Читать книгу: «The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, February 1844», страница 6

A VERITABLE SEA STORY

BY HARRY FRANCO

 
‘The sea, the sea, the o—pen sea, the blue, the fresh;’ but here we halt;
Mr. Cornwall knew very little about the sea, or he would have written SALT.
                ‘The whales they whistled, the porpoise rolled,
                And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;’
Worse and worse; more blunders than words, and such a jumble!
Whales spout, but never whistle; dolphins’ backs are silver; and porpoises never roll, but tumble.
                ‘It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
                And like a cradled creature lies,’ and squalls,
                He should have added; but to avoid brawls
With the poet’s friends I’ll quote no more; but entre nous,
Those who write correctly about the sea are exceeding few.
Young Dana with us, and Marryat over the water,¹
Are all the writers that I know of, who appear to have brought a
Discerning eye to bear on that peculiar state of existence,
An ocean life, which looks so romantic at a distance.
To succeed where every body else fails, would be an uncommon glory,
While to fail would be no disgrace; so I am resolved to try my hand upon a sea-story.
In naming sea-authors, I omitted Cooper, Chamier, Sue, and many others,
Because they appear to have gone to sea without asking leave of their mothers:
For those good ladies never could have consented that their boys should dwell on
An element that Nature never fitted them to excel on.
Their descriptions are so fine, and their tars so exceedingly flowery,
They appear to have gathered their ideas from some naval spectacle at the ‘Bowery;’
And in fact I have serious doubts whether either of them ever saw blue water,
Or ever had the felicity of saluting the ‘gunner’s daughter.’
 
 
It was on board of the packet –, from feelings deferential
To private griefs, I omit all facts that are non-essential:
To Havre we were bound, and passengers there were four of us,
Three men and a lady—not an individual more of us.
The month was July, the weather warm and hazy,
The sea smooth as glass, the winds asleep or lazy.
Dull times of course, for the sea, though favorable to the mind’s expansion,
Yet keeps the body confined to a very few feet of stanchion.
Our employments were nought save eating, drinking and sleeping,
Excepting the lady, who a diary was keeping.
She was a very pleasant person though fat, and a long way past forty,
Which will of course prevent any body from thinking any thing naughty.
A very pleasant person, but such an enormous feeder,
That our captain began to fear she might prove a famine-breeder;
A sort of female Falstaff, fond of jokes and gay society,
Cards, claret, eau-de-vie, and a great hater of sobriety.
Her favorite game at cards she acknowledged was ecarté,
But like Mrs. Battle, she loved whist, and we soon made up a party.
We played from morn till night, and then from night till morning,
Although the captain, who was pious, continually gave us warning.
That time so badly spent would lead to some disaster;
At which Madame G– would laugh, and only deal the faster.
Breakfast was served at eight, and as soon as it was ended
Round flew the cards; and the game was not suspended
Until seven-bells struck, when we stopped a while for lunch,
To allow Madame time to imbibe her allowance of punch;
This done, at work we went, with heated blood and flushed faces,
Talking of kings, queens, knaves, tricks, clubs and aces.
At six bells (three P. M.,) we threw down our cards and went to dinner,
Where Madame never missed her appetite, whether she had been a loser or a winner;
Then up from the almonds and raisins, and down again to the queens and aces,
We had only to remove from one end of the table to the other to resume our places;
Another pause at six, P. M., for in spite of all our speeches,
Madame’s partner would lay down his cards for the sake of pouchong and brandy peaches;
Being French and polite, of course, she only said ‘Eh bien!’ but no doubt thought him a lubber,
For a cup of washy tea to break in upon her rubber.
At four bells (ten P. M.,) up from the cards and down again at the table,
To drink champaigne and eat cold chicken as long as we were able:
With very slight variations this was the daily life we led,
Breakfast, whist; lunch, whist; dinner, whist; supper, whist; and then to bed.
The sea, for aught we know, was like that which Coleridge’s mariners sailed on;
We never looked at it, nor the sky, nor the stars; and our captain railed on,
But still we played, until one day there was a sudden dismemberment of our party;
We had dined on soup à la tortu, (made of pig’s feet,) of which Madame ate uncommonly hearty;
And had just resumed our game; it was her cut, but she made no motion;
‘Cut, Madame,’ said I; ‘Good Heavens!’ exclaimed her partner, ‘I’ve a notion
That she has cut for good; quick! help her! she’s falling!’
And the next moment on the floor of the cabin she lay sprawling.
Poor Madame! It was in vain that we tried hartshorne, bathing and bleeding;
Her spirit took its flight, tired to death of her high feeding:
For spirits are best content with steady habits and spare diet,
And will remain much longer in a tabernacle where they can enjoy repose and quiet
Than in a body that is continually uneasy with stuffing,
And goes about like an overloaded porter, sweating and puffing.
 
 
The next morning at four-bells, the sun was just uprisen,
Glowing with very joy to leave his watery prison;
The bright cerulean waves with golden scales were crested,
Forming the fairest scene on which my eyes had ever rested;
The wind was S. S. W., and when they let go the main-top bowline
To square the after yards, our good ship stopped her rolling.
Madame lay on the quarter-deck sewed up in part of an old spanker,
And for this glorious sight of the ocean we had solely to thank her,
For to have kept her lying in the cabin would have caused some of us to feel qualmish,
And she could not have been kept on deck, as the weather was growing warmish;
Therefore it had been resolved in a kind of council, on the captain’s motion,
At sunrise to commit the old lady to the ocean.
She was placed upon a plank, resting upon the taffrail, (the stern railing,)
One end of which was secured by a bight of the trysail brailing.
The captain read the prayers, somewhat curtailed, but a just proportion,
The plank was raised, ‘Amen!’ the corpse dropped into the ocean.
Down in its deep mysterious caves she sunk to sleep with fishes,
While a few bubbles rose from her and burst as if in mockery of human wishes.
‘Up with your helm; brace round; haul out your bowlines;
Clear up the deck; keep her full; coil down your tow-lines!’
The ship was on her course, and not a word said to remind us
Of the melancholy fact that we had left one of our number behind us.
‘Shocking affair!’ I remarked to Madame’s partner, who looked solemn as a mummy,
‘O! horrid!’ said he; ‘I shall now be compelled to play with a Dummy!’
 

ON A PASSAGE IN MACBETH

 
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’
 

Macbeth.

Let us put on one side for a few moments the horrid midnight murder of the gracious Duncan. Let us suppose of the buried majesty of Scotland,

 
——‘Upward to Heaven he took his flight,
If ever soul ascended!’
 

Let us for the moment imagine Mrs. Siddons to have been the veritable Lady Macbeth, and acknowledge that never was man more powerfully tempted into evil, nor more deeply punished with his fall from Virtue, than this, the Thane of Glamis and of Cawdor. My concernment in this Essay is neither with his virtue, nor his fall. I neither come to praise, nor bury Cæsar:

 
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’
 

In the reading I desire should be here given to the language of the immortal bard, it will be perceived that the last pronoun is made emphatic. ‘Get thee to bed.’

The household of the castle of Macbeth, excited and disturbed as its members had been throughout the day by the unexpected arrival of the King of Scotland at Inverness, are now subsiding into rest. The King has retired. His suite are provided for in various parts of the quadrangle; and all the tumultuary sounds of preparation and of festive enjoyment have followed the departed day; and Banquo charged with a princely gift to the Lady Macbeth under the title of most kind hostess, from her confiding and now slumbering monarch, has paid his compliments and gone.

Now comes the deeper stillness, and the witching hour of that eventful night; and the noble Thane, having gone the rounds of his hushed castle to place all entrances under both watch and ward, turns to his torch-bearer, the last remaining household servant of the train, and dismisses him with the message I have read. The words excite no surprise in the mind of the attendant. He receives the command and departs upon his errand; to deliver it as had doubtless been his office before, and then retire for the night:

 
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell.’
 

Admired Editor, I have now that to say in thine ear that may possibly startle thy preceptions, shock thy wishes, and for the moment interfere with thy store of tragick recollection. I would have thee imagine with me, that Macbeth, stifling all murderous intent, and all disloyal thought, had honestly gone down at the sound of the bell, and, as must have been his wont as is shewn from the manner in which his attendant receives the charge, had soberly partaken of the warm and grateful drink his noble partner had prepared for his refreshing and composing use.

Imagine the illustrious and majestick pair, their household having entirely withdrawn, seated in the deep silence of the night, on either side of a small table as was their happy wont, and gently, calmly, dispassionately, and elegantly sipping that prepared beverage; that ‘drink made ready’ by hands then yet innocent and spotless. Imagine the ingredients of which that dilution must have been composed! Not wine for wine is always ‘ready.’ O call it not by any other W! Let it not be named Glenlivet; think not upon Ferintosh. It was PURE REALITY IN THE LUSTRE OF A MILD GLORIFICATION, mingled with droppings of the dew of morning.

They say that the mind of man is a mere bundle of associations, and that our success in moving it to our purpose depends on our awakening the most powerful, or most agreeable of them. I know not of what associations that of the reader may be composed; but for my own part I think a little warm drink before going to bed upon a night when owls hoot and chimnies are to be blown down, prepared by the small hands that one loves, and that all admire; where a dimple takes place of what in a plebeian hand is a knuckle, and the round fingers taper gently off toward points that are touched with damask and bordered with little rims of ivory; where bright eyes beam with kindness as well as wit; and words fall in silvery tones from a beautifully-formed mouth, like the renewal of life upon the soul of man! I think where one could enjoy all this, it was a monstrous act of folly on the part of Macbeth to fret about the principality of Cumberland, or covet even the whole kingdom of Scotland. For my own part I must say, give me the warm drink and the sweet companionship of that night, and let old Duncan with a hearty welcome sleep up to his heart’s content the whole ‘ravelled sleeve of care!’

Oh Woman! dear, good, kind, blessed, beautiful Woman! chosen of Heaven (and O how well!) for the meet companion of our otherwise forlorn race! is there a moment throughout that whole circle of the Sun which we call Day more sweet to us, than that which follows the well-performed duties of our lot and that gives thee altogether to us at its close, gentle, refined, affectionate, soothing, bland, and unreserved? The hour that precedes retirement for the night, when the early luxury of languor begins to take possession of the senses? When the eyes are not heavy, but threaten to become so, and long silken lashes first make love to each other? When it is time to confine part of that rich hair en papilotte and fold the whole into that pretty cap; to place the feet in small graceful slippers, and let ease put fashion tastefully on one side in the arrangement of the dress?

Doubtless there is a period during the delirium of youthful fancy when the calmer pleasures are unappreciated at their value, but the Andante of existence follows the Allegro of boyhood; its precious strains fall deeper and more touchingly upon the Sense; and the full Soul longs to yield itself to them, and to share its emotions with the beloved one in tones heard only in her ivory ear–how beautiful! Oh pure of heart, how beautiful!–and, when the belle, still delighting to please, has become the friend; and the mistress, still fascinating, the wife; and one interest, one faith, one hope, one joy, one passion, one life, animate both hearts–oh then,

 
‘Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.’
 

John Waters.

THE SMITHY

BY ALFRED B. STREET

 
There was a little smithy at the comer of the road,
In the village where, when life glow’d fresh and bright, was my abode;
A little slab-roof’d smithy, of a stain’d and dusky red,
An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed;
The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green,
Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.
 
 
High curl’d the smoke from the humble roof with dawning’s earliest bird,
And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard;
The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,
Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll’d the hours along,
Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge’s clear deep light
Through chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.
 
 
The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,
The margin-grass is group’d with cows, and spotted with the geese;
On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there’s a circle of crackling fire,
Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man’s welded tire!
While o’er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it when cherry-red,
To the tilted wheel of the huge grim’d ark in the back-ground of the shed.
 
 
There’s a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,
And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;
In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!
The bands have been placed around him—he struggles to be free:
But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm’d,
Then loosen’d Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he’s unharm’d.
 
 
Joe Matson’s horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he’s seen,
An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;
Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,
There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;
The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,
With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.
 
 
I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,
The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of glancing light:
But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,
And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;
How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,
And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!
 
 
It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,
On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;
It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old dozing gray,
And a blush is fixed on Matson’s face in the broad and steady ray;
One moment more, and the iron is whirl’d with fierce and spattering glow,
And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge’s smite, tink! tink! the hammer’s blow.
 
 
‘Whoa, Dobbin!’ says Tim, as he pares the hoof, ‘whoa! whoa!’ as he fits the shoe,
And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil is through;
Pleas’d Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beat
Of the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the distance fleet:
And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,
That e’en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given.
 

THE FINE ARTS

A FEW HINTS ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF SIZE IN ITS RELATION TO THE FINE ARTS

BY GEORGE HARVEY

It is a common remark made by most persons who visit the mightiest cataract in the world, that it fails to impress one’s mind with that just idea of its grandeur which truly belongs to its vastness, and which is always formed from attentively reading or listening to a correct verbal or written description of it. Even the most faithful drawings cannot awaken an adequate conception of the majesty, the greatness of Niagara. Now the law of optics will serve to convince us that this must ever be so, since the image formed in the dark chamber of the eye is exceedingly small; and as the Falls are always approached gradually from a distance, the surrounding landscape occupies by far the largest portion of the field of vision; hence the descending stream can only sustain a subordinate part in the general view; but when you have approached the very verge of the precipice over which the rolling waters rush with maddening roar; or when, from beneath, you stand upon the piles of broken rocks, and look upward or around, and can only embrace a small portion of the falling waters; then and then only, do the anticipated emotions crowd upon the soul, causing it to stand in trembling awe, vibrating in unison with the fragments of the fallen precipice upon which you tread.

I remember some years since, in looking at an image of the ‘American Falls’ reflected in a camera-obscura which was built on the opposite shore, noticing how extremely insignificant it appeared, notwithstanding the table of vision was five feet in diameter. The descending foam as it was unevenly projected in billowy masses, appeared to move very slowly in its downward course, causing a feeling of impatience at its tardiness: in truth, the whole scene looked very tame and unsatisfactory, and I could not help remarking to a friend who was with me, how utterly impossible it would be for any artist to be thought successful in an attempt to represent them. Nevertheless I made some twenty sketches from as many different points of view; one only of which has procured any commendation, as conveying an idea of the grandeur of the Great Cataract. It is evident therefore that what the eye can take in at one look will never of itself impress the mind with those sublime emotions which we conceive should belong to vastness. Yet there is a physical attribute belonging to subjects having this property of vastness, that will command more attention than the same scene upon a small scale: but the mind must be impressed with the fact, and must draw largely upon it for any emotion of the sublime. It is therefore upon this principle that large portraits will command from the multitude more applause than small miniatures; large oil-paintings than small water-color drawings. The statues on the outside of the Grecian temples were colossal, yet in their position they looked small. Most of the works of Michael Angelo are so; but in consequence of the distance at which they are seen, they lose greatly their power to produce grand ideas, because in all cases the image formed upon the optic nerve varies but little in its actual size; since the distance at which things are viewed is in some degree regulated by the size: thus before a large picture, you must station yourself at a relative distance, so as to embrace the whole, while before the small drawing you must be within arm’s reach; or if a miniature portrait, it must be seen within a few inches, thus making the mirrored picture on the eye vary but little in actual size.

These few hints will readily account for the mortification experienced by many artists who have painted exceedingly impressive pictures when they are seen in the studios where they were executed, but when they are taken into a large gallery or rotunda, seem lost and look insignificant, save to the few of cultivated minds, who may take the trouble to approach within a proper distance, and shut out all objects which interfere or intrude, and which prevent a true appreciation of their merits. The knowing, time-serving artists, who paint exhibition pictures, have long since understood this law; and accordingly they paint up to what is called ‘exhibition-pitch,’ where brilliance and flashiness of color, with an absence of detail, which might interfere with breadth of effect, are of the first importance. Attention is also given to masses of light and shade, that all the forms introduced in the picture may have their due prominence; and a judicious balancing of warm and cool tints, by which harmony is produced, and the eye prevented from being offended by its evident exaggeration of the ‘modesty of nature.’

Turner may be instanced as the most successful in this style of painting, which he has followed to such an extreme, that his pictures are now attractive only at a great distance, for when they are seen near by, they fail to please, if they do not produce positive disgust. Report represents him as having accumulated upward of one hundred thousand pounds sterling, which he could only have done by adopting this distant, effective style; for if he had continued to finish his pictures in the same manner as he did those of his early works, which procured for him the foundation of his present wide-spread reputation, he would not have realized one eighth of that sum. To paint one of the former, costs but a few hours’ labor, but one of the latter would employ many days if not weeks; yet the momentary effect of pleasure derived from seeing the one is greater than that of the other. Hence those who visit exhibitions, having but a limited time, are gratified; but place one of the chaste productions of Claude Lorraine, who diligently followed nature with all the tenderness of a modest student, by the side of one of the tinsel class, and observe the ultimate effect. The former will gradually win your admiration, and continue to arouse pleasing reminiscences; the latter will finally lose its charm, and be regarded with something of the feeling with which one looks upon the ornamental paper of a room. We have had many exhibitions of single large pictures, such as Dubufe’s ‘Don Juan,’ which have produced handsome returns to those who have purchased them for such speculating purposes. The parties have been well aware of the physical effects of size; for had the same subjects been painted upon a small scale, though equally well executed, they would have been less attractive to the multitude; yet the smaller ones would have reflected the same sized images in the camera of the eye; since, as I have already hinted, to see them properly they must be viewed at short distances, as the large pictures must be at greater proportionate ones.

I will here digress for a moment, in the hope that I may be permitted to make mention of my own works, without incurring the charge of undue egotism. Let me, however, by way of apology for calling public attention to the series of forty small Water-Color Drawings, (painted con amore, and with no idea of gain,) which are now before the public, mention the fact, that the commencement of their publication was owing to a suggestion of Gen. Cass, who urged me to undertake the enterprise while I was in Paris. The drawings then consisted of half the present number of landscape views; the localities and subjects of the latter half have been chosen with the purpose of writing appropriate chapters illustrating the progress of civilization and of refinement in the northern part of this continent. The foregoing brief remark applies only to their publication; for their origin dates back to the halcyon days of early life, when I had but just passed my teens; when boyish enthusiasm lends a charm to every dream that finds a home in the fancy or the heart. Then it was that the latent wish was formed of being able, at some future day, to paint the History of the Day; and to carry out this impulsive feeling, I have been brought into sweet communion with divine Nature; and oh! how bounteously has she repaid my studious contemplation with infinite delight! It is not for me to speak of the results. There they are; and every lover of the country may judge of the degree of success I have achieved. I am not so certain that I have equal ability in the use of the pen. The chapters of the first number will speak for themselves; but I must not omit to acknowledge the many obligations I am under to Washington Irving, for the friendly revision of my ms. He has given many an elegant turn to a prose sentence, and clothed rude images with graceful drapery. But to resume.

Since then it follows that a small picture, being viewed at its proper 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.