About me cleft rocks, cleavage straight through the embedded pebbles.
Tones ruddy browns and grays. Gray beach. Sea-weed in heaps, deep pinks
and purples. Boisterous waves, loaded with reddish seaweed, blue, with
white crests, torn off in long ribbons by wind. Curious reds and blues
as waves break, carrying sea-weed. Fierce gale off land. Dense fog, sun
above it and to right. Everywhere yellow light. Sea strange dingy
yellow. Leaves an unnatural green. Effect weird. Sense of unusualness.
Of course, such study of nature leads the intelligent to desire to know
why the cleaved rock shows its sharp divisions as if cut by a knife, why
yellow light gives such strangeness of tints, and thus draws on my pupil
to larger explanatory studies. So much the better.
If when she bends over a foot-square area of mouldered tree-trunk, deep
in the silence of a Maine wood, she has a craving to know the names and
ways of the dozen mosses she notes, of the minute palm-like growths, of
the odd toadstools, it will not lessen the joy this liliputian
representation of a tropical jungle gives to her. Nor will she like less
the splendor of sunset tints on water to know the secrets of the
pleasant tricks of refraction and reflection.
I do not want to make too much of a small matter. No doubt many people
do this kind of thing, but in most volumes of travel it is easy to see
that the descriptions lack method, and show such want of training in
observation as would not be noticeable had their authors gone through
the modest studies I am now inviting my pupil to make.
Her temptation will be to note most the large, the grotesque, or the
startling aspects of nature. In time these will be desirable as studies,
but at first she must try smaller and limited sketches. They are as
difficult, but do not change as do the grander scenes and objects. I
knew a sick girl, who, bedfast for years, used to amuse herself with
what her windows and an opera-glass commanded in the way of sky and
foliage. The buds in spring-time, especially the horse-chestnuts, were
the subject of quite curious notes, and cloud-forms an endless source of
joy and puzzle to describe. One summer a great effort was made, and she
was taken to the country, and a day or two later carried down near a
brook, where they swung her hammock. I found her quite busy a week
later, and happy in having discovered that the wave-curves over a rock
were like the curves of some shells. My pupil will soon learn, as she
did, that a good opera-glass is indispensable. Let any one who has not
tried it look with such a glass at sunset-decked water in motion. I am
sure they will be startled by its beauty, and this especially if the
surface be seen from a boat, because merely to look down on water is to
make no acquaintance with its loveliness. A scroll of paper to limit the
view and cut out side-lights also intensifies color. The materials my
pupil is to use are words, and words only. Constant dissatisfaction with
the little they can tell us is the fate of all who use them. The
sketcher, the great word-painter, and even the poet feels this when,
like Browning, he seems so to suffer from their weakness as to be
troubled into audacious employment of the words that will not obey his
will, torment them as he may. Yet, as my pupil goes on, she will find
her vocabulary growing, and will become more and more accurate in her
use and more ingenious in her combination of words to give her meaning.
As she learns to feel strongly--for she will in time--her love will give
her increasing power both to see and to state what she sees, because
this gentle passion for nature in all her moods is like a true-love
affair, and grows by what it feeds upon.
When we come to sketch in words the rare and weird effects, the storm,
the sunsets that seem not of earth, the cascade, or the ravage of the
"windfall," it is wise not to be lured into fanciful word-painting, and
the temptation is large. Yet the simplest expression of facts is then
and for such rare occasions the best, and often by far the most
forceful.
I venture, yet again, to give from a note-book of last year a few lines
as to a sunset. I was on a steam-yacht awaiting the yachts which were
racing for the Newport cup.
August 6, time, sunset; level sea; light breeze; fire-red sun on
horizon; vast masses of intensely-lighted scarlet clouds; a broad track
of fiery red on water; three yachts, with all sail set, coming over this
sea of red towards us. Their sails are a vivid green. The vast mass of
reds and scarlets give one a strange sense of terror as if something
would happen. I could go on to expand upon "this color such as shall be
in heaven," and on the sails which seemed to be green, but for the
purpose of a sketch and to refresh the traitor memory in the future, the
lines I wrote are enough and are yet baldly simple.
Out of this practice grow, as I have said, love of accuracy, larger
insights, careful valuation of words, and also an increasing and more
intelligent love of art in all its forms; nor will all these gains in
the power to observe be without practical value in life.
I trust that I have said enough to tempt others to try each in their way
to do what has been for me since boyhood a constant summer amusement.
THE END.