the more did the immensity of ocean expand
before my mind, and in the same proportion
was I led to wonder at the wisdom of the
Almighty.
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I have just been on deck, and find that we
are on the way to our desired haven, wafted
by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course
is between Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode
Island, which is a route studded with islands
and seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight
like the pictures of a dream.
Thursday Evening. Instead of coming
through the Sound last night, we headed our
vessel outside of Long Island, and after a
delightful sail have realized our skipper’s promise,
for we are now floating beside the market
in New York. The reason assigned for taking
the outside course was, that the fish would
keep better, on account of the greater coldness
of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest
has happened to us to-day, except the meeting
with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the
hull of a large ship, whose name we could not
discern. It had a very old appearance, and
from the moss and sea-weed that covered it,
we supposed it must have been afloat for many
months, the plaything of the waves. “Man
marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that
scatters such splendid ruins upon the ocean?
And a thousand thousand remorseless surges
echo back the answer: “To us, belong the
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glory of those deeds.” If that wreck had language,
what a strange, eventful history would
it reveal! Its themes would be,—home and all
its treasures lost; the sea, and all its dangers;
the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and
all its sufferings. But when we multiply all
this as fast as time is multiplying it, we cannot
but realize the idea, that human life is but a
probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing
are our earthly inheritance.
Friday Evening. After portioning out my
fish this morning, and sending them to my
friends, I put on my usual dress, and having
obtained a six hours’ furlough, set off towards
Broadway, where, between the Mercantile
Library reading rooms and the studios of a
few artists, I managed to spend my time quite
pleasantly. At noon we embarked for home,
and had a delightful time, passing through the
East River, and that pleasing panorama from
the city to the Sound never appeared more
beautiful.
It is now quite late, and I have been on
deck all the evening alone. In a thoughtful
mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my
spirits were saddened by the continual murmur
of the sea. Of what avail, thought I, is all
212
this excitement? Why was I created, and
what, O what is my destiny? Is it to sail for
a few brief years longer upon the ocean of
life, and, when the death-tempest overtakes
me, to pass away unloved and unremembered
by a single human heart? If not an honored
name, can I not leave behind me an humble
memory, that will be cherished by a few,
a very few, to whom I have laid bare my
innermost soul, when I was younger than I
am, and a hundred-fold more happy? What!
O night! what is my destiny? And the tears
upon my cheeks were the only answer that
I received,—and I descended into the cabin
to my berth, to pray, to slumber, and to
dream.
Saturday Evening. We anchored off New
London to-day, in time for me to take the
evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted
with my “shipmates,” I shook each one affectionately
by the hand, and thought that I
might travel many years without finding a
brotherhood of nobler men. I reached home
as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and
was reminded that another week of precious
time was gone, and “another Sabbath was
begun.” That the present must be remembered
213
as an unprofitable week, I cannot
believe, for I feel that my soul has been
enlarged, and my heart humbled, by listening
to the teachings of the mighty deep.
214
TRIP TO WATCH HILL.
A few mornings ago, just as the sun had
risen above the eastern hills, which look down
upon the Thames at Norwich, the prettiest sailboat
of the place left her moorings, and with a
pleasant northerly breeze started for the Sound.
Her passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all
equipped in their sporting jackets, and furnished
with fishing tackle, and their place of
destination was Watch Hill, which is a point
of land in Rhode Island, extending into the
Atlantic, a few miles from Stonington. We
were on a fishing frolic, as a matter of course,
and a happier company, I ween, were never
yet afloat, for the sport of a morning breeze.
What with the story, the jest, the iced lemonade
and exquisite cigar, the minutes glided by
as swiftly and unobserved as the tiny waves
around us. Now we met a solitary fisherman,
towing for bass, and as we hailed him with a
215
friendly shout and passed by, he began to talk
in an under tone, and his voice did not die
away until we had turned a point. Oh, what
would I not give for an accurate record of that
old man’s life! Anon, we witnessed the soothing
picture of a well conducted farm, with its
greengirt cottage, spacious barns, neat and
flowing fields, and abundance of horses and
oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and poultry. Now
we saw some noble men, such as Vernet delighted
to paint, hauling the seine, and, as the
“fruit of all their toil” were thrown upon the
sand, their flipping forms reflected back the
sunlight, reminding us of the short-lived glory
of an earth-born name. Now, we were overtaken
and tossed about by a steamer bound to
New Haven; and then we sailed in company
with a boat, a sloop, and schooner; meeting
others, beating up, from Boston, New York,
and Philadelphia. And the termination of this
pleasing panorama was composed of Gale’s
Ferry, the commanding town, fort, and monument
of Groton, together with the city of New
London, among whose anchored shipping
floated the saucy Revenue Cutter, and at
whose docks were chained a goodly number
of storm-beaten whalers.
216
Having taken in “our stores,” and obtained
from the fish-market a basket of bait, we again
hoisted sail and put to sea, “bound first to
Commit Rock,” and “binding” ourselves to
capture all of the watery enemy which might
tempt the power or the dexterity of our
arms.
When about three miles from New London,
all eyes were attracted by a beautiful craft on
our lee, laden with a party of ladies and gentlemen.
“They’re going toward a reef!”
exclaimed our captain; and no sooner had the
words escaped his lips, than the stranger struck,
and stove a hole through her bottom. We
were just in time to save the party from a
watery grave; and when we had landed them
in safety on the beach, we were well repaid
for our trouble by the consciousness of having
done a good act, and by the thankful words
and benignant smiles of the ladies fair. A
dozen minutes more and we were within oar’s
length of the fishing rock. “All ashore, that’s
coming!” shouted our mate, when we all
leaped out, and a plenty of line being given
her, the boat swung to, and “like a cradled
thing at rest,” floated upon the waves. Then
commenced the sport. The breeze was refreshing,
217
and the breath of the salt sea-foam
buoyed up our spirits to a higher pitch, and
gave new vigor to our sinews. The youngest
of the party was the first who threw his hook,
which was snapped in the twinkling of an
eye. Another trial, and a four-pound blackfish
lay extended upon the rock. Another,
and another, and another, until fourscore,
even-numbered, came following after. Tired
of the sport, two of the party entered the boat,
and hoisted sail for a little cruize. Half an
hour had elapsed, when the steady breeze
changed into a frightful gale, capsizing within
hailing distance a fishing boat with two old
men in it. Hanging on, as they were, to the
keel of the boat (which having no ballast could
not sink), their situation was extremely dangerous,
as there was not a vessel within two
miles. The poor men beckoned to us to help
them; but as our boat was gone, we could
not do so, which of course we much regretted.
For one long, long hour did they thus hang,
“midway betwixt life and death,” exposed to
the danger of being washed away by the
remorseless surge, or swallowed up, as we were
afterwards told, by a couple of sharks, which
were kept away only by the hand of Providence.
218
This incident tended to cool our ardor
for fishing, and as we were satisfied with that
day’s luck, we put up our gear, during which
time the boat arrived, and we embarked for
the Hill. We made one short turn, however,
towards the boat which had picked up the
fishermen, as we were anxious to tell them
why we did not come to their relief. We
then tacked about, and the last words we
heard from our companions were,—“Thank
you—thank you—God bless you all,” and
until we had passed a league beyond Fisher
Island, our little vessel “carried a most beautiful
bone between her teeth.”
At sunset we moored our little boat on the
eastern shore of Paucatuck Bay. On ascending
to the Watch Hill hotel, we found it
to be a large, well-furnished house, and our
host to be a fat and jolly Falstaff-ish sort of
man, just suited to his station. At seven
o’clock we sat down to a first-rate blackfish
supper, then smoked a cigar, and while my
companions resorted to the ten-pin alley, I
buttoned up my pea-jacket, and sallied forth
on an “exploring expedition.” As I stood on
the highest point of the peninsula facing, the
south, I found that the light-house stood
219
directly before me, on the extreme point, that
a smooth beach faded away on either side, the
left hand one being washed by the Atlantic,
and that on the right by the waters of Fisher
Island Bay, and that the dreary hills in my
rear were dotted by an occasional dwelling.
The breeze had died away, and the bright, full
moon was in the cloudless sky. Many sails
were in the offing, passing by and being passed
by the Providence and Stonington steamboats
bound to New York. The scenery around
me, and the loveliness of the day, with its galaxy
of stars above me, caused me to forget
myself, and I wandered far away upon the
shore—alone, in the awful presence of the
great Atlantic Ocean. No sounds fell upon my
ear, save the muffled roar of the ground swell,
and the faint whispers of the tiny waves as
they melted upon the sand. I traced my
name, and beside it that of another, a being
beauteous, for whose cabinet of curiosities I
gathered many a round, smooth pebble, and
many a delicate sea-shell. I wandered on,
now gazing with wonder and admiration into
the cerulean vault of Heaven, or into the still
deeper blue of the mighty sea; and now singing
with a loud voice one of the sacred songs
220
of the sweet singer of Israel. Now, a thousand
images of surpassing loveliness darted
across my vision, as I thought of God—of an
eternal life in heaven—and of love, divine
and human; and then there came a weight
upon my spirit, as I remembered the powers
of darkness, the destiny of the condemned,
and the miseries engendered by our evil passions.
One moment I deemed myself immortal,
released forever from the contaminating
influence of sin, and then I thought of the
valley of death, and trembled. In that communion
with the mysteries of the universe,
strongly blended as they were, I felt that I
could wander on without fatigue, until the
whole earth should be trodden by my pilgrim
feet. But the chilly air and the fading
night warned me to retrace my steps, and in
an hour I had reached my home.
When the sun rose from his ocean-bed on
the following morning, surrounded by a magnificent
array of clouds, I was up, and busily
engaged preparing for a day’s fishing,—first,
and before breakfast, for bluefish, then for
blackfish, and then for bass. While my companions
were asleep, I went out with an old
fisherman, and by breakfast time had captured
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thirty bluefish, weighing about two pounds
apiece. The manner of catching these is to
tow for them with a long line, the bait being
a piece of ivory attached to a strong hook.
They are a very active and powerful fish, and
when hooked make a great fuss, skipping and
leaping out of the water.
At nine o’clock our party were at anchor on
a reef about one mile off, and for the space of
about two hours we hauled in the blackfish
fast as possible, many of them weighing eight
to ten pounds apiece. For them, you must
have a small straight hook, and for bait, lobsters
or crabs. A broiled blackfish, when
rightly cooked, is considered one of the best
of saltwater delicacies.
But the rarest of all fishing is that of catching
bass, and a first-rate specimen I was permitted
to enjoy. About eleven o’clock, I
jumped into the surf-boat of an old fisherman,
requesting him to pull for the best bass ground
with which he was acquainted. In the mean
time my friends had obtained a large boat, and
were going to follow us. The spot having
been reached, we let our boat float, wherever
the tide and wind impelled it, and began to
throw over lines, using for bait the skin of an
222
eel six inches long. Those in the neighboring
boat had fine luck, as they thought, having
caught some dozen five-pounders, and they
seemed to be perfectly transported because
nearly an hour had passed and I had caught
nothing. In their glee they raised a tremendous
shout, but before it had fairly died away,
my line was suddenly straightened, and I knew
that I had a prize. Now it cut the water like
a streak of lightning, although there were
two hundred feet out, and as the fish returned
I still kept it taught; and after playing with
him for about forty minutes, I succeeded in
drowning him, then hauled up gradually, and
with my boat-hook landed him in the boat
safe and sound. The length of that striped
bass was four feet two inches, and his weight,
before cleaned, fifty-eight pounds. That is a
“fish story” worth telling. As a beneficial
effect and natural consequence of that triumph,
I would state, that I have grown about one
inch in height since then,—more or less,—as
the saying is,—but probably less. You can
easily imagine the chop-fallen appearance of
my brother fishermen, when they found out
that “the race is not always to the swift, nor
the battle to the strong.” At three o’clock in
223
the afternoon, a piece of that bass tended to
satisfy the appetite which had been excited by
his capture, and I assure you it touched the
right spot.
Satisfied with our piscatorial sports, we concluded
to spend the rest of the day quietly
gathering shells upon the beach; but causes of
excitement were still around us. No sooner
had we reached the water’s edge, than we discovered
a group of hardy men standing on a
little knoll, in earnest conversation, while some
of them were pointing towards the sea. “To
the boat—to the boat,” suddenly shouted their
leader, when they all descended with the speed
of Swiss mountaineers, and on reaching a boat
which had been made ready, they pushed her
into the surf, and three of them jumped in,
and thus commenced the interesting scene of
hauling the seine. There was something new
and romantic to us in the thought, that the
keen and intelligent eye of man could even
penetrate into the deep, so far as to designate
the course of travel of the tribes of the
sea. And when the seine was drawn, it was
a glorious and thrilling sight to see those fishermen
tugging at the lines, or leap into the
surf, which sometimes completely covered
224
them, to secure the tens of thousands of fish
which they had caught. There was a grace
and beauty about the whole scene, which
made me long for the genius of a Mount or
Edmonds.
A little before sunset, I was again strolling
along the shore, when the following incident
occurred. You will please return with me to
the spot. Yonder on that fisherman’s stake,
a little sparrow has just alighted, facing the
main. It has been lured away from the green
bowers of home by the music of the sea, and
is now gazing, perhaps with feelings kindred
to my own, upon this most magnificent structure
of the Almighty hand. See! it spreads
its wing, and is now darting towards the
water—fearless and free. Ah! it has gone
too near! for the spray moistens its plumes!
There—there it goes, frightened back to its
native woodland. That little bird, so far as
its power and importance are concerned, seems
to me a fit emblem of the mind of man, and
this great ocean an appropriate symbol of the
mind of God.
The achievements of the human mind
“have their passing paragraphs of praise, and
are forgotten.” Man may point to the Pyramids
225
of Egypt, which are the admiration of
the world, and exclaim, “Behold the symbol
of my power and importance!” But most
impotent is the boast. Those mighty mysteries
stand in the solitude of the desert, and the
glory of their destiny is fulfilled, in casting a
temporary shadow over the tent of the wandering
Arab.
The achievements of the Almighty mind
are beyond the comprehension of man, and
lasting as his own eternity. The spacious firmament,
with its suns, and moons, and stars;
our globe, with its oceans, and mountains, and
rivers; the regularly revolving seasons; and
the still, small voice continually ascending
from universal nature, all proclaim the power
and goodness of their great original. And
everything which God has created, from the
nameless insect to the world of waters, which
is the highway of nations, was created for
good, was created to accomplish some omnipotent
end. As this ocean is measureless and
fathomless, so is it an emblem, beautiful but
faint, of that wonderful Being, whose throne
is above the milky-way, and who is himself
from everlasting to everlasting. But see,
there is a heavy cloud rising in the west, the
226
breeze is freshening, flocks of wild ducks are
flying inland, and the upper air is ringing with
the shrill whistle of the bold and wild sea-gull,
whose home is the boundless sea; therefore,
as my dear friend Noble has somewhere written,
“the shortest homeward track’s the best.”
Still in the present tense would I continue.
The witching hour of midnight has again returned.
A cold rain-storm has just passed over,
the moon is again the mistress of a cloudless
sky, but the wind is still raging in all its
fury.
“I view the ships that come and go,
Looking so like to living things.
O! ’tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.”
Dana.
God be with them and their brave and gallant
crews. But, again.
“Where the far-off sand-bars lift
Their backs in long and narrow line,
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,
And send the sparkling brine
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife;
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!”
Ibid.
But I must stop quoting poetry, for as “a
thing of beauty is a joy forever,” I should
227
be forever writing about the sea. Heavens!
What a terrible song is the ocean singing!
with his long white hair streaming in the
wind. The waving, splashing, wailing, dashing,
howling, rushing, and moaning of the
waves, is a glorious lullaby, and a fit prelude to
a dream of the sea.
At an early hour on the following day we embarked
for home, but a sorry time did we have
of it, for the winds were very lazy. We were
ten hours going the distance of twenty-two
miles. It was now sunset, we were off Gale’s
Ferry, and not a solitary breath of air. Ashore
we went, resolved to await the coming of the
Sag Harbor steamboat, which usually arrived
about nine o’clock, and by which we were
taken in tow. Snugly seated in our boat, and
going at the rate of eighteen miles, we were
congratulating ourselves upon an early arrival
home, and had already begun to divide and
string up our fish. But, alas, at this moment the
painter broke, the steamer, unconscious of our
fate, still sped onward, while we sheered off
towards the shore, almost disgusted with human
life in general—for our boat was large, and we
had but one oar. But what matter? We
were a jolly set, and the way we gave three
228
cheers, as a prelude to the song of “Begone
Dull Care,” must have been startling to the
thousand sleeping echoes of hill, forest, river,
and glen.
Having crept along at snails pace about one
mile, we concluded to land, and, if possible,
obtain a place to sleep, and something to eat;
for not having had a regular dinner, and not a
mouthful of supper, we were half starved.
With clubs in our hands, to keep off hobgobblins
and bull dogs, we wended our way towards
a neighboring farm-house, where we knocked
for admittance. Pretty soon a great gawky-looking
head stuck itself out of an upper window,
to which we made known our heartfelt
desires, receiving in return the following answer:
“My wife is sick—hain’t got any bread—you
can go in the barn to sleep if you want
to;” and we turned reluctantly away, troubled
with a feeling very nearly allied to anger.
“Come, let’s go off in this direction,” exclaimed
one of the party, “and I’ll introduce you to my
old friend, Captain Somebody,”—and away we
posted, two by two, across a new-mown field.
Presently our two leaders were awe-stricken
by the sudden appearance of something white,
which seemed to be rising out of the earth
229
beside a cluster of bushes, and the way they
wheeled about and put for the river, (accompanied
by their fellows, whose fright was
merely sympathetic,) was “a caution” to all
unbelievers in ghosts and other midnight spectres.
At last we halted to gain a little breath, an explanation
was made, and our captain forthwith
resolved to investigate the matter. He now
took the lead, and on coming to the mysterious
spot, discovered an old blind white horse; who
had been awakened by a noise, and, following
the instinct of his nature, had risen from his
lair, to be better prepared for danger. I doubt
whether the echoes are yet silent, which were
caused by the loud and long peals of laughter
which resounded to the sky. Being in a strange
land, without chart or compass, we could not
find the mortal dwelling place of Captain
Somebody, and so we changed our course of
travel.
We stopt at another house, farther on, but
to save our lives we could not obtain an interview,
although we entered the hen-coop, and
set the hens and roosters a cackling and crowing,
the pig-pen, and set the hogs a squealing,
while a large dog and two puppies did their
230
best to increase and prolong the mighty chorus.
If our farmer friend did not deem himself
transported to Bedlam, about that time,
we imagine that nothing on earth would have
the power to give him such a dream. Our ill-luck
made us almost desperate, and so we
returned to the boat, resolved to row the
whole distance home, could we but find an
extra oar.
It was now eleven o’clock, and the only
things that seemed to smile upon us were the
ten thousand stars, studding the clear, blue firmament.
Anon, a twinkling light beamed
upon our vision; and as we approached, we
found it to proceed from a little hut on an
island, where the Thames lamplighter and his
boy were accustomed to pass the night after
their work was done. Having again concluded
to land, we received a hearty welcome, as
the host proved to be an old acquaintance of
our captain and mate. “Have you anything
to eat?” was almost the first question of every
tongue. “No, nothing but this barrel of
crackers and some cheese,” exclaimed the
man of light. “And we,” shouted one of
our crew, “have plenty of fish,—can’t we
have a chowder?” “Aye, aye; a chowder,
231
a chowder it shall be,” were the words which
rang aloud to the very heavens. A wherry
was despatched to the main-land, to the well
known habitation of an old fisherman, for the
necessary iron pot and bowls; for the potatoes
and onions, which were dug for the occasion;
for the pork, the pepper, and salt; all
which, added to our biscuit and black-fish,
nicely cleaned and prepared, constituted a
chowder of the very first water. There was one
addition to our company, in the person of the
old fisherman; and our appearance, as we were
seated in a circle on the floor, each with a bowl
of thick hot soup in his hands, constituted
a picture rich and rare. After we were done, it
was acknowledged by all, that a better meal had
never been enjoyed by mortal man. In about
thirty minutes from this time the odd one of the
company bade us “good night,” and the midnight
brotherhood resigned themselves to sleep.
The last sounds I heard, before closing my
eyes, were caused by the regular opposition
steamboats from New York, as they shot ahead
almost as “swift as an arrow from a shivering
bow.”
The first faint streak of daylight found us
on board our boat, homeward bound, wafted
232
on by a pleasant southerly breeze. At the
usual hour, we were all seated at our respective
breakfast tables, relating our adventures of
the excursion just ended.
233
OUR NEW YORK PAINTERS.
Sometime ago, when I indited a letter on
the paintings of Cole, I partly intended it to be
the first of a series, which should include all
those of our painters who have established
themselves as masters. Since then, however,
I have relinquished that idea. I am not sufficiently
well acquainted with all these gentlemen,
and the number of their productions,
to devote a separate paper to each, and have,
therefore, concluded briefly to embody my
opinions concerning them in a single letter.
I propose to speak of those only who are identified
with New York, and who are now in
the full tide of successful operation; and my
object will be merely to write what would
correspond to a letter of introduction. In my
list, made without respect to persons, are the
following names; Durand, Huntington, Edmonds,
Page, Mount, Doughty, Wier, Inman,
Ingham, Chapman, and Harvey.
234
Durand. If you are at all conversant with
the history of art in this country, you need
not be told that this gentleman has long borne
the enviable reputation of being our best engraver
of the human figure. It is also a well-known
fact, that he has executed some remarkable
pictures in the way of portraiture
and fanciful history; but as he is now devoting
himself principally to landscape, I shall
consider his merits in this department alone.
His only imaginative landscapes, are a pair,
allegorically portraying the “Morning and
Evening” of human life. In one, the monuments
of art and the works of nature are in
their prime, and a halo of hope seems to surround
the brow of every living creature, young
men and maidens, and dancing children. In
the other, the same monuments and the same
nature are falling to decay, and most of earth’s
children are trembling under the weary load
of life. And here, on a fallen column, is seated
an old man leaning upon his staff, and listening,
as it were, to a song of memory, as it recalls
the unnumbered joys of other days. A saddening
subject, in reality, is here portrayed, but how
has the genius of the painter endowed it with
a spirit of immortality! To the thoughtful
235
mind, it possesses a world of eloquence, and
touches the heart with the thrill of poetry.
Considered as a maiden effort in the most exalted
branch of landscape painting, it affords
abundant reason to believe that Mr. Durand
would accomplish great things in this department,
if he would but persevere. The only
fault I can find with it, is this—in the idea of
its design, and in some parts of its execution,
it bears too close a resemblance to the Departure
and Return, or the Past and Present,
of Thomas Cole.
The majority of Mr. Durand’s landscapes I
should designate as actual views and fanciful
pictures; and here, I think, he is without a superior.
In the choice of subjects, he always
displays an exquisite taste; and as he paints
with great care, and finishes highly, there is an
indescribable summer-day charm about his
pictures which is peculiarly their own. The
three most difficult things in nature for an
artist to delineate, are trees, atmospheres, and
figures; but all these have been thoroughly
mastered by Mr. Durand. His trees are strongly
characteristic, and his figures numerous, happily
introduced, and accurately drawn. Of
his views, I mostly admire “Lake Geneva,”
236
“Shakspeare’s Church,” two “Views in Switzerland,”
“Island of Capri,” “Deserted Road-side,”
“Farm Yard on the Hudson,” “Oak
Tree with horses under it,” and a “View on
the Rhine.” Each one of these is a perfect
gem, a beautiful and poetical reproduction of
the original scene. But the most unique and
superb of all his paintings, is a fanciful picture
of a large size, exhibiting an extensive
lake in a wilderness. The sun is on the
verge of the horizon, the sky is studded with
an array of most gorgeous clouds, and the surface
of the lake is quivering under the pinions
of an evening breeze. In one corner of the
foreground is a cluster of luxuriant trees, encircled
with grape-vines, and in the other, an
admirable rock, on which is standing a solitary
heron, the only living creature in the whole
scene. The great triumph of this picture is
in the water—the gold-tipt waves.
The last time I saw Mr. Durand, he was
finishing some studies of chestnut trees in
blossom, which stand on the margin of Esopus
Creek. They are wonderfully true to nature,
and will enhance his reputation, even if he
should not paint anything more during the
coming summer. But I hope that he may
237
not only live to do this, but to paint a dozen
summers more, and a dozen pictures in each
summer; for he is a great artist, and an honor
to his native country.
Huntington. Although this gentleman is
under thirty years of age, he has produced
many admirable pictures, which place him on
a level with the most gifted artists of any
country. He commenced his career by painting
landscapes, many of which were wood-scenes
and waterfalls on the Rondout. They
are remarkable for their rich coloring, and
dashing style of execution. But it is as a
portrait and historical painter that he is most
celebrated. In both these departments his
power is wonderful. Eight years ago he was
a pupil of Mr. Morse, but now is an acknowledged
master, and the pride of his profession.
He uses the most glowing colors, and yet
there is a perfect harmony in all he paints; he
handles the pencil in a fine off-hand style, and
yet his flesh possesses the softness of the
reality; he can take the most ordinary head,
and by his arrangement and his faculty
of exalting his subject, make an interesting
picture, while at the same time it will be a
speaking likeness. Of his portraits, the most
238
superb are those of his father, an uncle and aunt,
“The Venetian Girl,” the “Roman Girl,” and
“Shepherd Boy of the Campagna.” The last
of these, which we think is equal to Murillo’s
“Beggar Boy,” was painted in the incredible
short period of four hours. If this fact and this
picture do not prove Huntington to be a wonderful
genius, we do not know what could do so.
But even all the pictures just mentioned are
eclipsed by his two historical ones, taken from
the Pilgrim’s Progress, viz.: “Mercy’s Dream,”
and “Christiana and Family passing through
the Valley of the Shadow of Death.” In the
first, Mercy is in a reclining position, resting
on one arm, with her face raised heavenward,
while the angel hovering above her is on the
point of placing the crown upon her head. In
her position there may be something a little
unnatural, and the expression of the angel
may be somewhat too earthly; but where, in
the whole range of art, is there anything more
beautifully designed, more accurately drawn,
or more richly colored? In the other picture,
Christiana and her family are represented on a
rock overlooking a valley of flame. At first
we are startled by a feeling of terror, but
when the eye falls upon the principal figure,
239
her upraised countenance beaming with holy
confidence and hope, the first impulse vanishes,
and the heart throbs with peaceful joy.
The soul depicted in that countenance, its
conception and execution, is a triumph of art
which we believe can never be surpassed.
But the interest does not stop here. What a
world of poetry has the painter portrayed in
the eldest son attempting to shield the loved
ones from the impending danger, and in the
youngest child cleaving to its mother for protection!
All, in fact, look to Christiana for
safety, while she, with the meekness of childhood,
looks calmly up to the Almighty. I
should rather be the author of that painting
than of any others of superior merit. Oh, it
is a blessed thing to see genius consecrating
its powers to the promotion of His glory, from
whom all genius flows! Huntington possesses
both great and good qualities, and we trust
that his sojourn in Europe will not be prolonged
beyond an extensive tour.
Edmonds. This gentleman, who occupies
the responsible station of cashier in a bank, is
considered one of the ablest financiers in New
York, while, at the same time, he enjoys a
remarkable reputation as an artist. His paintings
240
are comparatively few, owing to his peculiar
situation, and to the correct notion which
he entertains, that a work of art should not
be exhibited to the public until its author has
done his best to make it perfect. His style of
coloring is warm and glowing, and his drawing
exceedingly accurate. As a designer, he
is more particular than our artists generally;
and very few, I think, understand the principles
of composition so well. He is a man of
quite extensive reading, and of expansive mind,
and his pictures are an index to the humor
which it contains. They are of a comical
character, and never fail to tell their story at
a single glance. They are always intended to
make you laugh, and are, therefore, agreeable
helpers on to a long life; and sometimes possess
an undercurrent of poetry or philosophy,
which makes them voiceless preachers to the
thinking man. His best pictures are the “Newspaper
Boy,” “The Country and City Beaux,”
“Sparking,” “The Bashful Cousin,” “Italian
Mendicants,” “The Epicure,” and “Stealing
Milk.” The first represents a large room
thronged with men, women, and children,
into the midst of whom a ragged boy has
entered to sell his Sunday morning papers. In
241
the second we have a charming country lady
and her accepted lover, suddenly surprised by
the appearance of a city dandy; and while the
latter is nettled by the appearance of things,
the former, who is rocking himself in an arm-chair,
very coolly puffs the smoke of his cigar
into the face of his disappointed rival. In the
next, a country damsel is peeling apples before
a large blazing fire, while a hearty fellow is
talking to her, “solemnly and slow,” about his
heart and other kindred matters. In the next,
a bashful young fellow is taking leave of his
friends, who urge him to sit down to tea,
which is now ready. The next is a blind old
man, led by a little girl, asking alms in the
streets of Rome. In the Epicure, we have a
butcher displaying his nice things to an old
gentleman, almost eaten up in health by rich
living. In the last, we have a school-boy in
his mother’s pantry, swallowing large quantities
of rich cream, who is discovered by his
“anxious Ma” in the very act. All things
considered, I think Mr. Edmonds one of the
most remarkable men of the age, and hope
that he may live to make many more additions
to the genius-stamped treasures of American
art.
242
Page. Here we come to another honored
artist, but one who has been greatly over-rated;
not a man of genius, but one of rare,
of extraordinary talent. As a mere portrait
painter or map-taker, he is without a rival, I
believe, in any country. The man who sits
to him for a likeness, must expect to have
every hair on his face delineated to perfection,
but must not expect to have himself exalted
or intellectualized. This is a thing which
Page has never done, and can never do, and
consequently he will never excel as an historical
painter. I am warranted in making
this assertion by looking at his past efforts in
this department? What admirable execution
has he squandered on his picture of “The
Whistle,” his “Prison Scene,” and lately in
his “Ecce Homo.” In coloring and drawing,
these pictures cannot be surpassed; but how
very inferior are they in conception, and especially
the last! Surely, the Saviour of the
world could never have borne so physical a
countenance as Page has here conceived! It
is understood, that he is engaged on a large
picture, to be called “Jephtha’s Daughter.”
I sincerely hope that he may triumph there,
but I cannot but doubt. Parts of it I know
243
will be astonishingly fine, but, as a whole, it
will be a failure. I have been thus free in
my remarks concerning this artist, because he
is lauded as a great genius, which I am not
willing to acknowledge, although I admire
him as a portrait painter. His style of coloring
is not easily described, for it varies with every
one of his subjects, now pale as death or red
as a cherry, and now blue as sapphire or green
as an emerald. If I desired my children to
behold their very Pa long after he is in the
grave, I would rather have Page paint me
than any other man. His greatest portraits
are those of Mrs. Ridner, a single head and
with a child, of Lowell the poet, of Mr. Leup,
and of himself.
Mount. Three cheers for the laughter-loving
and incomparable genius of Stony
Brook, whom I know to be a first-rate fisherman,
and a most pathetic player on the violin.
Here is a man who stands alone in the art of
painting, for, in everything he does, he is
entirely original. His productions are stamped
with an entirely American character, and so
comically conceived, that they always cause
the beholder to smile, whatever may be his
troubles. His coloring is what we call cold,
244
but remarkable for its fidelity; and his power
and knowledge of drawing are superior to
those of any other man in the country. Unlike
Mr. Edmonds, he pays but little attention
to designing by rule, but in expression, he
always lays himself out, and I know not that
he has ever failed, in a single instance, to
delineate the character he aimed at. He is
peculiar in the habit of tasking his own mind
for his subjects, so that you never see him
illustrating the pages of any writer, historian,
poet or wit. And this is a feature I greatly
admire. The man who cannot conceive and
execute a picture on his own hook entirely, is
nothing but a copyist, whatever may be his
knowledge of the art. Thinking and strictly
original painters, are the only ones that exert a
lasting and salutary influence on the pictorial
genius of their country, and Mr. Mount, I am
glad to know, is emphatically one of these.
But let me glance at those pictures which I
believe warrant the foregoing opinions. Their
general character may be imagined by their
titles, which are as follows: “Cider Making,”
“The Raffle,” “Tough Yarn,” “Fortune
Telling,” “Bargaining for a Horse,” “Gamesters
Surprised,” “Winding Up,” “Ringing a
245
Hog,” “Artist showing his Work,” “The last
Clam,” “Hoeing Corn,” “Husking Corn,”
“Rustic Dance,” and “Rabbit Catching.” In
the first, we have a Long Island cider mill, with
all the laughable appurtenances thereof. In
the next, a company of loafers in a country
bar-room are raffling for a goose, illustrating
the proverb, that “birds of a feather flock
together.” The next picture, a lame old
“covey” telling a story to two impatient gentlemen,
which has been illustrated by an
admirable story from the pen of Seba Smith,
Esq. In the next, a couple of farmers, in a
barn-yard, are discussing the merits of a “slick
looking” horse hitched to a fence, one of them
rolling a stone with his foot, and the other
whittling a stick. In the next, we have some
truant boys, who have stolen into a barn to
play “heads or tails,” who are discovered by
the farmer; and while he approaches cautiously,
with a long stick in his hand and vengeance
in his eye, one of the boys is frightened by
the approaching step, but another is so absorbed
in the game, that a nameless portion of
his body is about to sting under the chastising
stroke. The next exhibits a gentleman lover
holding a skein of yarn for a buxom country
246
damsel. The next, is a painted “concord of
sharp sounds.” In the next, an artist is showing
a country farmer a picture, which causes
him great delight. The next, portrays the
garret of a disappointed bachelor, seated before
a fireless fireplace, and mourning over the
departure of a few clams, the shells of which
are on the hearth at his feet. The four remaining
pictures are described in their titles.
The man who could paint such a variety of
subjects, ought assuredly to be a good portrait
painter; and Mr. Mount is such. His portraits
are only occasionally executed, and for particular
friends, and the former only when the
spirit moves him, for he is a creature of impulse.
And besides, his health has ever been
of a delicate nature, which will not suffer him
to “bone” down to labor. This fact, I presume,
will be a satisfactory answer to those
who are continually inquiring, “Why don’t
Mount paint more?” The pictures he has
produced, admirable and numerous as they
are, are but as the bud to the fruit, when we
consider his great capacity. I hope that it may
be his fortune to enjoy a long and happy life,
and that he may make many more additions to
American art.
247
Doughty. This gentleman has long been a
favorite landscape painter with the public, and
has executed many exceedingly beautiful pictures,
principally of a fanciful character. In
number they are too great, which is his misfortune
and not his fault. He has been obliged to
paint at a cheap price, or the public would have
let him starve to death, as they would any other
artist, or a man of refined and exalted taste.
And having painted so much, it is not to be
wondered at that many of his productions
should have been too hastily done, and that
there should be a sameness in his subjects.
Finishing, as he generally does, with great
care, it always gratifies the eye to behold his
pictures; but it is obvious that he has never
painted much from nature, for there is a monotony
in his touch, which cannot escape the
criticism of the attentive student of foliage.
There are some, however, and very important
features too, in landscape painting, which are
completely mastered by Mr. Doughty, and in
which he is without a rival, either in Cole,
Durand, or Huntington. His skies and water are
the most true and beautiful that we have ever
seen. A carefully painted waterfall by Doughty,
is a picture of rare excellence and great
248
value. His atmospheres, too, are sometimes
most exquisitely conceived and executed.
Good figures are the principal things wanting
in his paintings to make some of them nearly
perfect, and his inability to paint them is undoubtedly
another reason for the sameness
of his subjects. When a man paints without
a story or a moral in view, it is difficult to
designate his pictures; but our favorites among
those of Mr. Doughty, are a large “upright”
with waterfall, an autumn scene, owned in
Boston, another sold to the Apollo Association,
and a scene on Lake George.
Wier. This gentleman is the accomplished
teacher of drawing at the Academy of West
Point. The majority of his productions, which
are numerous, give evidence of his possessing
extensive literary acquirements, a refined mind,
and brilliant imagination. He is the author of
a number of pleasing landscapes, the best of
which, “Constable Bourbon’s March to Rome,”
has been illustrated by the pen of Gulian C.
Verplanck. The amusing pictures, called the
“Boat Club,” and “St. Nicholas,” have proven,
that if he would attempt it, he might excel in
that department of the art occupied by Mount
249
and Edmonds. But it is as an historical
painter, that his name will live, and is now
mostly celebrated. His drawing is remarkably
correct, his coloring rich, and his style of execution
highly finished. Another qualification
belonging to his works, and one which makes
us love the man, is, that they are purely
American. Who that has seen it, can ever
forget his full-length portrait of “Red Jacket,”
the warrior and orator of the Senecas? Aside
from the noble subject, it is unquestionably
the most faithful and competent delineation of
Indian character to be found; and who that
has ever seen the “Indian Captives,” by the
same hand, has not mourned over the fate of
the much wronged Aborigines of our land,
even as “brave men mourn the brave?” In
this painting, we have an Indian and his
squaw, in prison, and an English soldier warning
them of their impending fate. Although
it is an intensely interesting scene, yet the
painter has not availed himself of a single
“face divine,” which I fancy to be a beautifully
poetic idea, and could not be carried out
but by a man of genius. Mr. Wier is one
of the four artists appointed by the General
Government to execute four paintings for the
250
Rotunda at Washington. The subject of his,
is the “Departure of the Pilgrims from
Leyden;” but as I have not yet seen it, I
am unable to express an opinion as to its
merits.
Inman. The reputation of this gentleman
as a portrait painter is very extensive, and he
has ever commanded a higher price than any
other in New York. His productions are very
numerous, and there is not a single branch of
the art in which he has not made some successful
attempts. His coloring is rich and life-like,
his style of execution exceedingly bold
and free. Painting as he does with great
rapidity, we find that his drawing is seldom
as correct as it should be. He manifests a
refined and exalted taste in the arrangements
of his portraits, and generally in his miscellaneous
designs. But, after all, he has painted
some poor pictures, and this is an evidence of
the fact, that he is a man of uncommon
genius, and not talent. There is a wonderful
spirit in his heads, and unlike his rival, Page,
he portrays the mind, which, after all, is a
greater triumph of art, and far more important
in a portrait, than the mere shell of humanity,
as delineated by Page. His full-length portrait
251
of Macready, as William Tell, is a masterly
performance, well conceived, well colored, and
well drawn; and among his miscellaneous
pictures, the most remarkable, are—“Rip Van
Winkle,” “Bride of Lammermoor,” “Mumble
the Peg,” and “News-Boy;” all of them possessing
many peculiar beauties, with some
glaring faults. Of his plain portraits, I would
mention only two as good specimens of
his skill in general, namely, those of Nicholas
Biddle and Bishop White. I do not deem
it within the power of any man to go beyond
these in portraying the body of man and the
soul within. Mr. Inman is also one of those
artists honored by a commission from the
Government for a 10,000 dollar painting. I
understand that he is very far behind-hand in
his great undertaking. I know, however, that
he has met with some sad misfortune, which
may be the cause; but I trust that he will
soon be at work, and may accomplish a national
work worthy of his ability and his
fame.
Ingham. This gentleman is one of the
most celebrated and unique of all our portrait
painters. His style is emphatically his own,
and may be designated as that of exquisite
252
finishing. You can never discern the traces
of his pencil, and the reason is, he produces
his effect by successive glazing. His pictures
are distinguished for their transparency, richness
of color, and harmony; and being a man
of sentiment and delicate feeling, he is the
universal favorite among the ladies, and probably
the most faultless painter in this country
of those charming but incomprehensible creations
of Heaven. His best productions are
the portraits of “Miss McNevin,” “Mr. Dunlap,”
“Dr. Channing,” and the “White
Plume;” and as genuine works of art, are
inferior to nothing in the whole range of that
department. That of Dr. Channing, is one of
the best specimens of soul painting that I
have ever seen, and any one familiar only with
the writings of the great original, could not
fail to select this portrait as his, from the midst
of a hundred of other men, so full is it of
expression, and so perfect and exalted is the
effect of the painter. Ingham is a man of
genius as well as talent, a friend to young
artists, and an honor to American art.
Chapman. All hail to this poetical and
ready artist, and accomplished gentleman, who
has executed first-rate pictures in almost every
253
department of painting! His coloring is rather
gaudy and paint-like, but his drawing, when
he takes pains, is correct and vigorous. His
knowledge of design is profound, and his conception
of a picture is quick, and always in
admirable taste. He has been a devoted
student of the old masters, and copied more
celebrated paintings than any other American.
Having been an extensive traveller throughout
the United States, and ever being on the lookout
for valuable subjects to paint, and a lover of
historical lore, he has collected a large quantity
of valuable materials, the whole of which I
hope he may live to embody in national paintings.
It was he who received the commission
from Government to paint the third picture
(Vanderlyn is at work on the fourth) for
the Rotunda at Washington, and he has manfully
fulfilled his obligation in the execution
of the “Baptism of Pocahontas.” Some of
his other prominent pictures, are “Hagar and
Ishmael fainting in the wilderness,” full length
portrait of “David Crocket,” “Beppo,” “The
First Ship,” a large historical landscape representing
“The Retreat from Fort Necessity,”
and a full length of “Washington in his
youth.” These, however, are but a small portion
254
of what he has done, for he is one of the
most industrious men living. He is also a
complete master of sketching, and as he has a
historical mind, his efforts of this kind are
very beautiful and very numerous. He is
without a rival in this lucrative branch of art,
and for the past two years has mostly been
devoted to it, and is consequently a favorite
among booksellers. He is a lover of the
“poor Indian,” and has done much toward
perpetuating their personal and national characteristics.
Among the many things which
now occupy his time, is an American Drawing
Book, which is what we very much need in
this country, and his I know will be a superb
and valuable one in every point of view.
Harvey. This gentleman is a landscape
painter of rare merit; but many of his pictures,
unfortunately for us, are owned in England.
His principal work, and one which places him
in a very high rank, is Forty Atmospheric
Views in the United States, executed in watercolors,
and in a style of uncommon beauty.
He is a good draftsman, and possesses a remarkable
eye for color, and everything from
his pencil teems with sentiment and poetry.
His contemplated work of “American Scenery,”
255
when published after his own expensive
plan, will be an invaluable acquisition to our
treasury of art, and I hope that it may be received
by the public with the favor it so
richly deserves.
Such is the array of painters, of which the
emporium of America may well be proud.
Fame must ever attend their names, as surely
as it is attending those of West, Copley, Stuart,
Allston, Jarvis, Trumbull, and Malbone, among
the dead; and Sully, King, Harding, Fisher,
Neagle, Morse, Vanderlyn, and Audubon, among
the living of other cities;—altogether making
a company which would reflect honor on any
nation in the world.
256
A SONG OF MEMORY. — JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY ARE PUBLISHERS OF NOTES ON CUBA. — JAMES MUNROE AND CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. TWICE TOLD TALES. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.
The din of the great world is hushed, and
the vexatious cares, which have occupied my
mind during the day, are all dispelled; and
again, for a little while, I am left alone. The
evening lamps are not yet lighted, but the fire
in the grate burns brightly, so that the shadows
on the wall are distinct and clear, but continually
changing, even as my own wayward
thoughts. Wayward they are at all times, I
confess, but most strangely so when my spirit
forgets the present, and the hereafter, and
holds communion with the realities of by-gone
years. Time has not yet set his signet on my
brow, for it was but yesterday that my timid
footsteps crossed the threshold of manhood; so
that the years gone by, with me, are comprised
in the budding and the blossoming seasons of
childhood and youth. But with these, what a
world of joys and griefs, of smiles and tears,
257
are entwined, which the fond memory strangely
delights to recall. I know not how it is
with others, but to me the voice of memory is
sometimes plaintive as the evening breeze, when
sporting with the flowers in the garden of the
dead. I am even now listening to that voice;
and the burden of its song, I shall trace upon
this page.
It were not wise to “look mournfully into
the past,” for we know that “it comes not
back again.” But it were well to ponder,
deeply ponder, the history of our past lives,
and analyze the motives which have ever influenced
our conduct. How little can we
remember, which will be of service to us,
when we are called to die. But how many
things there are, the remembrance of which
inclines us to shed penitent tears, and heave
the sigh of regret. Ours is a frail and sinful
nature; not a day passes away, that does not
take with it the record of many sins, which
we have committed in word, thought, and
deed.
How many unkind words have we spoken
to our parents, who have chided us for unworthy
conduct; to a sister or brother, who
have thwarted us—unconsciously, perhaps, or
258
for our own good, in our thoughtless and
head-strong desires; to some squalid beggar,
whose misfortune it was to solicit our aid,
when we were perplexed with the cares of
business, or absorbed with some dream of
opulence and renown; to a party of innocent
children, who have chanced to disturb our
moroseness by a natural and heartfelt shout of
happiness and a laugh of joy; and even to our
Maker, in the form of an oath, when we have
been disappointed in some of our ambitious
designs. Lightly spoken, it may be, were
many of these words, but they are not lightly
considered by our Creator, as we shall know
at the judgment day.
How many selfish thoughts have we cherished
in our bosoms, which we knew were
desperately wicked, and which we would have
blushed to proclaim; thought of hate and
revenge, of hypocrisy and pride, of envy and
sensuality. Do not the nature of these, and
their great number, make us ashamed to own
ourselves the lords of the brute creation, creatures
made in the image of God?
How many wicked and debasing deeds have
we committed which we would fain recall, or
annihilate, but for which we must at last
259
render a reasonably excuse, or suffer, unless
the recording angel in heaven should drop a
tear upon the page, where they are written
down, and blot them out forever. In a fit of
anger we may have rudely struck a friend or
brother; we have flattered the unsuspecting
only to deceive and make them wretched;
we have trifled with the misfortunes of the
poverty stricken, the deformed, and the ignorant;
in a thousand ways we have broken
the commandments of our Lord and Saviour,
and instead of God, we have worshipped
Baal; we have not loved our Bible, the holy
sanctuary, and the duty of prayer; we have
misimproved our time, neglected many opportunities
for doing good, and instead of giving
a portion of our money to the poor heathen,
who are perishing for the want of the bread of
life all over the world, we have spent it all
in administering to our own sensual
gratifications.
Yes, it is too true, and the recollection of it
should make us humble ourselves in the dust,
that the words, thoughts, and deeds of our
past lives, which we have reason deeply to
regret, are more in number than the sands
upon the sea-shore. But because they cannot
260
be numbered, we must not omit to remember
and meditate upon them. We should use
them as a medicine, not in too great abundance,
lest they make us sick, and not too
sparingly, less they produce not their desired
effect.
Unenviable indeed is the condition of that
man, who can dwell upon his moral character
for a series of years, or even for a single week,
and not find much to mourn over and regret.
Sin and sorrow are our inheritance, and it is
natural, therefore, and good for us, to have our
cheeks occasionally moistened by regretful
tears. Sometimes, too, there is a luxury in
tears, which the breaking heart alone can
know; and that proud man who is ashamed
to weep, deserves to have pointed at him the
finger of scorn.
At the mention of that word regret, memory
calls up a long array of beings whom I
once loved most tenderly, but who are gone
away to a country whence they can never
return. Some had just pushed their little
bark upon the stream of time, which flowed
onward with a murmur “soft, gentle, and
low,” and whose banks were covered with
flowers. Some were in the strength and
261
buoyancy of youth; others in the full vigor of
manhood; and a few were tottering along,
“wrinkled and bent, and white with hoary
hairs.” I knew them, I loved them, and they
died. I regret that they are gone, because
they were the friends and counsellors of my
early days. Deeply, indeed, do I mourn their
absence, but I would not, even if I could, call
them back again, for they have been transformed,
as I trust, into the glorious image of
their Creator, and his bosom is their home.
In my hours of loneliness I am always
strengthened by the hope, that when I too
shall have passed the troubled waves of
Jordan, I shall meet them again, and remain
with them forever. O! yes, it is a nameless
feeling of regret that oppresses me when I
think, that upon the earth never more shall I
listen to their voices, who once charmed my
ear, and look upon their smiles, who once
gladdened my heart. But often in my dreams
do I behold them in their angelic robes, hovering
in the ethereal atmosphere of heaven, and
they are always beckoning to me, and pointing
to a great white throne, whose foundations are
everlasting. They are calling me away, but I
cannot go, for my earthly pilgrimage is not
262
yet ended. To secure the crown of Immortality,
with which they endeavor to allure me,
is my chief ambition; and though a thousand
regrets are the burden of the song of Memory,
yet I feel and hope that I shall at last obtain
it, through the mercy and love of my
Redeemer.
Lo! the voice of Memory is speaking to me
in another tone, mournfully pleasing to the
soul. It is telling me of the morning of life,
which was cheerful as the singing of birds,
and loving as the opening of spring, when not
a cloud arose to mar its beauty, or obscure the
bright sun of innocence and youth; when
every sense was gratified, every flower was
sweet, and every rose without a thorn; when
every kiss was a pledge of affection, and every
friend was true; and when my cheeks were
blooming with health, and my eyes beaming
with joy. True, the sun has not yet reached
the meridian, but far different from those of the
morning are the associations of the early noon.
Alas! it is with regret I remember the truth,
that “I am not now that which I have been.”
Weary and heavy laden as I am, my course is
onward, and my heart is strong.
Memory is telling me of my childhood’s
263
home, the dearest and most lovely spot on the
face of the earth, and I regret that I can visit
it only in my dreams. It is telling me the
thrilling legends which fascinated my boyish
imagination, when, with my bow and arrows,
and clad in my hunting garb, I used to visit
the Indian villages of Michigan. The better I
have ever become acquainted with the red
man of the wilderness, the more deeply have I
loved him, and the more highly have I honored
his character; and I regret that I cannot
now, as of yore, chase with him the bounding
deer, and paddle the light canoe. I regret that
he is an exile and a stranger in the very land
which gave him birth, and which, by the laws
of nations and of God, is rightfully his own.
Memory is telling me of those matchless lakes,
Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie, whose
every inlet almost I have explored, and from
many of whose cliffs I have watched the most
glorious of sunsets—those lakes with whose
waves in summer it was my delight to sport,
and over whose icy-plains in winter I took
the lead in skating, and used to drive the swift
Canadian pacer in the swan-like carriole. Of
those rivers, too, the Detroit, the St. Clair, the
St. Joseph, the Huron, and the Raisin, in
264
whose transparent waters I have often caught
the sturgeon, the pickerel, and the bass, and
along whose borders I have hunted the plover
and the duck. Of those glorious forests, the
homes of solitude and silence, where I was
wont to be so happy alone with my God. Of
those prairies, “boundless and beautiful, for
which the speech of England has no name,”
where I used to wander in dreamy mood,
gathering the richest of flowers, with which to
adorn the neck and forelock of my favorite
steed. These are but the beginnings of the
innumerable scenes, which are the themes of
my memory. I regret that it is my lot to live
so far removed from all these things, which
are fast passing away, and that my pursuits
compel me to live in a world of art, of business,
and fashion.
And now come the recollections of the past
summer, which I have attempted to commemorate
in the foregoing letters. I know not with
what feelings you may have perused them, but
to me they are very dear, on account of the
feelings and conceptions with which they are
associated, and these are a kind of treasure,
that my heart cherishes as the miser does his
gold. Much of the time, during my various
265
journeyings have I been alone, and I have held
a blessed communion with my mother nature,—not
only in the morning and at noon, but in
the calm evening and in the most holy night.
Thou hast, O Nature, instructed me in the
“magic of thy mysteries,” and given my
spirit an idea of its immortal destiny. I thank
thee for having, even in my infancy, consecrated
my affections to thy rational worship.
Next to those of revealed religion are thy
consolations. Thou art the Empress of a
world of poetry, and yet the great human
world is familiar only with thy name. Next
to my Creator, thou hast proven thyself my
most faithful friend, and when I cease to love
thee as I now do, may my right hand forget
its cunning, and the silver cord of my life be
forever loosened. In all my mortal pilgrimage
may I be influenced by thy teachings, so that
when I come to be an immortal, I may be
fitted for a station at the footstool of God.
267
Containing an account of its Discovery and Early History; a description
of the face of the country, its population, resources
and wealth, its institutions, and the manners and
customs of its inhabitants; with directions to
travellers visiting the Island.
By A PHYSICIAN.
12mo. pp. 359.
“The main purposes of this volume is to serve as a guide and a
companion to invalids, travellers, and others who may visit Cuba.
There is no other work of this character in the English language,
nor in any language is there a book which embraces the information
which is contained in this. The directions to travellers for their
guidance, comfort and conduct, are very full, and we may add, very
necessary. Then we have a methodical arrangement of matter
which presents us with a complete and exceedingly interesting narrative,
seeming to anticipate every question, and to draw a full picture
of the country, of its inhabitants, their employments and characteristics.
The towns upon the island, with its general scenery,
curiosities and striking objects, are described in full. The history,
the geology, the government and commerce of the island, are noticed
at length, and present the results of an evidently laborious investigation,
and a faithful use of the eyes. The resources which a traveller
or visitor will find for occupying his time, or for amusing himself,
have their full share of space. The whole volume, coming
from a source which stamps it with a high authority, is a valuable
addition to our libraries, and will be much prized by those who read
it.”—Christian Register.
“A well written, carefully printed, and instructive book, by a
Physician. No invalid who seeks the blissful climate of Cuba,
should leave home without this best of all guides and counsellors.
We are delighted with the valuable contribution which he has made
to history, as well as with the intelligence and good judgment he
evinces as a physician. In recommending the Notes on Cuba to
medical readers and voyagers, it would be unjust not to recommend
it also to the whole reading community.”—Boston Medical Journal.
“Notes on Cuba, by an American Physician. This is a truly valuable
and interesting book, both to the invalid intending to visit
Cuba in search of health, and to the general reader, and supplies a
gap in literature which it is surprising has not long ago been filled.
The work is well written, and affords very pleasant reading. The
author is known to us, and we can assure the readers of the work
that it is entirely authentic, and entitled to the most entire confidence.”—New
Bedford Bulletin.
268
2 vols. 12mo., elegantly printed on clear type and fine paper, and neatly bound in cloth, gilt.
“To this little work we would say, ‘Live ever, sweet, sweet book.’
It comes from the hand of a man of genius. Every thing about it
has the freshness of morning and of May. * * * * The book, though
in prose, was written by a poet. * * * A calm, thoughtful face seems
to be looking at you from every page. * * One of the most prominent
characteristics of these tales is, that they are national in their character.
The author has wisely chosen his themes among the traditions
of New England. * * Another characteristic of this writer is the exceeding
beauty of his style. It is as clear as running waters are. Indeed
he uses words as mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free
and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and recrosses the bright and
rushing stream of thought. * * In speaking in terms of such high
praise as we have done, we have given utterance not alone to our own
feelings, but we trust to those of all gentle readers of the Twice Told
Tales. Like children we say, ‘Tell us more.’”—North American
Review.
“The Tales are worth twice telling and a dozen readings.”—Boston
Courier.
“A book like this, evincing a mind of such peculiar organization,
may, or may not become popular; but whether they read it or not,
the public may be assured, that in this unpretending volume by a
countryman and neighbor, they will find more of that which indicates
thought in the writer, and begets thought in the reader, than
in nine-tenths of the English reprints, which are so eagerly devoured.”—Boston
Daily Advertiser.
“Mr. Hawthorne’s style is rich, refined, and graceful, and the present
volume is an ornament to the literature of our country.”—Boston
Atlas.
“This modest volume, which comes before us without preface, or
any sort of an appeal to the public regard, is well calculated to stand
on its own merits, and to acquire enduring popularity. The author
possesses the power of winning immediate attention, and of sustaining
it, by a certain ingenuous sincerity, and by the force of a style
at once simple and graceful. In all his descriptions, whether of
scenes or emotions, nature is his only guide. In short, in quiet humor,
in genuine pathos, and deep feeling, and in a style equally unstudied
and pure, the author of ‘Twice Told Tales’ has few equals,
and with perhaps one or two eminent exceptions, no superior in our
country. We confidently and cordially, therefore, commend the
beautiful volume to the attention of our readers.”—Knickerbocker.
Transcriber’s Note
Added author's name (in red) on the title page.
Silently corrected a few obvious typographical errors.
The book cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the
public domain.
