“His departure has left a vacuity which amazes and alarms us. It is as
if the voyager on the Hudson were to look to the great range of the
Catskills, at the foot of which Cole, with a reverential fondness, had
fixed his abode, and were to see that the grandest of its summits had
disappeared, had sunk into the plain from our sight. I might use a
bolder similitude; it is as if we were to look over the heavens on a
starlight evening and find that one of the greater planets, Hesperus
or Jupiter, had been blotted from the sky.”
Funeral Oration by William Cullen Bryant.
Upon the romantic life of the greatest of American landscape painters it
is not our province to discourse, for that task has been assigned to a
gifted poet and friend of the departed—the Reverend Louis L. Noble;—nor
do we purpose to expatiate upon his beautiful character as a man, and
his genius as an artist; for that labor of love has already been
accomplished by the eminent poet from whom we have borrowed our motto.
The only idea that we have in view, is simply to describe the truly Epic
productions of the late Thomas Cole (in whose studio, which looked out
upon the Catskill Mountains, we have spent many pleasant hours), for the
edification of those of our readers who have never had an opportunity of
examining them.
In the first place, then, we will turn our attention to the series of
five pictures, entitled “_The Course of Empire_.” This work is an
epitome of the life of man, and is conceived and executed in a manner
which must convince the beholder that the artist possessed many of the
attributes of the philosopher, the poet, and the Christian.
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 had 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 the best of the
series, 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 many of the artist’s later productions. As to the third and fourth
paintings, the conception of both is exceedingly fine and poetical, but
they are deficient in execution. The architecture is admirably done, but
the numerous figures which it was necessary to introduce, are poorly
drawn and arranged; and there is a feebleness in the effect. 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, however, the
Course of Empire is a work of art worthy of any nation or any painter.
These pictures were painted for the late Luman Reed, at a cost of eight
thousand dollars, but are now the property of the New York Gallery,
which institution owes its existence to Mr. Reed, whose collection of
pictures formed the foundation thereof.
The next work to which we would call the attention of our readers is
called “_The Voyage of Life_.” It is a series of four pictures,
allegorically portraying the prominent features of man’s life, viz:
childhood, youth, manhood, and old age. 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 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, we 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, but the
perspective and atmosphere in the second are masterly. In all of them
the figures are very fine, considering the difficulty of managing such
peculiar characters. In the first we are 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 shadows, and the apparent reality of
the light from heaven. These pictures were painted for the late Samuel
Ward of New York city, and the price received for them was six thousand
dollars. During the last year, however, they were purchased by the
American Art Union, and distributed among the prizes at their annual
lottery in December.
Duplicates of the above paintings were executed by Cole, and sold to a
gentleman in Cincinnati in the year 1846.
The last, and in many respects the most impressive, of Cole’s more
ambitious productions, is a series of five pictures entitled _The Cross
and the World_. The designs or studies for these pictures were all
executed, but owing to the untimely death of the artist, only two out of
the five were ever finished on a large scale. This series of pictures
constitutes a Christian poem of a high order, and in describing them, we
shall employ the language of the artist’s friend Noble, who has probably
studied the entire work more thoroughly than any other man. The idea is
that two youths enter upon a pilgrimage—one to the cross and the other
to the world.
In the first picture the eye of the beholder first strikes the bold
termination of a chain of mountains, with craggy peaks lost in the
clouds.
The same lofty range is seen through the entire series.
To the left, a straight and narrow path takes its way up a rugged gorge,
down which there beams a silvery light from a bright cross in the sky.
The path at first leads off through fields of real flowers, betokening
the early part of the Christian life, neither difficult nor uninviting.
In the distance a dark mist, hovering over the track, conceals from the
advancing wayfarer the real difficulties of his journey, and betokens
the sorrows which of necessity befall him. To the right, a gracefully
winding way leads down into a gently undulating and pleasant vale.
Stretching forward through delightful landscapes, it finally fades away,
and leaves the eye to wander on to the dim pinnacles and domes of a
great city. A golden light falls through an atmosphere of repose, and
lends warmth, softness, and beauty, as well to crag and precipice as to
the rich valley. By-paths, serpent-like, steal up upon the sunny slopes
of the mountain, inviting the traveler to the enjoyment of the prospect
and the coolness of the waterfall.
Vegetation of unnatural growth, and gorgeous and unreal flowers skirt
the borders of the way.
At the foot of the mountain stands Evangelist with the open Gospel. A
little in advance are the waters, symbolical of Baptism.
Two youths, companions in the travel of life, having come to the parting
of their road, are affectionately and earnestly directed to the shining
cross. While one, through the power of truth, enters with timid steps
upon his holy pilgrimage, the other, caught by the enchantment of the
earthly prospect, turns his back upon Evangelist and the Cross, and
speeds forward upon the pathway of the world.
In the second picture we have a wild mountain region now opening upon
the beholder. It is an hour of tempest. Black clouds envelop the
surrounding summits. A swollen torrent rushes by, and plunges into the
abyss. The storm, sweeping down through terrific chasms, flings aside
the angry cataract, and deepens the horror of the scene below. The
pilgrim, now in the vigor of manhood, pursues his way on the edge of a
frightful precipice. It is a moment of imminent danger. But gleams of
light from the shining cross break through the storm, and shed fresh
brightness along his perilous and narrow path. With steadfast look, and
renewed courage, the lone traveler holds on his heavenly pilgrimage.
The whole symbolizes the trials of faith.
In the third picture the beholder looks off upon an expanse of tranquil
water. On the right are the gardens of pleasure, where the devotees of
sensual delights revel in all that satiates and amuses. Near a fountain,
whose falling waters lull with perpetual murmurs, stands a statue of the
goddess of Love. An interminable arcade, with odorous airs and delicious
shade, invites to the quiet depths of a wilderness of greenery and
flowers. A gay throng dances upon the yielding turf, around a tree, to
the sound of lively music. Near an image of Bacchus, a company enjoys a
luxurious banquet.
On the left is the Temple of Mammon, a superb and costly structure,
surmounted by the wheel of Fortune. Beneath its dome, a
curiously-wrought fountain throws out showers of gold, which is eagerly
caught up by the votaries below.
From the great censers, rising here and there above the heads of the
multitude, clouds of incense roll up and wreath the columns of the
temple—a grateful odor to the God. The trees and shrubbery of the
adjacent grounds are laden with golden fruit.
Far distant, in the middle of the picture, a vision of earthly power and
glory rises upon the view. Splendid trophies of conquest adorn the
imposing gateway; suits of armor, gorgeous banners, and the victor’s
wreath. Colonnades and piles of architecture stretch away in the vast
perspective. At the summit of a lofty flight of steps stand conspicuous
the throne and the sceptre. Suspended in the air, at the highest point
of human reach, is that glittering symbol of royalty, the crown. Between
the beholder and this grand spectacle are the armies in conflict, and a
city in flames, indicating that the path to glory lies through ruin and
the battle-field. To the contemplation of this alluring scene the
Pilgrim of the World, now in the morning of manhood, is introduced.
Which of the fascinating objects before him is the one of his choice, is
left to the imagination of the spectator. The picture symbolizes the
pleasure, the fortune, and the glory of the world.
In the fourth picture, the pilgrim, now an old man on the verge of
existence, catches a first view of the boundless and eternal. The
tempests of life are behind him; the world is beneath his feet. Its
rocky pinnacles, just rising through the gloom, reach not up into his
brightness; its sudden mists, pausing in the dark obscurity, ascend no
more into his serene atmosphere. He looks out upon the infinite.
Clouds—embodiments of glory, threading immensity in countless lines,
rolling up from everlasting depths—carry the vision forward toward the
unapproachable light. The Cross, now fully revealed, pours its
effulgence over the illimitable scene. Angels from the presence, with
palm and crown of immortality, appear in the distance, and advance to
meet him. Lost in rapture at the sight, the pilgrim drops his staff, and
with uplifted hands, sinks upon his knees.
In the last picture, desolate and broken, the pilgrim, descending a
gloomy vale, pauses at last on the horrid brink that overhangs the outer
darkness. Columns of the Temple of Mammon crumble; trees of the gardens
of pleasure moulder on his path. Gold is as valueless as the dust with
which it mingles. The phantom of glory—a baseless, hollow fabric—flits
under the wing of death to vanish in a dark eternity. Demon forms are
gathering around him. Horror-struck, the pilgrim lets fall his staff,
and turns in despair to the long-neglected and forgotten Cross. Veiled
in melancholy night, behind a peak of the mountain, it is lost to his
view forever.
The above pictures are in the possession of the artist’s family. We did
think of describing at length _all_ the imaginative productions of our
great master in landscape, but upon further reflection we have concluded
merely to record their titles, by way of giving our readers an idea of
the versatility of Cole’s genius. They are as follows:—_The Departure
and Return_, which is a poetical representation of the Feudal Times,
_The Cross in the Wilderness_, _Il Penseroso_, _L’Allegro_, _The Past
and Present_, _The Architect’s Dream_, _Dream of Arcadia_, _The
Expulsion of Adam and Eve_, and _Prometheus Bound_. As the last
mentioned picture is owned in England, and is unquestionably one of the
wildest and most splendid efforts of the painter’s pencil, we cannot
refrain from a brief description. The scene represented is among the
snow-covered peaks of a savage mountain land, and to the loftiest peak
of all, is chained the being who gives the picture a name. Immediately
in the foreground, is a pile of rocks and broken trees, which give a
fine effect to the distant landscape, while, just above this foreground,
is a solitary vulture slowly ascending to the upper air, to feast upon
its victim. The idea of leaving the devouring scene to the imagination,
could only have been conceived by the mind of the most accomplished
artist. The time represented is early morning—and the cold blue ocean of
the sky is studded with one brilliant star, which represents Jupiter, by
whose order Prometheus was chained to the everlasting rock.
This is one of the most truly sublime pictures we have ever seen, and
possesses all the qualities which constitute an epic production. The
unity of the design is admirable—one figure, one prominent mountain, a
cloudless sky, one lonely star, one representative of the feathery
tribes, and one cluster of rocks for the foreground—and it is also
completely covered with an atmosphere which gives every object before us
a dreamy appearance. In point of execution we cannot possibly find a
fault with this glorious picture, and we do not believe that the idea of
the poet was ever better illustrated by any landscape painter.
With regard to the actual views and other less ambitious productions of
Cole, we can only say that the entire number might be estimated at about
one hundred. The majority of them are illustrative of European scenery,
but of those which are truly American, it may be said that they give a
more correct and comprehensive idea of our glorious scenery, than do the
productions of any other American artist. In looking upon his better
pictures of American scenery we forget the pent-up city, and our hearts
flutter with a joy allied to that which we may suppose animates the
woodland bird, when listening in its solitude to the hum of the
wilderness. Perpetual freedom, perpetual and unalloyed happiness, seem
to breathe from every object which he portrays, and as the eye wanders
along the mountain declivities, or mounts still farther up on the
chariot-looking clouds, as we peer into the translucent waters of his
lakes and streams, or witness the solemn grandeur and gloom of his
forests, we cannot but wonder at the marvelous power of genius. The
style of our artist is bold and masterly. While he did not condescend to
delineate every leaf and sprig which may be found in nature, yet he gave
you the spirit of the scene. To do this is the province of genius, and
an attainment beyond the reach of mere talent. The productions of Cole
appeal to the intellect more than to the heart, and we should imagine
that Milton was his favorite poet. He loved the uncommon efforts in
nature, and was constantly giving birth to new ideas. He had a passion
for the wild and tempestuous, and possessed an imagination of the
highest order. He was also a lover of the beautiful, and occasionally
executed a picture full of quiet summer-like sentiment: but his joy was
to depict the scenery of our mountain land, when clothed in the rich
garniture of autumn. He was the originator of a new style, and is now a
most worthy member of that famous brotherhood of immortals whom we
remember by the names of Lorraine, Poussin, Rosa, Wilson, and
Gainsborough.
The name of Cole is one which his countrymen should not willingly let
die. A man of fine, exalted genius, by his pencil he has accomplished
much good, not only to his chosen art, by becoming one of its masters,
but eminently so in a moral point of view. And this reminds us 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 expression of
thought as writing? With his pencil, if he is a wise and good man, the
artist 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 marvelous 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 younger
painters in this department of the art. He has set a noble example,
which ought to be extensively followed. Observe, we do not mean by this
that his subjects ought to be imitated. Far from it; because they are
not stamped with as decided 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 thousand 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 persevere with nature as their
guide, and they will assuredly have their reward.