an unpremeditated moment. We will not follow our friend across the
threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of which
shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a figure. Amid the
seeming confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely
adjusted to a system, and systems to one another, and to a whole, that,
by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk
of losing his place forever. Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were,
the Outcast of the Universe.
Drowne's Wooden Image
One sunshiny morning, in the good old times of the town of Boston, a
young carver in wood, well known by the name of Drowne, stood
contemplating a large oaken log, which it was his purpose to convert
into the figure-head of a vessel. And while he discussed within his own
mind what sort of shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon this
excellent piece of timber, there came into Drowne's workshop a certain
Captain Hunnewell, owner and commander of the good brig called the
Cynosure, which had just returned from her first voyage to Fayal.
"Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do!" cried the jolly captain,
tapping the log with his ratan. "I bespeak this very piece of oak for
the figure-head of the Cynosure. She has shown herself the sweetest
craft that ever floated, and I mean to decorate her prow with the
handsomest image that the skill of man can cut out of timber. And,
Drowne, you are the fellow to execute it."
"You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain Hunnewell," said the
carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of eminence in his art. "But,
for the sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do my best. And which of
these designs do you prefer? Here,"--pointing to a staring, half-length
figure, in a white wig and scarlet coat,--"here is an excellent model,
the likeness of our gracious king. Here is the valiant Admiral Vernon.
Or, if you prefer a female figure, what say you to Britannia with the
trident?"
"All very fine, Drowne; all very fine," answered the mariner. "But as
nothing like the brig ever swam the ocean, so I am determined she shall
have such a figure-head as old Neptune never saw in his life. And what
is more, as there is a secret in the matter, you must pledge your credit
not to betray it."
"Certainly," said Drowne, marvelling, however, what possible mystery
there could be in reference to an affair so open, of necessity, to the
inspection of all the world as the figure-head of a vessel. "You may
depend, Captain, on my being as secret as the nature of the case will
permit."
Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, and communicated his
wishes in so low a tone that it would be unmannerly to repeat what was
evidently intended for the carver's private ear. We shall, therefore,
take the opportunity to give the reader a few desirable particulars
about Drowne himself.
He was the first American who is known to have attempted--in a very
humble line, it is true--that art in which we can now reckon so many
names already distinguished, or rising to distinction. From his earliest
boyhood he had exhibited a knack,--for it would be too proud a word to
call it genius,--a knack, therefore, for the imitation of the human
figure in whatever material came most readily to hand. The snows of a
New England winter had often supplied him with a species of marble as
dazzlingly white, at least, as the Parian or the Carrara, and if less
durable, yet sufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanent
existence possessed by the boy's frozen statues. Yet they won admiration
from maturer judges than his schoolfellows, and were, indeed, remarkably
clever, though destitute of the native warmth that might have made the
snow melt beneath his hand. As he advanced in life, the young man
adopted pine and oak as eligible materials for the display of his skill,
which now began to bring him a return of solid silver as well as the
empty praise that had been an apt reward enough for his productions of
evanescent snow. He became noted for carving ornamental pump-heads, and
wooden urns for gate-posts, and decorations, more grotesque than
fanciful, for mantel-pieces. No apothecary would have deemed himself in
the way of obtaining custom, without setting up a gilded mortar, if not
a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful hand of Drowne.
But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture of
figure-heads for vessels. Whether it were the monarch himself, or some
famous British admiral or general, or the governor of the province, or
perchance the favorite daughter of the ship-owner, there the image stood
above the prow, decked out in gorgeous colors, magnificently gilded, and
staring the whole world out of countenance, as if from an innate
consciousness of its own superiority. These specimens of native
sculpture had crossed the sea in all directions, and been not ignobly
noticed among the crowded shipping of the Thames, and wherever else the
hardy mariners of New England had pushed their adventures. It must be
confessed that a family likeness pervaded these respectable progeny of
Drowne's skill; that the benign countenance of the king resembled those
of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the merchant's daughter,
bore a remarkable similitude to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of
the allegoric sisterhood; and, finally, that they all had a kind of
wooden aspect, which proved an intimate relationship with the unshaped
blocks of timber in the carver's workshop. But at least there was no
inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attribute to
render them really works of art, except that deep quality, be it of
soul or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless and warmth upon
the cold, and which, had it been present, would have made Drowne's
wooden image instinct with spirit.
The captain of the Cynosure had now finished his instructions.
"And, Drowne," said he, impressively, "you must lay aside all other
business and set about this forthwith. And as to the price, only do the
job in first-rate style, and you shall settle that point yourself."
"Very well, Captain," answered the carver, who looked grave and somewhat
perplexed, yet had a sort of smile upon his visage; "depend upon it,
I'll do my utmost to satisfy you."
From that moment the men of taste about Long Wharf and the Town Dock who
were wont to show their love for the arts by frequent visits to Drowne's
workshop, and admiration of his wooden images, began to be sensible of a
mystery in the carver's conduct. Often he was absent in the daytime.
Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams of light from the shop-windows,
he was at work until a late hour of the evening; although neither knock
nor voice, on such occasions, could gain admittance for a visitor, or
elicit any word of response. Nothing remarkable, however, was observed
in the shop at those hours when it was thrown open. A fine piece of
timber, indeed, which Drowne was known to have reserved for some work of
especial dignity, was seen to be gradually assuming shape. What shape it
was destined ultimately to take was a problem to his friends and a point
on which the carver himself preserved a rigid silence. But day after
day, though Drowne was seldom noticed in the act of working upon it,
this rude form began to be developed until it became evident to all
observers that a female figure was growing into mimic life. At each new
visit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips and a nearer
approximation to something beautiful. It seemed as if the hamadryad of
the oak had sheltered herself from the unimaginative world within the
heart of her native tree, and that it was only necessary to remove the
strange shapelessness that had incrusted her, and reveal the grace and
loveliness of a divinity. Imperfect as the design, the attitude, the
costume, and especially the face of the image still remained, there was
already an effect that drew the eye from the wooden cleverness of
Drowne's earlier productions and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery
of this new project.
Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young man and a resident of
Boston, came one day to visit Drowne; for he had recognized so much of
moderate ability in the carver as to induce him, in the dearth of
professional sympathy, to cultivate his acquaintance. On entering the
shop the artist glanced at the inflexible image of the king, commander,
dame, and allegory that stood around, on the best of which might have
been bestowed the questionable praise that it looked as if a living man
had here been changed to wood, and that not only the physical, but the
intellectual and spiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation.
But in not a single instance did it seem as if the wood were imbibing
the ethereal essence of humanity. What a wide distinction is here! and
how far would the slightest portion of the latter merit have outvalued
the utmost degree of the former!
"My friend Drowne," said Copley, smiling to himself, but alluding to the
mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariably distinguished the
images, "you are really a remarkable person! I have seldom met with a
man in your line of business that could do so much; for one other touch
might make this figure of General Wolfe, for instance, a breathing and
intelligent human creature."
"You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr. Copley,"
answered Drowne, turning his back upon Wolfe's image in apparent
disgust. "But there has come a light into my mind. I know, what you know
as well, that the one touch which you speak of as deficient is the only
one that would be truly valuable, and that without it these works of
mine are no better than worthless abortions. There is the same
difference between them and the works of an inspired artist as between a
sign-post daub and one of your best pictures."
"This is strange," cried Copley, looking him in the face, which now, as
the painter fancied, had a singular depth of intelligence, though
hitherto it had not given him greatly the advantage over his own family
of wooden images. "What has come over you? How is it that, possessing
the idea which you have now uttered, you should produce only such works
as these?"
The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley turned again to the images,
conceiving that the sense of deficiency which Drowne had just expressed,
and which is so rare in a merely mechanical character, must surely imply
a genius, the tokens of which had heretofore been overlooked. But no;
there was not a trace of it. He was about to withdraw when his eyes
chanced to fall upon a half-developed figure which lay in a corner of
the workshop, surrounded by scattered chips of oak. It arrested him at
once.
"What is here? Who has done this?" he broke out, after contemplating it
in speechless astonishment for an instant. "Here is the divine, the
life-giving touch. What inspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise
and live? Whose work is this?"
"No man's work," replied Drowne. "The figure lies within that block of
oak, and it is my business to find it."
"Drowne," said the true artist, grasping the carver fervently by the
hand, "you are a man of genius!"
As Copley departed, happening to glance backward from the threshold, he
beheld Drowne bending over the half-created shape, and stretching forth
his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn it to his heart; while,
had such a miracle been possible, his countenance expressed passion
enough to communicate warmth and sensibility to the lifeless oak.
"Strange enough!" said the artist to himself. "Who would have looked for
a modern Pygmalion in the person of a Yankee mechanic!"
As yet, the image was but vague in its outward presentment; so that, as
in the cloud-shapes around the western sun, the observer rather felt, or
was led to imagine, than really saw what was intended by it. Day by day,
however, the work assumed greater precision, and settled its irregular
and misty outline into distincter grace and beauty. The general design
was now obvious to the common eye. It was a female figure, in what
appeared to be a foreign dress; the gown being laced over the bosom,
and opening in front so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat, the folds
and inequalities of which were admirably represented in the oaken
substance. She wore a hat of singular gracefulness, and abundantly laden
with flowers, such as never grew in the rude soil of New England, but
which, with all their fanciful luxuriance, had a natural truth that it
seemed impossible for the most fertile imagination to have attained
without copying from real prototypes. There were several little
appendages to this dress, such as a fan, a pair of earrings, a chain
about the neck, a watch in the bosom, and a ring upon the finger, all of
which would have been deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. They were
put on, however, with as much taste as a lovely woman might have shown
in her attire, and could therefore have shocked none but a judgment
spoiled by artistic rules.
The face was still imperfect; but gradually, by a magic touch,
intelligence and sensibility brightened through the features, with all
the effect of light gleaming forth from within the solid oak. The face
became alive. It was a beautiful, though not precisely regular, and
somewhat haughty aspect, but with a certain piquancy about the eyes and
mouth, which, of all expressions, would have seemed the most impossible
to throw over a wooden countenance. And now, so far as carving went,
this wonderful production was complete.
"Drowne," said Copley, who had hardly missed a single day in his visits
to the carver's workshop, "if this work were in marble it would make you
famous at once; nay, I would almost affirm that it would make an era in
the art. It is as ideal as an antique statue, and yet as real as any
lovely woman whom one meets at a fireside or in the street. But I trust
you do not mean to desecrate this exquisite creature with paint, like
those staring kings and admirals yonder?"
"Not paint her!" exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, who stood by; "not paint
the figure-head of the Cynosure! And what sort of a figure should I cut
in a foreign port with such an unpainted oaken stick as this over my
prow! She must, and she shall, be painted to the life, from the topmost
flower in her hat down to the silver spangles on her slippers."
"Mr. Copley," said Drowne, quietly, "I know nothing of marble statuary,
and nothing of the sculptor's rules of art; but of this wooden image,
this work of my hands, this creature of my heart,"--and here his voice
faltered and choked in a very singular manner,--"of this--of her--I may
say that I know something. A wellspring of inward wisdom gushed within
me as I wrought upon the oak with my whole strength, and soul, and
faith. Let others do what they may with marble, and adopt what rules
they choose. If I can produce my desired effect by painted wood, those
rules are not for me, and I have a right to disregard them."
"The very spirit of genius," muttered Copley to himself. "How otherwise
should this carver feel himself entitled to transcend all rules, and
make me ashamed of quoting them?"
He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw that expression of human
love which, in a spiritual sense, as the artist could not help
imagining, was the secret of the life that had been breathed into this
block of wood.
The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked all his operations
upon this mysterious image, proceeded to paint the habiliments in their
proper colors, and the countenance with nature's red and white. When all
was finished he threw open his workshop, and admitted the towns-people
to behold what he had done. Most persons, at their first entrance, felt
impelled to remove their hats, and pay such reverence as was due to the
richly dressed and beautiful young lady who seemed to stand in a corner
of the room, with oaken chips and shavings scattered at her feet. Then
came a sensation of fear; as if, not being actually human, yet so like
humanity, she must therefore be something preternatural. There was, in
truth, an indefinable air and expression that might reasonably induce
the query, Who and from what sphere this daughter of the oak should be?
The strange, rich flowers of Eden on her head; the complexion, so much
deeper and more brilliant than those of our native beauties; the
foreign, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet not too fantastic to be
worn decorously in the street; the delicately wrought embroidery of the
skirt; the broad gold chain about her neck; the curious ring upon her
finger; the fan, so exquisitely sculptured in open-work, and painted to
resemble pearl and ebony;--where could Drowne, in his sober walk of
life, have beheld the vision here so matchlessly embodied! And then her
face! In the dark eyes and around the voluptuous mouth there played a
look made up of pride, coquetry, and a gleam of mirthfulness, which
impressed Copley with the idea that the image was secretly enjoying the
perplexing admiration of himself and other beholders.
"And will you," said he to the carver, "permit this masterpiece to
become the figure-head of a vessel? Give the honest captain yonder
figure of Britannia,--it will answer his purpose far better,--and send
this fairy queen to England, where, for aught I know, it may bring you a
thousand pounds."
"I have not wrought it for money," said Drowne.
"What sort of a fellow is this!" thought Copley. "A Yankee, and throw
away the chance of making his fortune! He has gone mad; and thence has
come this gleam of genius."
There was still further proof of Drowne's lunacy, if credit were due to
the rumor that he had been seen kneeling at the feet of the oaken lady,
and gazing with a lover's passionate ardor into the face that his own
hands had created. The bigots of the day hinted that it would be no
matter of surprise if an evil spirit were allowed to enter this
beautiful form and seduce the carver to destruction.
The fame of the image spread far and wide. The inhabitants visited it so
universally that after a few days of exhibition there was hardly an old
man or a child who had not become minutely familiar with its aspect.
Even had the story of Drowne's wooden image ended here, its celebrity
might have been prolonged for many years by the reminiscences of those
who looked upon it in their childhood, and saw nothing else so beautiful
in after life. But the town was now astounded by an event the narrative
of which has formed itself into one of the most singular legends that
are yet to be met with in the traditionary chimney-corners of the New
England metropolis, where old men and women sit dreaming of the past,
and wag their heads at the dreamers of the present and the future.
One fine morning, just before the departure of the Cynosure on her
second voyage to Fayal, the commander of that gallant vessel was seen to
issue from his residence in Hanover Street. He was stylishly dressed in
a blue broadcloth coat, with gold-lace at the seams and button-holes, an
embroidered scarlet waistcoat, a triangular hat, with a loop and broad
binding of gold, and wore a silver-hilted hanger at his side. But the
good captain might have been arrayed in the robes of a prince or the
rags of a beggar, without in either case attracting notice, while
obscured by such a companion as now leaned on his arm. The people in the
street started, rubbed their eyes, and either leaped aside from their
path, or stood as if transfixed to wood or marble in astonishment.
"Do you see it?--do you see it?" cried one, with tremulous eagerness.
"It is the very same!"
"The same?" answered another, who had arrived in town only the night
before. "Who do you mean? I see only a sea-captain in his shore-going
clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit, with a bunch of beautiful
flowers in her hat. On my word, she is as fair and bright a damsel as my
eyes have looked on this many a day!"
"Yes; the same!--the very same!" repeated the other. "Drowne's wooden
image has come to life!"
Here was a miracle indeed! Yet, illuminated by the sunshine, or darkened
by the alternate shade of the houses, and with its garments fluttering
lightly in the morning breeze, there passed the image along the street.
It was exactly and minutely the shape, the garb, and the face which the
towns-people had so recently thronged to see and admire. Not a rich
flower upon her head, not a single leaf, but had its prototype in
Drowne's wooden workmanship, although now their fragile grace had become
flexible, and was shaken by every footstep that the wearer made. The
broad gold chain upon the neck was identical with the one represented on
the image, and glistened with the motion imparted by the rise and fall
of the bosom which it decorated. A real diamond sparkled on her finger.
In her right hand she bore a pearl and ebony fan, which she flourished
with a fantastic and bewitching coquetry, that was likewise expressed in
all her movements as well as in the style of her beauty and the attire
that so well harmonized with it. The face, with its brilliant depth of
complexion, had the same piquancy of mirthful mischief that was fixed
upon the countenance of the image, but which was here varied and
continually shifting, yet always essentially the same, like the sunny
gleam upon a bubbling fountain. On the whole, there was something so
airy and yet so real in the figure, and withal so perfectly did it
represent Drowne's image, that people knew not whether to suppose the
magic wood etherealized into a spirit or warmed and softened into an
actual woman.
"One thing is certain," muttered a Puritan of the old stamp, "Drowne has
sold himself to the Devil; and doubtless this gay Captain Hunnewell is a
party to the bargain."
"And I," said a young man who overheard him, "would almost consent to be
the third victim, for the liberty of saluting those lovely lips."
"And so would I," said Copley, the painter, "for the privilege of taking
her picture."
The image, or the apparition, whichever it might be, still escorted by
the bold captain, proceeded from Hanover Street through some of the
cross lanes that make this portion of the town so intricate, to Ann
Street, thence into Dock Square, and so downward to Drowne's shop, which
stood just on the water's edge. The crowd still followed, gathering
volume as it rolled along. Never had a modern miracle occurred in such
broad daylight, nor in the presence of such a multitude of witnesses.
The airy image, as if conscious that she was the object of the murmurs
and disturbance that swelled behind her, appeared slightly vexed and
flustered, yet still in a manner consistent with the light vivacity and
sportive mischief that were written in her countenance. She was observed
to flutter her fan with such vehement rapidity that the elaborate
delicacy of its workmanship gave way, and it remained broken in her
hand.
Arriving at Drowne's door, while the captain threw it open, the
marvellous apparition paused an instant on the threshold, assuming the
very attitude of the image, and casting over the crowd that glance of
sunny coquetry which all remembered on the face of the oaken lady. She
and her cavalier then disappeared.
"Ah!" murmured the crowd, drawing a deep breath, as with one vast pair
of lungs.
"The world looks darker now that she has vanished," said some of the
young men.
But the aged, whose recollections dated as far back as witch times,
shook their heads, and hinted that our forefathers would have thought it
a pious deed to burn the daughter of the oak with fire.
"If she be other than a bubble of the elements," exclaimed Copley, "I
must look upon her face again."