Chapter II: The Soul of Art (2)

So extensively was the commerce of Spain in these seas, under her own flag, cut up, notwithstanding the ships of war repeatedly sent for its protection, that foreign flags were resorted to, in hopes of deceiving the rovers. But the _ruse_ was not successful. Two of the buccaneer chiefs, Michael de Basco and Brouage, receiving intelligence that a cargo of great value had been shipped under the Dutch flag at Carthagena, in two ships much larger than their own, boldly entered the harbor, captured both, and plundered them of their treasure. The Dutch captains, chagrined at being thus beaten by inferior vessels, said to one of the pirate chiefs that had he been alone, he would not have dared thus to attack them. The buccaneer haughtily challenged mynheer to fight the battle over again--stipulating that his consort should stand aloof from the engagement, and, that should the Dutchman conquer, both the pirate vessels should be his. The challenge, however, was not accepted. At another time, when Basco and two other chiefs, named Jonqué and Laurence Le Graff, were cruising before Carthagena with three indifferent vessels, two Spanish men-of-war put out to attack them. The result was the capture of both the latter by the pirates, who kept the ships, but magnanimously sent the crews on shore--affecting, from the ease with which they had been vanquished, to look upon them with utter contempt.

There was yet another pirate chief, whose name stands out in bold relief, for his infamous cruelties, even among the bloody records of the buccaneers. He was a Dutchman by birth, who had settled in Brazil during the occupancy of that country by the United Provinces. On the restoration of the Portuguese to their Brazilian possessions this bloody wretch retreated to Jamaica. His name not being known, he received the soubriquet of _Rock Braziliano_, by which he was henceforward known. Very soon after his arrival at Jamaica, he joined the pirates, first as an ordinary mariner; and acquitted himself so well as to gain, in a short time, the respect and affection of his comrades. A mutiny breaking out on board the vessel in which he was embarked, caused a separation of the crew; a second vessel was taken possession of by a portion of them, and Braziliano chosen chief. He pursued his career with various success and the most frightful cruelty. His hatred of the Spaniards was exceedingly bitter, and when landing in Spanish settlements to procure provisions, he frequently roasted the inhabitants alive if they were not forthcoming at his command. In one of his cruises upon the coast of South America, he was wrecked, and his vessel lost. Escaping to the shore with his crew of only thirty men, he was pursued by a troop of one hundred Spanish cavalry. Upon these he turned, and defeated them with terrible slaughter, and with but trifling loss to himself. Mounting the horses of the slain, Braziliano continued his course coastwise, until, falling in with some boats from Campeachy, which he seized, he made sail for Jamaica--capturing another ship on the voyage laden with merchandise and a large amount of money in pieces of eight. Remaining on shore long enough to dissipate their booty in the usual round of drunkenness and debauchery which characterized the buccaneers when not upon the wave, Braziliano and his companions put to sea again, directing their course to his old haunts about Campeachy. Shortly after his arrival, while looking into the port, in a small boat, to espy what ships were offering for prizes, he was captured and thrown into prison. The Spanish authorities determined upon his execution; but in consequence of an admonition that terrible vengeance would be inflicted upon all Spanish prisoners falling into the hands of the pirates, in the event of his punishment, this horrible villain was released upon the security of his own oath, that he would forthwith relinquish his profession. But before he reached Jamaica on his return, he captured another prize; and after the avails of that were spent in every species of debauch, he went to sea again, committing greater robberies and cruelties than ever.

Jamaica, though a British possession, having, as we have seen, long afforded a market for the pirates, had in process of time become equally a rendezvous with Tortuga. Wealth, in immense quantities, had been poured into that island by the pirates, and had been diffused thence among the other West India possessions, British and French. The licentiousness of the buccaneers was unbounded, and their blood-stained spoils were scattered with incredible prodigality. Indeed they seemed to be at a loss how to spend their money fast enough. Their captains had been known to purchase pipes of wine, place them in the street, knock in the head, and compel every passer-by to drink; and mention is made of one, who, returning from an expedition with three thousand dollars in his pocket, was sold into slavery three months afterward for a debt of forty shillings. If admonished in regard to their reckless waste of money, their reply was that their lives were not like those of other men. Though alive to-day, they might be dead to-morrow, and hence it was folly for them to hoard their treasure. 'Live to-day,' was their maxim, 'to-morrow may take care of itself.' Those, therefore, who were worth millions to-day, robbed by courtezans and stripped at the gaming table, were often penniless in a week--destitute of clothes and even the necessaries of life. They had therefore no recourse but to return to the sea, and levy new contributions, to be dissipated as before.

But the commerce of Spain with her colonies was ruined. Failing in her exertions to conquer the buccaneers, and finding them to be so firmly established as to defy any force which she could send against them, and wearied in making so many consignments, as it were, directly into their hands, Spain dismantled her commercial marine and closed her South American ports, in the hope--a vain one, as it proved--that when the resources of the pirates upon the high seas were cut off, their establishments would be necessarily broken up, and the freebooters themselves disperse. But far different was the event. No sooner had these rapacious and savage men ascertained that there were no more galleons of her bullion to be taken, than they concentrated their forces, with a determination to strike nearer the mines themselves. Powerful expeditions were therefore openly organized at Jamaica and elsewhere, for the purpose of making descents upon the cities and towns of the Spanish main. The temptations to such a course were indeed strong; and the Spaniards, by their ostentatious display, materially assisted in their own ruin. For instance, the city of Lima, in 1682, on the occasion of the public entry of the viceroy, actually had the streets paved with ingots of silver, to the amount of seventeen millions sterling! 'What a pretty prize,' exclaims the _London Times_, 'for a few honest tars!' Then the splendor and magnificence of their churches, ornamented with immense gold and silver images, crucifixes, and candlesticks, and not unfrequently large altars of massive silver, became objects of a _devout regard_. Nor did the pirates fail to present themselves before every accessible shrine; for in truth, they swept over the vast central portion of the continent from Florida to Peru, plundering and laying in waste the most populous regions, and the wealthiest cities--meeting, moreover, with less resistance than attended the march of Cortez and Alvarado in achieving the conquest. Their visitations were sudden, and wherever they struck their blows fell like the thunderbolt. The consequence was that the consternation of the people upon the land became as great as their terror upon the ocean. The great roads were deserted; and the lands were no more ploughed than the sea.

VIRGINIA.

(SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY J. McENTEE.)

'The tree has lost its blossoms,...
But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find
Sown deep even in the bosom of the North;
So shall a bitter spring less bitter fruit bring forth.'

_Childe Harold._

Wan and weird the solemn twilight gleameth in the dreary sky,
Dusky shadows growing deeper, sad night-breezes sorrowing by,
Sighing 'mid the leafless bushes bending o'er the sullen stream,
Wailing 'mid the fire-stained ruins darkly rising 'gainst the gleam
Of the wild unearthly twilight. In the shivering evening air
Cheerless lie the gloomy meadows--blight and ruin everywhere!

Far away the wide plain stretches, dark and desolate it lies
'Neath the shuddering winds that murmur, 'neath the gleaming of
the skies;
Hark to the swollen river, how it moaneth in its flow,
'Mid the bridge's fallen arches, 'neath the bushes bending low,
Now unbroken by a ripple, flowing silently and still,
Gives again unto the heavens twilight gleaming wan and chill.

Where the corn once waved in beauty its bright wealth of shining leaves,
Glittering in the noonday's glory, rustling in the summer eves,
As the murmuring wind swept o'er it, bending low each tasselled head,
'Neath the soft and shimmering radiance by the moon of summer shed--
There no plough will make its furrow--waste the sunny field doth lie,
And no grain will wave its tresses to the breezes wailing by.

Where amid the whispering forests once the laughing sunlight fell,
Fallen tree and blackened stump now the dreary story tell
Of the woe and desolation sad Virginia shadowing o'er,
From the fatal Rappahannock to Potomac's fort-crowned shore,
Tell the tale of saddened hearthstones, desolate hearts that mourn
each day
For the dearly loved ones stricken, wounded, dying, far away.

Wake, Virginia! from thy slumber, from thy wild and traitorous dream;
Wake! and welcome loyal Northmen, sabres' ring and bayonets' gleam;
Cast aside the clanking fetters that still echo on thy soil,
Teach thy sons that no dishonor clings to manly, honest toil:
So again thy tree shall blossom, fairer, stronger than before,
And God's peace will rest upon thee, thy scourged fields will hover o'er.

VISIT TO THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.

APRIL, 1863.

We remember many years ago passing directly from the gallery of Düsseldorf pictures, then recently opened in New York, to the hall of the National Academy. The contrast to a lover of his country was a painful one. The foreign school possessed ripeness of design, and accurate, if in many instances somewhat mannered and artificial execution. The native collection exhibited a poverty in conception, and a harshness and crudity in performance, sadly discouraging to one who would fain see the fine arts progress in equal measure with the more material elements of civilization. Since that time, however, year by year, the art of painting, at least, has steadily advanced, the light of genius has been granted to spring from our midst, our artists dwelling in foreign lands have returned to find a congenial atmosphere under their native skies, and, in so far as landscape is concerned, we have now no need to shun comparison with the best pictures produced abroad. Our school is an original one, for our artists have gone to the great teacher, Nature, who has shown them without stint the bright sun, luminous sky, pearly dawns, hazy middays, glowing sunsets, shimmering twilights, golden moons, rolling mists, fantastic clouds, wooded hills, snow-capped peaks, waving grain fields, primeval forests, tender spring foliage, gorgeous autumnal coloring, grand cataracts, leaping brooks, noble rivers, clear lakes, bosky dells, lichen-covered crags, and varied seacoasts of this western continent. Here is no lack of diversity, here are studies in unity, both simple and complex, and here, too, even civilized man need not necessarily be unpicturesque; witness Launt Thompson's 'Trapper,' Rogers's bits of petrified history, or Eastman Johnson's vivid delineations of scenes familiar to us all. We have no reason to follow in any beaten, hackneyed track, but, within the needful restrictions of good sense, good taste, and the teachings of nature, may wander wherever the bent of our gifts may lead us. We may choose sensational subjects, striking contrasts, with Church, follow the exquisite traceries of shadow, of mountain top and fern-clad rock, with Bierstadt, learn the secrets of the innermost souls of the brute creation with Beard, revel in cool atmospheres and transparent waters with Kensett, paint in light with Gifford, in poetry with McEntee, or with Whittredge seek the tranquil regions of forest shade or quiet interior.

In the examination of every work of art, we find three questions to be asked: Has it something to say; is that something worth saying; is it well said? In painting, poetry, music, sculpture, and architecture, satisfactory replies must be given, or the mind refuses to recognize the work under consideration as fulfilling the conditions necessary to perfection within its individual range. Too often worthlessness of meaning is hidden under exquisite execution, the most dangerous form an aberration from the true principles of art can take, especially in an age when the material receives an undue proportion of attention, and the spirit is exposed to so many risks of being replaced by a false, outside glitter. A worthy, noble, or beautiful idea, clad in a corresponding form, is then the core of every art production; and although much of which the fundamental idea is neither worthy, noble, nor beautiful, is sometimes admired, yet the impression on the whole is painful, as would be exquisite diction and entrancing eloquence flowing from the lips of a man of genius arguing in a cause unholy and pernicious to the best interests of humanity.

Notwithstanding the tasteful and judicious arrangement of the pictures in the hall of exhibition, No. 625 Broadway, a cursory survey only is required to enforce the conviction that the necessities of light and space demand the erection of a building especially adapted to the purposes of an academy of design, and we hope the fellowship fund will speedily justify the commencement of that important undertaking.

The first picture that meets the eye on entering, is one of 'Startled Deer,' by W. H. Beard, N. A. (No. 197). This is a noble delineation--such stately forms, splendid positions, and expressive eyes! This artist is not content with giving us color, shape, and every hair exact, but we look through the creatures' eyes into the depths of their being. His animals love, fear, wonder--in short, are capable of all the manifold feelings pertaining to the brute creation. Who can say how much of that creation is destined to perish forever! The gesture of the spotted fawn seems reason sufficient why the Lord of love should one day give happiness and security in return for apprehension and pain suffered here below, especially if indeed the sin of man be the moral cause of the sorrows incident to the lower existences. At all events, Beard's animals are so endowed with individual characteristics, that we make of them personal friends, who can never die so long as our memories endure. The herbage in the foreground is tenderly wrought, and the whole picture preaches an impressive sermon.

No. 151. 'An Autumn Evening'--Regis Gignoux, N. A. This picture does not satisfy us nearly so fully as others we have seen by the same artist. The general effect strikes us as somewhat artificial, the light does not seem to fall clearly from the sky, but as if through prisms or tinted glass. We have seen the inside of a shell, or the edge of a white cloud turned toward the sun, glittering with similar hues, very beautiful for a small object, but wanting in dignity and repose for an entire landscape. We remember with great pleasure Gignoux's 'Autumn in Virginia,' and his painting of 'Niagara by Moonlight' gave us a far more majestic impression of the great cataract than the famous day representation by Church. As we gazed, we called to mind a certain night when the moon stood full in the heavens, vivid lunar bows played about our feet, and, mounting the tower, we looked down into the apparently bottomless abyss, dark with clouds of mist, seething, foaming, and thundering. We shuddered, and hastened down the narrow stairway, feeling as if all nature must speedily be drawn into the terrible vortex, and we become a mere atom amid chaos. The picture caused us a shivering thrill, and we acknowledged the power of the artist.

No. 90. 'Mansfield Mountain, Sunset'--S. R. Gifford, N. A. A glorious tale, gloriously told! 'The heavens show forth the glory of God, and the firmament declareth the work of his hands. Day to day uttereth speech, and night to night showeth knowledge. * * * He hath set his tabernacle in the sun; and he * * * hath rejoiced as a giant to run the way: His going out is from the end of heaven, and his circuit even to the end thereof: and there is no one that can hide himself from his heat.' This artist seems literally to have dipped his brush in light, pure light. We remember a juvenile book, entitled, 'A Trap to catch a Sunbeam;' such a trap must Gifford possess; he surely keeps tubes filled with real rays wherewith to flood the canvas and transfigure the simplest subject. Here we have a mountain, a lake, some sky, clouds, and a setting sun--but what an admirable combination! The picture seems fairly to illumine that part of the gallery in which it is placed. Had the artist lived in the olden time, he might have been feloniously made way with for his secret, but the present age seems more generous, and his fellow workers delight to praise and honor his genius. We find from the same hand 'Kauterskill Clove' (No. 15)--a flood of golden beams poured upon a mountain glen, with rifted sides, autumn foliage, and a tiny stream; a coming storm obscures but does not hide the distant hills. A bold delineation--but very beautiful, and true to the character of the scenery it represents. There are also a reminiscence of the present war ('Baltimore, 1862--Twilight,' No. 409), and one of foreign travel ('Como,' No. 385), equally suggestive of--not paint--but real, palpitating atmosphere.

No. 49. 'Mount Tahawas, Adirondacs'--J. McEntee, N. A. A picture of great simplicity and grandeur, and one we should never weary of looking into, waiting for the opaline lights of dawn to deepen into the full glory of day. This, like all the works of McEntee we have had the good fortune to see, bears the impress of a poet-soul. A vague stretching forth toward the regions of the infinite, a melancholy remembrance of some enduring sorrow, a tender reminiscence of scenes peculiar to certain heartfelt seasons of the year, a hazy foreshadowing of coming winter, a lingering over the last dying hour of day, a presaging of storms to come, or a lotus-eating dream by some quiet lake, are the themes to be evolved from many of his conceptions. Alas for 'Virginia' (No. 218), mother of presidents, and nurse of the Union! Can it indeed be her sky that shines down so weird and strange over desolate plains, through broken walls and shattered beams, and darkens as it shrinks in horror from the broken bridge once spanning the blood-stained waters of the fatal run? No. 233 is a 'Twilight,' No. 58 an 'October on the Hudson,' and No. 171 a 'Late Autumn,' by the same artist, all excellent specimens of his tender and poetical mode of handling a subject. In looking at one of his pictures, we think more of the matter than the manner, and, carefully correct as is the latter, the mind is often too filled with emotion to care to examine into the very minutiæ, whose delicate execution has so powerfully aided to produce the general effect.

No. 123. 'Morning in the White Mountains'--J. F. Kensett, N. A. Excellent in every way, with crystal water, living rocks, and rose-tinted morning clouds.

No. 74. 'Coast Scene, Mount Desert'--F. E. Church, N. A. A puzzle. We are glad once more to welcome to a public gallery a significant work by this widely known and much admired artist. Of late, the exhibition of such works (in so far as we know) invariably alone, may perhaps have subjected him to some misconception.

No. 73. 'The Window'--W. Whittredge, N. A. This is a charming picture of a home that must be dear to all the dwellers therein. A lovely landscape is seen through an open window, which admits a mellow light to fall upon a Turkey rug, tasteful furniture, and that 'wellspring of joy in a house,' a young soul, endowed with undeveloped, perhaps wonderful capacities, crowing in the arms of a turbaned nurse. It is altogether one of the best interiors ever exhibited in New York. No. 305, 'Summer,' a pleasant nook, and No. 121, 'Autumn, New Jersey,' are by the same accomplished hand. The latter is a meadow scene, with a pleasing sky, some graceful trees in the foreground, and a most attractive bit of Virginia creeper dipping into a clear pool. The gifts of W. Whittredge are manifold, and his works conspicuous for variety in subject and treatment. In the small room, we observed a portrait of this artist by H. A. Loop, N. A., a beautiful picture and excellent likeness. We do not wonder the fine head tempted Mr. Loop to expend upon it his best care.

No. 181. 'Portrait of Dr. O. A. Brownson'--G. P. A. Healy, H. A powerful portrait of a man who has never been ashamed openly to confess that he could be wiser to-day than he was yesterday. We never met Dr. Brownson, and it was with a thrill of pleasure that we beheld the massive head containing so eminent an intelligence. The learned tomes, antique chair, and entire attitude are in excellent keeping.

No. 66. 'Fagot Gatherer'--R. M. Staigg, N. A. We owe this artist much for his beautiful inculcations of the charities of life. How many stray pennies may not his little street sweeper have drawn from careless passers-by? No. 59, 'Cat's Cradle,' is another pleasing representation of an attractive subject.

No. 202. 'Anita'--George H. Hall. The sweet face, harmonious coloring, and simple pose of this little Spanish girl has made an ineffaceable impression on our memory. We should like to have her always near us. The fruit and flower pieces of this genial artist are delightful and satisfactory.

No. 468. 'Elaine,' Bas Relief--L. Thompson, N. A. The face of Elaine is of great sweetness, and the tender trouble on the brow, in the eyes, and quivering round the mouth, seems almost too ethereal to have been actually prisoned in marble. We think if the Elaine of the legend had looked thus upon Launcelot, and he were truly all that poets sing him, he could not long have preferred to her the light-minded Guenevere. The busts of children by the same hand are also fine, so truthful and characteristic. A worthy pupil is Thompson of that natural school of which Palmer was our first distinguished representative.

No. 466. 'The Union Refugees'--John Rogers. This group tells its own sad tale. The stern defiance in the face of the young patriot, the sorrow-stricken but confiding attitude of the mother, and the child's uplifted gaze of wonder, speak of scenes doubtless often repeated in the history of the past two years--scenes which must sink deeply into the hearts of all beholders.

No. 467. 'Freedman'--J. Q. A. Ward, A. This picture, no doubt, has its fine points, but to our mind it is rather conventional. Neither does it bear out its allegorical relation to the freedmen of our continent. If the chains of the negro are being broken, he does not appear in the character of a Hercules, but rather as a patient and enduring martyr, awaiting the day of deliverance appointed by Heaven.

No. 10. 'Sunrise at Narragansett'--W. S. Hazeltine, N. A. A fine effect of transparent sky, faithful rocks, and rolling surf. The warmth of coloring and vivid reality of this picture render it eminently pleasing.

No. 211. 'The Adirondacks from near Mount Mansfield'--R. W. Hubbard, N. A. A beautiful foreground of fine trees and rocks, with a far-away lookout over a hazy distance. A lake glitters in the plain beneath, and the whole scene is harmoniously bewitching and tranquillizing.

No. 158. 'Out in the Fields'--A. D. Shattuck, N. A. A charming pastoral, with some elms, graceful and feathery as the far-famed trees on the meadows of North Conway.

No. 27. 'Heart's Ease'--William P. W. Dana, A. We heard a little three and a half year old reply, in answer to a question as to which picture she would prefer taking home with her from the Academy: 'The sick child;' and we could not wonder at her choice, for a more touching design has seldom been placed on canvas. The name, the accompaniments, and the child's expression betoken a rare delicacy of conception. The flowers are exquisite, and the cheerful contrast of color in the drapery seems a promise of gayer, if not happier hours.

But space--together, probably, with the patience of our readers--fails for the enumeration of all the interesting and meritorious paintings in the exhibition of '63; otherwise, we might discourse at length upon the two masterly works by Bierstadt (Nos. 6 and 35), the 'Swiss Lake,' by Casilear, W. T. Richards's carefully elaborated foregrounds, Huntington's charming figures, De Haas's spirited sea scenes, and other meritorious productions under names well known to the lovers of art in New York.

As good ofttimes springs from evil, may not perhaps the present severe trial through which our country is passing aid in lifting the hearts of her children to more spiritual regions, that they may approach ever nearer and nearer to a more thorough comprehension and enjoyment of the 'Eternal Beauty, ever ancient and ever new,' as feebly mirrored in human art?

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one _lives_ it--to not many is it _known_; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'--GOETHE.

'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'--WEBSTER'S _Dictionary_.