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 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 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 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
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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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,
manhood, and old ago. The subject is one of such universal interest,
that it were almost impossible to treat it in an entirely original
manner, but no one can deny that the conception of the painter displays
a high and rare order of poetic power.
In the first we behold the dawn of a summer morning. A translucent
stream is issuing from an unknown source out of a deep cavern in the
side of a mountain. Floating gently down the stream is a golden boat,
made of the sculptured figures of the Hours, while the prow is formed by
the present hour holding forth an emblem of Time. It is filled with
flowers, and on these a little child is seated, tossing them with his
upraised hands, and smiling with new-born joy, as he looks upon the
unnumbered beauties and glories of this bright world around him; while a
guardian angel is at the helm, with his wings lovingly and protectingly
extended over the child. Love, purity, and beauty emanate like incense
from the sky, the earth, and water, so that the heart of the gazer seems
to forget the world, and lose itself in a dream of heaven.
A few fleeting years are gone, and behold the change! The Stream of Life
is widened, and its current strong and irresistible, but it flows
through a country of surpassing loveliness. The Voyager, who is now a
youth, has taken the helm into his own hands, and the dismissed angel
stands upon the shore looking at him with “a look made of all sweet
accord,” as if he said in his heart, “God be with thee, thoughtless
mortal!” But the youth heeds not his angel, for his eyes are now riveted
by an airy castle pictured against the sky, dome above dome, reaching to
the very zenith. The phantom of worldly happiness and worldly ambition
has absorbed the imagination and eager gaze of the wayward voyager, and
as he urges his frail bark onward, he dreams not of the dangers which
may await him in his way. To the boat, only a few flowers are now
clinging, and on closer observation we perceive that the castle in the
air, apparently so real, has only a white cloud for its foundation, and
that ere long the stream makes a sudden turn, rushing with the fury of a
maddened steed down a terrible ravine. The moral of the picture it is
needless for us to elucidate.
Another change, and lo! the verge of a cataract and a fearful storm. The
rudderless 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 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 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, 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 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.