+139. Impression Affected by Mood.+—Not only is our impression affected by details in the scene observed, but it is even more largely influenced by our mood at the time of the observation. The same landscape may cheer at one time and dishearten at another. To-day we see the ridiculous; to-morrow, the sad and sorrowful. A thousand things may change our mood, but under certain general conditions, certain impressions are likely to arise. There is something in the air of spring, or the heat of summer, which affects us all. The weather, too, has its effect. Sunshine and shadow find answering attitudes in our feelings, and the skillful writer takes advantage of these emotional tendencies.
Not far we fared—
The river left behind—when, looking back,
I saw the mountain in the searching light
Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride
In my adventure, I can ne'er forget
The disappointment and chagrin which fell
Upon me; for a change had passed. The steep
Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun,
Had left the scene; and in its place I saw
A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed,
Whose proudest height my humble feet had trod.
Its grand impossibilities and all
Its store of marvels and of mysteries
Were flown away, and would not be recalled.
—Holland: Katrina.
+140. Union of Image and Impression.+—Because we have discussed image making and impression giving separately, it must not be judged that they necessarily occur separately. They are in fact always united. No image, however clear, can fail to make some impression, and no description, however strong the impression it gives, fails to create some image. It is rather the placing of the emphasis that counts. Some descriptions have for their purpose the giving of an image, and the impression is of little moment. Other descriptions aim at producing impressions, and the images are of less importance. In the description of the Battery (page 254) the images are clear enough, but they are subordinate to the impression. This subordination may even go farther. Often the impression is made prominent and we are led by suggestion to form images which fit it, while in reality few definite images have been set. Notice in the following selection that the impression of desolation is given without attempting to picture exactly what was seen:—
The country at the foot of Vesuvius is the most fertile and best cultivated of the kingdom, most favored by Heaven in all Europe. The celebrated Lacrymæ Christi vine flourishes beside land totally devastated by lava, as if nature here made a last effort, and resolved to perish in her richest array. As you ascend, you turn to gaze on Naples, and on the fair laud around it—the sea sparkles in the sun as if strewn with jewels; but all the splendors of creation are extinguished by degrees, as you enter the region of ashes and smoke, that announces your approach to the volcano. The iron waves of other years have traced their large black furrows in the soil. At a certain height birds are no longer seen; further on, plants become very scarce; then even insects find no nourishment. At last all life disappears. You enter the realm of death and the slain earth's dust alone sleeps beneath your unassured feet.
—Madame De Staël: Corinne: Italy.
EXERCISES
Discuss the following selections with reference to the impression given by each:—
The third of the flower vines is Wood-Magic. It bears neither flowers nor fruit. Its leaves are hardly to be distinguished from the leaves of the other vines. Perhaps they are a little rounder than the Snowberry's, a little more pointed than the Partridge-berry's; sometimes you might mistake them for the one, sometimes for the other. No marks of warning have been written upon them. If you find them, it is your fortune; if you taste them, it is your fate. For as you browse your way through the forest, nipping here and there a rosy leaf of young wintergreen, a fragrant emerald tip of balsam fir, a twig of spicy birch, if by chance you pluck the leaves of Wood-Magic and eat them, you will not know what you have done, but the enchantment of the treeland will enter your heart and the charm of the wildwood will flow through your veins. You will never get away from it. The sighing of the wind through the pine trees and the laughter of the stream in its rapids will sound through all your dreams. On beds of silken softness you will long for the sleep-song of whispering leaves above your head, and the smell of a couch of balsam boughs. At tables spread with dainty fare you will be hungry for the joy of the hunt, and for the angler's sylvan feast. In proud cities you will weary for the sight of a mountain trail; in great cathedrals you will think of the long, arching aisles of the woodland: and in the noisy solitude of crowded streets you will hone after the friendly forest.
—Henry Van Dyke: The Blue Flower.
(Copyright, 1902, Charles Scribner's Sons.)