Letters from a Landscape Painter

by Charles Lanman

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.