Chapter VIII: Part II (2)

Sometime ago, when I indited a letter on the paintings of Cole, I partly intended it to be the first of a series, which should include all those of our painters who have established themselves as masters. Since then, however, I have relinquished that idea. I am not _sufficiently_ well acquainted with all these gentlemen, and the number of their productions, to devote a separate paper to each, and have, therefore, concluded briefly to embody my opinions concerning them in a single letter. I propose to speak of those only who are identified with New York, and who are now in the full tide of successful operation; and my object will be merely to write what would correspond to a letter of introduction. In my list, made without respect to persons, are the following names; Durand, Huntington, Edmonds, Page, Mount, Doughty, Wier, Inman, Ingham, Chapman, and Harvey.

_Durand._ If you are at all conversant with the history of art in this country, you need not be told that this gentleman has long borne the enviable reputation of being our best engraver of the human figure. It is also a well-known fact, that he has executed some remarkable pictures in the way of portraiture and fanciful history; but as he is now devoting himself principally to landscape, I shall consider his merits in this department alone.

His only imaginative landscapes, are a pair, allegorically portraying the “Morning and Evening” of human life. In one, the monuments of art and the works of nature are in their prime, and a halo of hope seems to surround the brow of every living creature, young men and maidens, and dancing children. In the other, the same monuments and the same nature are falling to decay, and most of earth’s children are trembling under the weary load of life. And here, on a fallen column, is seated an old man leaning upon his staff, and listening, as it were, to a song of memory, as it recalls the unnumbered joys of other days. A saddening subject, in reality, is here portrayed, but how has the genius of the painter endowed it with a spirit of immortality! To the thoughtful mind, it possesses a world of eloquence, and touches the heart with the thrill of poetry. Considered as a maiden effort in the most exalted branch of landscape painting, it affords abundant reason to believe that Mr. Durand would accomplish great things in this department, if he would but persevere. The only fault I can find with it, is this—in the idea of its design, and in some parts of its execution, it bears too close a resemblance to the Departure and Return, or the Past and Present, of Thomas Cole.

The majority of Mr. Durand’s landscapes I should designate as actual views and fanciful pictures; and here, I think, he is without a superior. In the choice of subjects, he always displays an exquisite taste; and as he paints with great care, and finishes highly, there is an indescribable summer-day charm about his pictures which is peculiarly their own. The three most difficult things in nature for an artist to delineate, are trees, atmospheres, and figures; but all these have been thoroughly mastered by Mr. Durand. His trees are strongly characteristic, and his figures numerous, happily introduced, and accurately drawn. Of his views, I mostly admire “Lake Geneva,” “Shakspeare’s Church,” two “Views in Switzerland,” “Island of Capri,” “Deserted Road-side,” “Farm Yard on the Hudson,” “Oak Tree with horses under it,” and a “View on the Rhine.” Each one of these is a perfect gem, a beautiful and poetical reproduction of the original scene. But the most unique and superb of all his paintings, is a fanciful picture of a large size, exhibiting an extensive lake in a wilderness. The sun is on the verge of the horizon, the sky is studded with an array of most gorgeous clouds, and the surface of the lake is quivering under the pinions of an evening breeze. In one corner of the foreground is a cluster of luxuriant trees, encircled with grape-vines, and in the other, an admirable rock, on which is standing a solitary heron, the only living creature in the whole scene. The great triumph of this picture is in the water—the gold-tipt waves.

The last time I saw Mr. Durand, he was finishing some studies of chestnut trees in blossom, which stand on the margin of Esopus Creek. They are wonderfully true to nature, and will enhance his reputation, even if he should not paint anything more during the coming summer. But I hope that he may not only live to do this, but to paint a dozen summers more, and a dozen pictures in each summer; for he is a great artist, and an honor to his native country.

_Huntington._ Although this gentleman is under thirty years of age, he has produced many admirable pictures, which place him on a level with the most gifted artists of any country. He commenced his career by painting landscapes, many of which were wood-scenes and waterfalls on the Rondout. They are remarkable for their rich coloring, and dashing style of execution. But it is as a portrait and historical painter that he is most celebrated. In both these departments his power is wonderful. Eight years ago he was a pupil of Mr. Morse, but now is an acknowledged master, and the pride of his profession. He uses the most glowing colors, and yet there is a perfect harmony in all he paints; he handles the pencil in a fine off-hand style, and yet his flesh possesses the softness of the reality; he can take the most ordinary head, and by his arrangement and his faculty of exalting his subject, make an interesting picture, while at the same time it will be a speaking likeness. Of his portraits, the most superb are those of his father, an uncle and aunt, “The Venetian Girl,” the “Roman Girl,” and “Shepherd Boy of the Campagna.” The last of these, which we think is equal to Murillo’s “Beggar Boy,” was painted in the incredible short period of four hours. If this fact and this picture do not prove Huntington to be a wonderful genius, we do not know what could do so. But even all the pictures just mentioned are eclipsed by his two historical ones, taken from the Pilgrim’s Progress, viz.: “Mercy’s Dream,” and “Christiana and Family passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.” In the first, Mercy is in a reclining position, resting on one arm, with her face raised heavenward, while the angel hovering above her is on the point of placing the crown upon her head. In her position there may be something a little unnatural, and the expression of the angel may be somewhat too earthly; but where, in the whole range of art, is there anything more beautifully designed, more accurately drawn, or more richly colored? In the other picture, Christiana and her family are represented on a rock overlooking a valley of flame. At first we are startled by a feeling of terror, but when the eye falls upon the principal figure, her upraised countenance beaming with holy confidence and hope, the first impulse vanishes, and the heart throbs with peaceful joy. The soul depicted in that countenance, its conception and execution, is a triumph of art which we believe can never be surpassed. But the interest does not stop here. What a world of poetry has the painter portrayed in the eldest son attempting to shield the loved ones from the impending danger, and in the youngest child cleaving to its mother for protection! All, in fact, look to Christiana for safety, while she, with the meekness of childhood, looks calmly up to the Almighty. I should rather be the author of that painting than of any others of superior merit. Oh, it is a blessed thing to see genius consecrating its powers to the promotion of His glory, from whom all genius flows! Huntington possesses both great and good qualities, and we trust that his sojourn in Europe will not be prolonged beyond an extensive tour.

_Edmonds._ This gentleman, who occupies the responsible station of cashier in a bank, is considered one of the ablest financiers in New York, while, at the same time, he enjoys a remarkable reputation as an artist. His paintings are comparatively few, owing to his peculiar situation, and to the correct notion which he entertains, that a work of art should not be exhibited to the public until its author has done his best to make it perfect. His style of coloring is warm and glowing, and his drawing exceedingly accurate. As a designer, he is more particular than our artists generally; and very few, I think, understand the principles of composition so well. He is a man of quite extensive reading, and of expansive mind, and his pictures are an index to the humor which it contains. They are of a comical character, and never fail to tell their story at a single glance. They are always intended to make you laugh, and are, therefore, agreeable helpers on to a long life; and sometimes possess an undercurrent of poetry or philosophy, which makes them voiceless preachers to the thinking man. His best pictures are the “Newspaper Boy,” “The Country and City Beaux,” “Sparking,” “The Bashful Cousin,” “Italian Mendicants,” “The Epicure,” and “Stealing Milk.” The first represents a large room thronged with men, women, and children, into the midst of whom a ragged boy has entered to sell his Sunday morning papers. In the second we have a charming country lady and her accepted lover, suddenly surprised by the appearance of a city dandy; and while the latter is nettled by the appearance of things, the former, who is rocking himself in an arm-chair, very coolly puffs the smoke of his cigar into the face of his disappointed rival. In the next, a country damsel is peeling apples before a large blazing fire, while a hearty fellow is talking to her, “solemnly and slow,” about his heart and other kindred matters. In the next, a bashful young fellow is taking leave of his friends, who urge him to sit down to tea, which is now ready. The next is a blind old man, led by a little girl, asking alms in the streets of Rome. In the Epicure, we have a butcher displaying his nice things to an old gentleman, almost eaten up in health by rich living. In the last, we have a school-boy in his mother’s pantry, swallowing large quantities of rich cream, who is discovered by his “anxious Ma” in the very act. All things considered, I think Mr. Edmonds one of the most remarkable men of the age, and hope that he may live to make many more additions to the genius-stamped treasures of American art.

_Page._ Here we come to another honored artist, but one who has been greatly over-rated; not a man of genius, but one of rare, of extraordinary talent. As a mere portrait painter or map-taker, he is without a rival, I believe, in any country. The man who sits to him for a likeness, must expect to have every hair on his face delineated to perfection, but must not expect to have himself exalted or intellectualized. This is a thing which Page has never done, and can never do, and consequently he will never excel as an historical painter. I am warranted in making this assertion by looking at his past efforts in this department? What admirable execution has he squandered on his picture of “The Whistle,” his “Prison Scene,” and lately in his “Ecce Homo.” In coloring and drawing, these pictures cannot be surpassed; but how very inferior are they in conception, and especially the last! Surely, the Saviour of the world could never have borne so _physical_ a countenance as Page has here conceived! It is understood, that he is engaged on a large picture, to be called “Jephtha’s Daughter.” I sincerely _hope_ that he may triumph there, but I cannot but doubt. Parts of it I know will be astonishingly fine, but, as a whole, it will be a failure. I have been thus free in my remarks concerning this artist, because he is lauded as a great _genius_, which I am not willing to acknowledge, although I admire him as a portrait painter. His style of coloring is not easily described, for it varies with every one of his subjects, now pale as death or red as a cherry, and now blue as sapphire or green as an emerald. If I desired my children to behold their very Pa long after he is in the grave, I would rather have Page paint me than any other man. His greatest portraits are those of Mrs. Ridner, a single head and with a child, of Lowell the poet, of Mr. Leup, and of himself.

_Mount._ Three cheers for the laughter-loving and incomparable genius of Stony Brook, whom I know to be a first-rate fisherman, and a most pathetic player on the violin. Here is a man who stands alone in the art of painting, for, in everything he does, he is entirely original. His productions are stamped with an entirely American character, and so comically conceived, that they always cause the beholder to smile, whatever may be his troubles. His coloring is what we call cold, but remarkable for its fidelity; and his power and knowledge of drawing are superior to those of any other man in the country. Unlike Mr. Edmonds, he pays but little attention to designing by rule, but in expression, he always lays himself out, and I know not that he has ever failed, in a single instance, to delineate the character he aimed at. He is peculiar in the habit of tasking his own mind for his subjects, so that you never see him illustrating the pages of any writer, historian, poet or wit. And this is a feature I greatly admire. The man who cannot conceive and execute a picture on his own hook entirely, is nothing but a copyist, whatever may be his knowledge of the art. Thinking and strictly original painters, are the only ones that exert a lasting and salutary influence on the pictorial genius of their country, and Mr. Mount, I am glad to know, is emphatically one of these. But let me glance at those pictures which I believe warrant the foregoing opinions. Their general character may be imagined by their titles, which are as follows: “Cider Making,” “The Raffle,” “Tough Yarn,” “Fortune Telling,” “Bargaining for a Horse,” “Gamesters Surprised,” “Winding Up,” “Ringing a Hog,” “Artist showing his Work,” “The last Clam,” “Hoeing Corn,” “Husking Corn,” “Rustic Dance,” and “Rabbit Catching.” In the first, we have a Long Island cider mill, with all the laughable appurtenances thereof. In the next, a company of loafers in a country bar-room are raffling for a goose, illustrating the proverb, that “birds of a feather flock together.” The next picture, a lame old “covey” telling a story to two impatient gentlemen, which has been illustrated by an admirable story from the pen of Seba Smith, Esq. In the next, a couple of farmers, in a barn-yard, are discussing the merits of a “slick looking” horse hitched to a fence, one of them rolling a stone with his foot, and the other whittling a stick. In the next, we have some truant boys, who have stolen into a barn to play “heads or tails,” who are discovered by the farmer; and while he approaches cautiously, with a long stick in his hand and vengeance in his eye, one of the boys is frightened by the approaching step, but another is so absorbed in the game, that a nameless portion of his body is about to sting under the chastising stroke. The next exhibits a gentleman lover holding a skein of yarn for a buxom country damsel. The next, is a _painted_ “concord of _sharp_ sounds.” In the next, an artist is showing a country farmer a picture, which causes him great delight. The next, portrays the garret of a disappointed bachelor, seated before a fireless fireplace, and mourning over the departure of a few clams, the shells of which are on the hearth at his feet. The four remaining pictures are described in their titles. The man who could paint such a variety of subjects, ought assuredly to be a good portrait painter; and Mr. Mount is such. His portraits are only occasionally executed, and for particular friends, and the former only when the spirit moves him, for he is a creature of impulse. And besides, his health has ever been of a delicate nature, which will not suffer him to “bone” down to labor. This fact, I presume, will be a satisfactory answer to those who are continually inquiring, “Why don’t Mount paint more?” The pictures he has produced, admirable and numerous as they are, are but as the bud to the fruit, when we consider his great capacity. I hope that it may be his fortune to enjoy a long and happy life, and that he may make many more additions to American art.

_Doughty._ This gentleman has long been a favorite landscape painter with the public, and has executed many exceedingly beautiful pictures, principally of a fanciful character. In number they are too great, which is his misfortune and not his fault. He has been obliged to paint at a cheap price, or the public would have let him starve to death, as they would any other artist, or a man of refined and exalted taste. And having painted so much, it is not to be wondered at that many of his productions should have been too hastily done, and that there should be a sameness in his subjects. Finishing, as he generally does, with great care, it always gratifies the eye to behold his pictures; but it is obvious that he has never painted much from nature, for there is a monotony in his touch, which cannot escape the criticism of the attentive student of foliage. There are some, however, and very important features too, in landscape painting, which are completely mastered by Mr. Doughty, and in which he is without a rival, either in Cole, Durand, or Huntington. His skies and water are the most true and beautiful that we have ever seen. A carefully painted waterfall by Doughty, is a picture of rare excellence and great value. His atmospheres, too, are sometimes most exquisitely conceived and executed. Good figures are the principal things wanting in his paintings to make some of them nearly perfect, and his inability to paint them is undoubtedly another reason for the sameness of his subjects. When a man paints without a story or a moral in view, it is difficult to designate his pictures; but our favorites among those of Mr. Doughty, are a large “upright” with waterfall, an autumn scene, owned in Boston, another sold to the Apollo Association, and a scene on Lake George.

_Wier._ This gentleman is the accomplished teacher of drawing at the Academy of West Point. The majority of his productions, which are numerous, give evidence of his possessing extensive literary acquirements, a refined mind, and brilliant imagination. He is the author of a number of pleasing landscapes, the best of which, “Constable Bourbon’s March to Rome,” has been illustrated by the pen of Gulian C. Verplanck. The amusing pictures, called the “Boat Club,” and “St. Nicholas,” have proven, that if he would attempt it, he might excel in that department of the art occupied by Mount and Edmonds. But it is as an historical painter, that his name will live, and is now mostly celebrated. His drawing is remarkably correct, his coloring rich, and his style of execution highly finished. Another qualification belonging to his works, and one which makes us love the man, is, that they are purely American. Who that has seen it, can ever forget his full-length portrait of “Red Jacket,” the warrior and orator of the Senecas? Aside from the noble subject, it is unquestionably the most faithful and competent delineation of Indian character to be found; and who that has ever seen the “Indian Captives,” by the same hand, has not mourned over the fate of the much wronged Aborigines of our land, even as “brave men mourn the brave?” In this painting, we have an Indian and his squaw, in prison, and an English soldier warning them of their impending fate. Although it is an intensely interesting scene, yet the painter has not availed himself of a single “face divine,” which I fancy to be a beautifully poetic idea, and could not be carried out but by a man of genius. Mr. Wier is one of the four artists appointed by the General Government to execute four paintings for the Rotunda at Washington. The subject of his, is the “Departure of the Pilgrims from Leyden;” but as I have not yet seen it, I am unable to express an opinion as to its merits.

_Inman._ The reputation of this gentleman as a portrait painter is very extensive, and he has ever commanded a higher price than any other in New York. His productions are very numerous, and there is not a single branch of the art in which he has not made some successful attempts. His coloring is rich and life-like, his style of execution exceedingly bold and free. Painting as he does with great rapidity, we find that his drawing is seldom as correct as it should be. He manifests a refined and exalted taste in the arrangements of his portraits, and generally in his miscellaneous designs. But, after all, he has painted some poor pictures, and this is an evidence of the fact, that he is a man of uncommon genius, and not talent. There is a wonderful spirit in his heads, and unlike his rival, Page, he portrays the mind, which, after all, is a greater triumph of art, and far more important in a portrait, than the mere shell of humanity, as delineated by Page. His full-length portrait of Macready, as William Tell, is a masterly performance, well conceived, well colored, and well drawn; and among his miscellaneous pictures, the most remarkable, are—“Rip Van Winkle,” “Bride of Lammermoor,” “Mumble the Peg,” and “News-Boy;” all of them possessing many peculiar beauties, with some glaring faults. Of his plain portraits, I would mention only two as good specimens of his skill in general, namely, those of Nicholas Biddle and Bishop White. I do not deem it within the power of any man to go beyond these in portraying the body of man and the soul within. Mr. Inman is also one of those artists honored by a commission from the Government for a 10,000 dollar painting. I understand that he is very far behind-hand in his great undertaking. I know, however, that he has met with some sad misfortune, which may be the cause; but I trust that he will soon be at work, and may accomplish a national work worthy of his ability and his fame.

_Ingham._ This gentleman is one of the most celebrated and unique of all our portrait painters. His style is emphatically his own, and may be designated as that of exquisite finishing. You can never discern the traces of his pencil, and the reason is, he produces his effect by successive glazing. His pictures are distinguished for their transparency, richness of color, and harmony; and being a man of sentiment and delicate feeling, he is the universal favorite among the ladies, and probably the most faultless painter in this country of those charming but incomprehensible creations of Heaven. His best productions are the portraits of “Miss McNevin,” “Mr. Dunlap,” “Dr. Channing,” and the “White Plume;” and as genuine works of art, are inferior to nothing in the whole range of that department. That of Dr. Channing, is one of the best specimens of soul painting that I have ever seen, and any one familiar only with the writings of the great original, could not fail to select this portrait as his, from the midst of a hundred of other men, so full is it of expression, and so perfect and exalted is the effect of the painter. Ingham is a man of genius as well as talent, a friend to young artists, and an honor to American art.

_Chapman._ All hail to this poetical and ready artist, and accomplished gentleman, who has executed first-rate pictures in almost every department of painting! His coloring is rather gaudy and paint-like, but his drawing, when he takes pains, is correct and vigorous. His knowledge of design is profound, and his conception of a picture is quick, and always in admirable taste. He has been a devoted student of the old masters, and copied more celebrated paintings than any other American. Having been an extensive traveller throughout the United States, and ever being on the lookout for valuable subjects to paint, and a lover of historical lore, he has collected a large quantity of valuable materials, the whole of which I hope he may live to embody in national paintings. It was he who received the commission from Government to paint the third picture (Vanderlyn is at work on the fourth) for the Rotunda at Washington, and he has manfully fulfilled his obligation in the execution of the “Baptism of Pocahontas.” Some of his other prominent pictures, are “Hagar and Ishmael fainting in the wilderness,” full length portrait of “David Crocket,” “Beppo,” “The First Ship,” a large historical landscape representing “The Retreat from Fort Necessity,” and a full length of “Washington in his youth.” These, however, are but a small portion of what he has done, for he is one of the most industrious men living. He is also a complete master of sketching, and as he has a historical mind, his efforts of this kind are very beautiful and very numerous. He is without a rival in this lucrative branch of art, and for the past two years has mostly been devoted to it, and is consequently a favorite among booksellers. He is a lover of the “poor Indian,” and has done much toward perpetuating their personal and national characteristics. Among the many things which now occupy his time, is an American Drawing Book, which is what we very much need in this country, and his I know will be a superb and valuable one in every point of view.

_Harvey._ This gentleman is a landscape painter of rare merit; but many of his pictures, unfortunately for us, are owned in England. His principal work, and one which places him in a very high rank, is Forty Atmospheric Views in the United States, executed in watercolors, and in a style of uncommon beauty. He is a good draftsman, and possesses a remarkable eye for color, and everything from his pencil teems with sentiment and poetry. His contemplated work of “American Scenery,” when published after his own expensive plan, will be an invaluable acquisition to our treasury of art, and I hope that it may be received by the public with the favor it so richly deserves.

Such is the array of painters, of which the emporium of America may well be proud. Fame must ever attend their names, as surely as it is attending those of West, Copley, Stuart, Allston, Jarvis, Trumbull, and Malbone, among the dead; and Sully, King, Harding, Fisher, Neagle, Morse, Vanderlyn, and Audubon, among the living of other cities;—altogether making a company which would reflect honor on any nation in the world.

A SONG OF MEMORY.

The din of the great world is hushed, and the vexatious cares, which have occupied my mind during the day, are all dispelled; and again, for a little while, I am left alone. The evening lamps are not yet lighted, but the fire in the grate burns brightly, so that the shadows on the wall are distinct and clear, but continually changing, even as my own wayward thoughts. Wayward they are at all times, I confess, but most strangely so when my spirit forgets the present, and the hereafter, and holds communion with the realities of by-gone years. Time has not yet set his signet on my brow, for it was but yesterday that my timid footsteps crossed the threshold of manhood; so that the years gone by, with me, are comprised in the budding and the blossoming seasons of childhood and youth. But with these, what a world of joys and griefs, of smiles and tears, are entwined, which the fond memory strangely delights to recall. I know not how it is with others, but to me the voice of memory is sometimes plaintive as the evening breeze, when sporting with the flowers in the garden of the dead. I am even now listening to that voice; and the burden of its song, I shall trace upon this page.

It were not wise to “look mournfully into the past,” for we know that “it comes not back again.” But it were well to ponder, deeply ponder, the history of our past lives, and analyze the motives which have ever influenced our conduct. How little can we remember, which will be of service to us, when we are called to die. But how many things there are, the remembrance of which inclines us to shed penitent tears, and heave the sigh of regret. Ours is a frail and sinful nature; not a day passes away, that does not take with it the record of many sins, which we have committed in word, thought, and deed.

How many unkind words have we spoken to our parents, who have chided us for unworthy conduct; to a sister or brother, who have thwarted us—unconsciously, perhaps, or for our own good, in our thoughtless and head-strong desires; to some squalid beggar, whose misfortune it was to solicit our aid, when we were perplexed with the cares of business, or absorbed with some dream of opulence and renown; to a party of innocent children, who have chanced to disturb our moroseness by a natural and heartfelt shout of happiness and a laugh of joy; and even to our Maker, in the form of an oath, when we have been disappointed in some of our ambitious designs. Lightly spoken, it may be, were many of these words, but they are not lightly considered by our Creator, as we shall know at the judgment day.

How many selfish thoughts have we cherished in our bosoms, which we knew were desperately wicked, and which we would have blushed to proclaim; thought of hate and revenge, of hypocrisy and pride, of envy and sensuality. Do not the nature of these, and their great number, make us ashamed to own ourselves the lords of the brute creation, creatures made in the image of God?

How many wicked and debasing deeds have we committed which we would fain recall, or annihilate, but for which we must at last render a reasonably excuse, or suffer, unless the recording angel in heaven should drop a tear upon the page, where they are written down, and blot them out forever. In a fit of anger we may have rudely struck a friend or brother; we have flattered the unsuspecting only to deceive and make them wretched; we have trifled with the misfortunes of the poverty stricken, the deformed, and the ignorant; in a thousand ways we have broken the commandments of our Lord and Saviour, and instead of God, we have worshipped Baal; we have not loved our Bible, the holy sanctuary, and the duty of prayer; we have misimproved our time, neglected many opportunities for doing good, and instead of giving a portion of our money to the poor heathen, who are perishing for the want of the bread of life all over the world, we have spent it all in administering to our own sensual gratifications.

Yes, it is too true, and the recollection of it should make us humble ourselves in the dust, that the words, thoughts, and deeds of our past lives, which we have reason deeply to regret, are more in number than the sands upon the sea-shore. But because they cannot be numbered, we must not omit to remember and meditate upon them. We should use them as a medicine, not in too great abundance, lest they make us sick, and not too sparingly, less they produce not their desired effect.

Unenviable indeed is the condition of that man, who can dwell upon his moral character for a series of years, or even for a single week, and not find much to mourn over and regret. Sin and sorrow are our inheritance, and it is natural, therefore, and good for us, to have our cheeks occasionally moistened by regretful tears. Sometimes, too, there is a luxury in tears, which the breaking heart alone can know; and that proud man who is ashamed to weep, deserves to have pointed at him the finger of scorn.

At the mention of that word regret, memory calls up a long array of beings whom I once loved most tenderly, but who are gone away to a country whence they can never return. Some had just pushed their little bark upon the stream of time, which flowed onward with a murmur “soft, gentle, and low,” and whose banks were covered with flowers. Some were in the strength and buoyancy of youth; others in the full vigor of manhood; and a few were tottering along, “wrinkled and bent, and white with hoary hairs.” I knew them, I loved them, and they died. I regret that they are gone, because they were the friends and counsellors of my early days. Deeply, indeed, do I mourn their absence, but I would not, even if I could, call them back again, for they have been transformed, as I trust, into the glorious image of their Creator, and his bosom is their home. In my hours of loneliness I am always strengthened by the hope, that when I too shall have passed the troubled waves of Jordan, I shall meet them again, and remain with them forever. O! yes, it is a nameless feeling of regret that oppresses me when I think, that upon the earth never more shall I listen to their voices, who once charmed my ear, and look upon their smiles, who once gladdened my heart. But often in my dreams do I behold them in their angelic robes, hovering in the ethereal atmosphere of heaven, and they are always beckoning to me, and pointing to a great white throne, whose foundations are everlasting. They are calling me away, but I cannot go, for my earthly pilgrimage is not yet ended. To secure the crown of Immortality, with which they endeavor to allure me, is my chief ambition; and though a thousand regrets are the burden of the song of Memory, yet I feel and hope that I shall at last obtain it, through the mercy and love of my Redeemer.

Lo! the voice of Memory is speaking to me in another tone, mournfully pleasing to the soul. It is telling me of the morning of life, which was cheerful as the singing of birds, and loving as the opening of spring, when not a cloud arose to mar its beauty, or obscure the bright sun of innocence and youth; when every sense was gratified, every flower was sweet, and every rose without a thorn; when every kiss was a pledge of affection, and every friend was true; and when my cheeks were blooming with health, and my eyes beaming with joy. True, the sun has not yet reached the meridian, but far different from those of the morning are the associations of the early noon. Alas! it is with regret I remember the truth, that “I am not now that which I have been.” Weary and heavy laden as I am, my course is onward, and my heart is strong.

Memory is telling me of my childhood’s home, the dearest and most lovely spot on the face of the earth, and I regret that I can visit it only in my dreams. It is telling me the thrilling legends which fascinated my boyish imagination, when, with my bow and arrows, and clad in my hunting garb, I used to visit the Indian villages of Michigan. The better I have ever become acquainted with the red man of the wilderness, the more deeply have I loved him, and the more highly have I honored his character; and I regret that I cannot now, as of yore, chase with him the bounding deer, and paddle the light canoe. I regret that he is an exile and a stranger in the very land which gave him birth, and which, by the laws of nations and of God, is rightfully his own. Memory is telling me of those matchless lakes, Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie, whose every inlet almost I have explored, and from many of whose cliffs I have watched the most glorious of sunsets—those lakes with whose waves in summer it was my delight to sport, and over whose icy-plains in winter I took the lead in skating, and used to drive the swift Canadian pacer in the swan-like carriole. Of those rivers, too, the Detroit, the St. Clair, the St. Joseph, the Huron, and the Raisin, in whose transparent waters I have often caught the sturgeon, the pickerel, and the bass, and along whose borders I have hunted the plover and the duck. Of those glorious forests, the homes of solitude and silence, where I was wont to be so happy alone with my God. Of those prairies, “boundless and beautiful, for which the speech of England has no name,” where I used to wander in dreamy mood, gathering the richest of flowers, with which to adorn the neck and forelock of my favorite steed. These are but the beginnings of the innumerable scenes, which are the themes of my memory. I regret that it is my lot to live so far removed from all these things, which are fast passing away, and that my pursuits compel me to live in a world of art, of business, and fashion.

And now come the recollections of the past summer, which I have attempted to commemorate in the foregoing letters. I know not with what feelings you may have perused them, but to me they are very dear, on account of the feelings and conceptions with which they are associated, and these are a kind of treasure, that my heart cherishes as the miser does his gold. Much of the time, during my various journeyings have I been alone, and I have held a blessed communion with my mother nature,—not only in the morning and at noon, but in the calm evening and in the most holy night. Thou hast, O Nature, instructed me in the “magic of thy mysteries,” and given my spirit an idea of its immortal destiny. I thank thee for having, even in my infancy, consecrated my affections to thy rational worship. Next to those of revealed religion are thy consolations. Thou art the Empress of a world of poetry, and yet the great human world is familiar only with thy name. Next to my Creator, thou hast proven thyself my most faithful friend, and when I cease to love thee as I now do, may my right hand forget its cunning, and the silver cord of my life be forever loosened. In all my mortal pilgrimage may I be influenced by thy teachings, so that when I come to be an immortal, I may be fitted for a station at the footstool of God.

JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY
ARE PUBLISHERS OF
NOTES ON CUBA.

Containing an account of its Discovery and Early History; a description
of the face of the country, its population, resources
and wealth, its institutions, and the manners and
customs of its inhabitants; with directions to
travellers visiting the Island.

By A PHYSICIAN.

12mo. pp. 359.

“The main purposes of this volume is to serve as a guide and a companion to invalids, travellers, and others who may visit Cuba. There is no other work of this character in the English language, nor in any language is there a book which embraces the information which is contained in this. The directions to travellers for their guidance, comfort and conduct, are very full, and we may add, very necessary. Then we have a methodical arrangement of matter which presents us with a complete and exceedingly interesting narrative, seeming to anticipate every question, and to draw a full picture of the country, of its inhabitants, their employments and characteristics. The towns upon the island, with its general scenery, curiosities and striking objects, are described in full. The history, the geology, the government and commerce of the island, are noticed at length, and present the results of an evidently laborious investigation, and a faithful use of the eyes. The resources which a traveller or visitor will find for occupying his time, or for amusing himself, have their full share of space. The whole volume, coming from a source which stamps it with a high authority, is a valuable addition to our libraries, and will be much prized by those who read it.”—_Christian Register._

“A well written, carefully printed, and instructive book, by a Physician. No invalid who seeks the blissful climate of Cuba, should leave home without this best of all guides and counsellors. We are delighted with the valuable contribution which he has made to history, as well as with the intelligence and good judgment he evinces as a physician. In recommending the Notes on Cuba to medical readers and voyagers, it would be unjust not to recommend it also to the whole reading community.”—_Boston Medical Journal._

“Notes on Cuba, by an American Physician. This is a truly valuable and interesting book, both to the invalid intending to visit Cuba in search of health, and to the general reader, and supplies a gap in literature which it is surprising has not long ago been filled. The work is well written, and affords very pleasant reading. The author is known to us, and we can assure the readers of the work that it is entirely authentic, and entitled to the most entire confidence.”—_New Bedford Bulletin._

JAMES MUNROE AND CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.
TWICE TOLD TALES.
By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.

2 vols. 12mo., elegantly printed on clear type and fine paper, and
neatly bound in cloth, gilt.

“To this little work we would say, ‘Live ever, sweet, sweet book.’ It comes from the hand of a man of genius. Every thing about it has the freshness of morning and of May. * * * * The book, though in prose, was written by a poet. * * * A calm, thoughtful face seems to be looking at you from every page. * * One of the most prominent characteristics of these tales is, that they are national in their character. The author has wisely chosen his themes among the traditions of New England. * * Another characteristic of this writer is the exceeding beauty of his style. It is as clear as running waters are. Indeed he uses words as mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and recrosses the bright and rushing stream of thought. * * In speaking in terms of such high praise as we have done, we have given utterance not alone to our own feelings, but we trust to those of all gentle readers of the Twice Told Tales. Like children we say, ‘Tell us more.’”—_North American Review._

“The Tales are worth _twice telling_ and a dozen readings.”—_Boston Courier._

“A book like this, evincing a mind of such peculiar organization, may, or may not become popular; but whether they read it or not, the public may be assured, that in this unpretending volume by a countryman and neighbor, they will find more of that which indicates thought in the writer, and begets thought in the reader, than in nine-tenths of the English reprints, which are so eagerly devoured.”—_Boston Daily Advertiser._

“Mr. Hawthorne’s style is rich, refined, and graceful, and the present volume is an ornament to the literature of our country.”—_Boston Atlas._

“This modest volume, which comes before us without preface, or any sort of an appeal to the public regard, is well calculated to stand on its own merits, and to acquire enduring popularity. The author possesses the power of winning immediate attention, and of sustaining it, by a certain ingenuous sincerity, and by the force of a style at once simple and graceful. In all his descriptions, whether of scenes or emotions, nature is his only guide. In short, in quiet humor, in genuine pathos, and deep feeling, and in a style equally unstudied and pure, the author of ‘Twice Told Tales’ has few equals, and with perhaps one or two eminent exceptions, no superior in our country. We confidently and cordially, therefore, commend the beautiful volume to the attention of our readers.”—_Knickerbocker._

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

--Added author's name on the title page.

--Silently corrected a few obvious typographical errors.