focal distance, reflects the same sized image as a larger one at _its_
proper focal distance, I can see no good reason why the physical attribute
of _largeness_ should be so eagerly sought for by the public. Surely a
gallery of small pictures, provided they be not painfully small, should be
preferred to one filled with large ones. We see the principle I am
contending for carried out in libraries. The ordinary sized volumes are
preferred, for most purposes, to the cumbrous tomes of large folio
editions. It is true, a large book will produce in the minds of many
persons greater respect than a miniature copy of the same work; but the
ideas contained in the one are no better or more impressive than the same
contained in that of the other; save the feeling with which the larger one
inspires the votary who looks no farther than the outside of the page. The
series of forty landscapes alluded to in the above digression, if viewed
at the focal distance of eighteen inches, will appear as large as those
twice the size, viewed at their proportionate increased distance. An
elaborately finished picture, to be seen to advantage, must be examined
near by. A coarser work, theatrical scenes for instance, painted for
distant effect, must be seen accordingly, if you would secure pleasurable
emotions. As a general approximative rule, the focal distance at which the
spectator should stand in viewing works of art is to be found by measuring
the same length from the picture as its size: Thus, one of ten feet in
length is to be viewed at that distance; one of eighteen inches at about
twenty inches; a small miniature of six inches, at about eight inches. If
the work should have no detail, this rule will not hold good; but if there
is a faithful transcript of Nature; and she ever delights in unobtrusive
beauties, which are particularly obvious in the fore-ground, for she
strews them at your feet; then if you approach the artist's effort, a work
of patient diligence, you can hold converse with her through the medium of
his labors.
I do not attempt to deny the importance of size in winning our first
regard: it is a law inseparable from the thing itself; but I must protest
against the taste of the age being supplied always with mere physical
attributes. The purling stream and babbling brook; the small rill falling
from on high, till its feathery stream is lost in mist, are and should be
as much sought after as the roaring torrent or the thundering cascade. The
effect of the one is to produce awe, that of the other tranquil pleasure.
The human mind is not always to be upon the stretch; to remain lifted up
as it were upon stilts; our common communion is to be found in enjoyments
that are quietly exciting. It is a common remark, that the English
language has lost some of its truthfulness by our habit of expressing
ourselves in the language of superlatives, through a desire to astonish.
Thus we leave nothing for the innate love of truth; nothing to work out
the necessary sympathy. Is not this parallel with the desire to see large
pictures?--and should it not receive some regulation from those who have
the requisite influence?
I find the few hints to which in the outset I proposed to confine myself
have grown to a greater length than was intended. I will therefore, in
closing, simply reiterate the remark, that I see no good reason why the
painter of a large picture (or the work itself) should be regarded with
more favor than he who paints equally well, but limits the size, unless we
consider the white-wash brush a nobler instrument than the camel's-hair
pencil.
LIFE: A SONNET.
Whence? whither? where?--a taper-point of light,
My life and world--the infinite around;
A sea, not even highest thought can sound;
A formless void; unchanging, endless night.
In vain the struggling spirit aims its flight
To the empyrean, seen as is a star,
Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar;
In vain it beats its wings with daring might.
What yonder gleams?--what heavenly shapes arise
From out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,
Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,
Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes;
Sun-clear the world around, and far away
A boundless future sweeps in golden day.
J. G. PERCIVAL.
TWO PICTURES.
'The glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the
terrestrial is another.'--ST. PAUL.
LOVE CELESTIAL.
I see his face illumined by a beatific light,
That tells me he is dying fast; the shadows of the night
Are passing from his saintly brow and sunken eye away,
But he looks beyond them and beholds a never-ending day.
Nay, wonder not that I am calm; the fleeting things of earth
Are passing with the flight of time, to their eternal birth:
I feel that death will shed on him a halo like the sun,
And I shall share it with him, when my pilgrimage is done.
How quickly fades the earthly frame, and with it too, how fast
The agony and sorrow of our mortal doom are past;
And when the sight of worldly wo weighs heavy on the breast,
How welcome is the voice from GOD, that speaks to us of rest!
O! painfully the pangs of life his fading frame have worn,
But blessed be our FATHER'S love, that dwells with those who mourn;
And though the grave must rend apart our sweet affection's bond,
On this side is the night, but all is luminous beyond.
I know that more he loves my soul than its transitory shrine,
And did I prize the vase alone, when all it held was mine?
Let hallowed dust return to dust, give Nature what she gave,
For all that dearest was to me, is victor o'er the grave.
Triumphant will his spirit rise to the Eternal throne,
Triumphant wear a crown of light, by earthly trials won:
And mid the friends who went before, the angel, sin-forgiven,
Shall feel that they can part no more, when once they meet in heaven.
True, I shall look on him no more, but he will gaze on me;
Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,
Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,
I share with him that smile of GOD, which lights the world on high!
LOVE TERRESTRIAL.
They tell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,
And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;
A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,
Too _living_, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.
They tell me he will surely die--and so at last must all;
I know that the Destroyer's blight on all mankind must fall;
Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,
And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!
But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to see
The pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;
Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,
I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.
Perhaps 'tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,
But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?
If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;
Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.
Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tell
How sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;
I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,
I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!
It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;
This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,
The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,
While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.
I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,
While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,
Will ne'er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;
O, GOD! it is a fearful thought--and this it is to die!
B.
THE HERMIT OF THE PRAIRIE.
BY PETER VON GEIST.
'To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.'
BRYANT.
Wednesday, June twenty-first. How little do people who ride along in their
carriages, or rattle over the ground in stage-coaches, or rush over its
surface in rail-cars, know of the pleasures of travelling! They roll
_over_ the country; they cannot be said to pass _through_ it. They may see
new rivers, new mountains, and new faces; but for all the good the last
does them, they might as well have stood on the corner of the street in a
city half a day, and watched the passers-by. And better too; for
hotel-keepers, and waiters, and the whole tribe of public functionaries,
have all an artificial, professional look; so that it is difficult to come
at their real characters, if indeed they have any. The same is the case,
to some extent, with their fellow-passengers. All are so absorbingly
interested in their own brilliant thoughts; or they deem it incumbent on
them to assume the dignity and authority befitting persons in high
stations; (which dignity at home, by the by, is put one side into a dark
corner and never thought of,) that it is about as profitable an
undertaking to attempt to find out the personal feelings and sentiments of
a mask, as theirs.
But here am I, walking stoutly and merrily along, unincumbered with
luggage or care; and because I do not care what the next day or hour may
bring forth, every thing seems to turn up just as I would have it if I had
the ordering of events. I shall not pause to offer any philosophical
conjectures as to the reason why we are invariably disappointed in our
conclusions, (excepting they are mathematical ones) concerning the future;
merely asking the amiable reader whether _he_ ever knew such an
anticipation to be exactly realized. I shall not stop to make any such
conjectures, because I should only get deeper into the dark, and I am in
deep enough for comfort now; and secondly, it is against my principles. I
am living out of doors, and make mention only of things out of doors.
But I trudge stoutly forward, whistling as I go; making myself as
agreeable as possible to myself and to every body whom I meet; on jocose
terms with every thing; decidedly agricultural in my tastes and pursuits,
at every farmer's house where I happen to put up for the night: at one
place in search of employment as a day-laborer; at another, an artist; by
turns every thing. Is not this the way to travel? My steps wander where
they choose; and if I keep on to the end of the earth, what will it
matter? I will go to the north; assume the dress, language and manners of
those who dwell within the frozen circle; I will become a Greenlander; I
will go and preach the religion of Mohammed to the inhabitants of
Patagonia; I will brush up the gods of Rome; dust that old mythology;
compound and simplify the whole into a good, comfortable, believable
system, and proclaim Olympian Jove in the deserts of Amazonia. I will be a
Turk, an Indian, a Pirate; I will be any thing. What do I care, and who
shall say me nay? This sensation of freedom is too delicious to be
interrupted by any companionship. And for my part, I want no better
companions than this wind, which free as I am, blows against my cheek, and
those clouds, that fly in unending succession over my head. O! ye blue
chariots of the Thunderer! whither hurry ye so rapidly? Over hill and
valley, and countries and cities of men, ye fly unheeding; and borne
forward on the swift pinions of the wind, ye speed on your mission afar!
What to you are states, and kingdoms, or land or ocean? Furiously driving
in black armies to meet opposing armies, or singly floating in that
waveless sea of blue, your existence is above the earth; men look _up_ to
you with wonder or terror, but _your_ glance is never downward. Onward ye
wander, in your unbounded career, at your own free will. Nothing bounds
_my_ career or _my_ will. Fleecy ears! if ye would sustain the form of a
mortal, triumphantly would you and I sail over the heads of men! Softly,
obedient to the impulse of chance, would we glide over continent and sea,
and explore the mysteries of undiscovered islands and climes; calmly would
I look down on the strife or toil of human passions, and calmly would we
ride on forever, through night and day! But if the clouds are not, the
earth is, mine--and I am my own! There are none to molest or make me
afraid with the useless importunities or warnings of friendship. My
destiny is my own; and it is pleasant not to care what I may be or do.
Pleasure is now; sorrow is prospective; and life will be only pleasure,
because I let the past and the future go, and crowd as many happy thoughts
as possible into the present moment.
What a spacious plain of the world! Dotted with habitations and with men
of all colors, and customs, and conditions! Every one thinks he possesses
a soul; and in virtue thereof, he considers himself entitled to set up as
an independent existence, and endeavors to move in a little path of his
own. But in fact, he plods humbly along, and repeats with patient toil the
example of labor and unspeculating perseverance that his fathers have set
him. A vast multitude, they darken the land! Mighty hopes and aspirations
swell each small bosom. Each imagines that his designs are peculiar, and
for him in particular was every thing mainly made. An unceasing rush of
footsteps and clash of voices! And must I be confounded in the crowd? Let
me preserve my individuality in the desert! If I were not an insect, it
might be different; but as I am no larger than other men, I will not daily
measure myself by their standard; I will forget in solitude the littleness
of my stature.
The shades of evening tinge the green of the fields with a darker hue; and
the young farmer goes wearily and yet lightly homeward. Lightly, for he
leaves behind him labor and trouble, and his fair-haired wife will greet
him with her constant and love-lit smile. Cheerily will the small family
draw around their board, covered with the simple and satisfying products
of their own soil. And when all care is ended, when night is duskily
stealing over the earth, he and his bride will sit down alone in their
cottage door, in the red light of the western clouds. Over all the dim
landscape there are no sights or sounds; and in themselves there are no
feelings but those of contentment and love. In his strong palm her soft
hand, on his broad breast reclining her head, their hearts are filled and
overflow with sweet thoughts and gentle words of present happiness. Fair
prospects also of the future rise up before them. Many years crowned with
prosperity they see in store for them; and in each one, many an evening
like this, of deep confiding love. Hour after hour, into the deepening
night, their low tones and slow words murmur on brokenly; and they know of
nothing in all the world that is wanting to their blessedness. What if the
dream should last all their life? It may; or if this passes away, another
will take its place. The question then seems to be, whether it is better
to live in a delusion and be happy, or to wake and be miserable? Whether
it is profitable for a man to walk joyfully through life, covering and
coloring over every defect in human nature that he may love it, and keep
within him a contented heart, or industriously spy out its deformities,
and hate it and himself for possessing it? If nature is in reality naked
and rugged, happy is he whose imagination can throw over her a robe of
grace. Most happy he who _can_ see in his fellow-creatures such qualities
that he can love them. For me, I will love sterner scenes and sterner
thoughts. Human beauty is an illusion; and it does not become the sober
wisdom of manhood to be deceived by it. The young farmer and his young
wife may be happy; and so may those who find delight in the crowded hall
where taste and beauty meet; where are the sounds of clear-ringing,
girlish voices, and many glancing feet, and the innumerable light of
maiden's eyes, and heavy folds of auburn hair, and the flush of thought
and emotion continually passing over fair faces, with the swell of music
that thrills, and the air laden with fragrance that intoxicates. Or in the
still twilight, by the side of her whose every note makes his pulse to
tremble with the breathing of song, and the incense of flowers, and
forgetfulness of the world, to feel the thought stealing over his heart
that perhaps he is not uncared for. It is sweet, but vain; sweet and vain
as the smiling, blushing slumber of a young girl. Dream on! dream on! for
if you can always sleep, what will matter to you the storms and confusion
without?
But as for me, I cannot sleep. Every thing my eye rests on is harsh and
ungraceful, because, having passed through the seven-times heated furnace,
I _must_ look through the covering and see the reality.
MOONLIGHT ON THE RIVER AND PRAIRIE.
Wearily I mount this steep eminence, and on its bald summit take off my
hat, that I may feel the cool breeze. It comes fresh with the dew that it
has snatched in its flight from the bosom of Lake Superior. It rolls over
the tall grass of the prairie, which bends beneath its weight, sighs by
me, and seems to cling to me as it passes, and moves on toward the arid
plains of the South. The Ohio sweeps down in calmness and majesty. With
its surface of quicksilver, and the little waves dancing up in gladness,
and its heavy dull wash, it rolls along its mighty mass of waters,
hastening to pour itself into the mightier mass of the Mississippi.
Occasionally a giant tree, torn from its place, and cast root and branch
into the flood, comes booming down, and glides swiftly past on its long,
long race. Pleasantly the ripples break over the prostrate monarch of the
forest that is lodged against the beach, and projects, branchless and
barkless, into the stream; and mournfully the worn trunk sways up and
down, as though tired of this rocking which has continued the same year
after year; weary, and desiring to be at rest. Floods come rushing down
upon floods with heavy tread, glance successively under the moonlight that
is poured into the channel before me, and then are forced forward into the
darkness of the future. But every wave seems as full of joy as though for
it alone was the moonlight sent, and as though there were not unnumbered
millions of waves to succeed it. Every little wave leaps up as it comes
under the light, and smiles toward the round-faced orb above, who seems to
smile back upon it. Thou small thing, thou art a fool! The queen, in the
beam of whose countenance thou disportest thyself, is altogether deceitful
and loves thee not. She has smiled as kindly on thousands who have gone
before thee, and will upon thousands who shall come after thee. And more
than all, she would send down just as bright and loving a glance, if thou
and all thy race had never existed. How then canst thou say, 'I love her,'
or, 'she loves me?'
But perhaps it is not so. When I look again, each one of the great
multitude appears aware of its own insignificance. Jostled, confined,
crowded and confused, they go tumbling by, regardless of all above or
below, and engrossed with their own fleeting existence. Not remembering
whence they came, they take no thought of the present, and are utterly
careless of the future. For what would it profit? Their business, and it
is business enough, is to dispute and fight with each other for room to
move in. All thoughts as to whither they are hastening, must be doubtful,
angry and despairing; and care of any thing present, except what concerns
the present instant, would be useless. Therefore they resign themselves to
be drawn onward and downward unresistingly; and therein are they wise. But
whether joyful, or despairing, or not feeling at all, the waters roll by,
an unceasing flood; and with their rushing dull roar in my ear, my eye
rests on a scene of beauty and quietness. Far away to the northward and
westward, and still farther away, stretches an immense plain. Rolling
hillocks, like the waves of the sea after a storm, and at long intervals,
a few stunted shrubs, alone diversify the prospect. Vast, unmeasured,
Nature's unenclosed meadow, the prairie, is spread out! The tall grass
waves gently and rustlingly to the breeze; and down upon it settles the
moonlight, in a dim silver-gossamer veil, like that which to the mind's
eye is thrown over the mountains and ruins and castles of the Old World,
by the high-born daring and graces of chivalry, the wand of Genius, and
the lapse of solemn years. With the same painful feeling of boundlessness,
of vastness that will not be grasped by the imagination, that one feels in
sailing on the ocean, there is also an air of still, stern desolation
brooding upon the plain. It may be that at some former day, the punishment
of fire swept over it, consuming its towering offspring, and laying bare
and scorching its bosom; and now the proud sufferer, naked and chained,
endures the summer's heat and the winter's storms, with no sighing herbage
or wailing tree to tell to the winds its wo.
A single snow-white cloud slumbers and floats far up in the heavens; the
moon is gliding slowly down the western arch; and the vast dome, studded
with innumerable brilliants, 'fretted with golden fires,' rests its
northern and western edge on the plain, its southern on blue
mountain-tops, its eastern on the forests, and shuts us, the river, the
prairie, the moon and I, together and alone. And here will we dwell
together alone! Sweet companions will ye be to me; and standing here on
this eminence, I promise to love you. I promise to come here often, and to
hold communion with you. I will put away all thoughts of sorrow, all
swellings of bitterness, from my mind. Contentedly, calmly, unheedingly,
will we let the years pass by; for what will it matter to us? Oh! ye are
dear to me! Your _voice_ is not heard, yet comes there constantly to my
ear the murmur of your song. You speak to me in music and poetry; and
while I listen, my thoughts revert only with shuddering to the vain world
I have left behind. Thus let us converse always. This vaulted firmament
which shuts down upon us now, let it be immoveable, and enclose us
forever; here let the wanderings of the wanderer cease, and here will we
live together and alone!
* * * * *
And we _have_ lived here many years. The lessons of my constant companions
have calmed and elevated me to a gentler and better spirit. From them I
have learned humility as well as self-reliance; while from the history of
the actions and thoughts of men in past ages, I have learned perhaps
something of the machinery of human nature. The forms of the noblest of
preceding generations, and the shapes of beauty which their imaginations
have conceived and made to live, visit me at my bidding. But among all the
pictures that daily rise up before my eyes, the brightest, the most
beautiful, the most loved, are the sweet faces of the friends of my early
years. There are no regrets or repinings when I look back now; it must be
that it has all been for the best, that every thing is for the best, and I
am at peace. The recollection of madness and folly, of a life useless, of
energies wasted, do not disturb the calmness of my soul. The error has
been great, but I feel it; and in the next state of existence I shall be
wiser and more active. If I have wantonly and recklessly turned away from
the offered happiness of society and of the world, it has, in the end,
been better for me, for I have found another, a purer and more lasting.
Thus I look cheerfully on, and see the sands of my life run out. They fall
faster and faster, as their number is diminished, and time flies by me
with constantly accelerating speed. 'Oh, my days are swifter than a
weaver's shuttle!'--the _last one_ I see but a little distance before me;
it will soon be here; and I shall step forth with a joyful, courageous
heart, into the indistinct, dimly-revealed future!
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE.
Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,
No other man in manners can excel;
Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.
The world's approval he is sure to gain.
But, would you think it? he has now essayed
To be a bard, and countless verses made;
Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,
For none but he could ever count them o'er;
Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does when
In careless rhymes we only try our pen,
But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,
The writing ornate with a care profound,
Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,
The cover, ev'n, a monument of art.
Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till then
Seemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,
Becomes offensive as the country boor,
Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,
Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wrought
By rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.
So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,
That never does he know so blest a time
As when he writes away, and fondly deems
He rivals Homer's god-enraptured dreams;
And wonders in his pride, himself to see,
The very pattern-pink of poesy.
Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,
The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.
It is the madness of each one to pride
Himself on that 'twere better far to hide;
Nor know the faults in that peculiar sack
Which Æsop says is hanging at his back.
THE PAINTED ROCK.
BY CHARLES F. POWELL.