till afar off it strikes that line of mountains, with their top lost in great masses of tossing, seething storm-clouds, or veiled in depth after depth of bluest mist. It seems as if he had wrenched the reality itself from the out-door world, and flung it on the canvass. The gaze wanders from one easel to another with long pauses at each. How I wish I could do them the faintest justice with any words of mine. I can give the subjects and the features, but those miracles of atmospheric effects wrought apparently with as little effort by this artist’s brush as if by enchantment—it is those that are unutterable, indescribable, and must be seen by one’s own eyes. I consider myself most fortunate in having secured two of his smaller canvasses “to be a possession forever.” The larger is a Capri scene of coast and cliff; the white-crested waves are rolling in gently, and breaking upon the former; the ruins of the palace of Tiberius crown the latter. It is a picture of striking individuality and specially characteristic of this foreign world. The other is a subject of pathetic interest, which he calls “Shelley’s grave.” It represents the coast near Spezzia, where the body of the poet was washed ashore, found and interred for a time. A simple cross marks the grave. A somber sky, the low coast, a little strip of beach, the grass and weeds and sedgy growth peculiar to such a spot, with a rude cross, that is all. But what a story it tells! So anxious am I that others may have an opportunity to see and appreciate this home artist, I shall make a special point with my old friends of the book-store of The Robert Clarke Company, Cincinnati, of having these placed in their windows as soon as they reach the United States. One so gifted in his profession, and of such high worth in every phase of character as Mr. Benton, should have most ample recognition from his fellow-countrymen.
L. G. C.
Rome, May 2, 1883.
MAIORI.
O not trouble to tell me: I know I have been delinquent. But then that is not one of my “too many and too-tedious-to-make-mention of feelings.” So the one time can be blinked at. Especially if you remember the scripture injunction. If you are like me you never do unless you want to.
Of course your letter came and I had my habitual “good intentions,” but well, to be honest, I am sure I do not know what became of them. I only realize that the days “shod with silver speech,” and muzzled with golden speechlessness, have slipped away and given no warning, till I should be afraid to try to count them. Let them go, and be magnanimous enough to bear no malice. That comes so easy to me I can recommend it without any tinges of that inward monitor yclept conscience. It would be the 13th labor of Hercules to attempt to fill up this interval. My brain reels at the mere mention. But I will just give you a mosaic of random tiles. You will like it just as well. In any case you would feel called on to groan critically and perhaps cry aloud: “The old flippancy! What a butterfly she is.” You know I do not mind.
One of the party, the “lord of creation,” you may be sure, had the fever at Rome, to his supreme disgust, not the Roman, but typhoid. He was sick two months. This, of course, was a cloud. But he is a darling, and just to get him well again was our supreme anxiety. As soon as he was well enough to travel without risk, he was ordered here to escape Roman lassitude and be “built up.” Last Monday we started, “coming by easy stages.” Naples was our first resting-place. We remained till Saturday. By that date the invalid through much eating and drinking shed even the rôle of a convalescent, and “Richard is himself again,” was asserted in every look and act. But we have come on here all the same. I wish you could spend just one day if no more with us. Such a dream-place as it is! Words can never picture it to you, but the cousins in chorus, declared I must write and tell you all about it. As if I could! Why you? They did not say. I did not ask. I suppose because they are ready to hear another of your letters read. You see they have not such a funny, audacious correspondent as you on their list.