'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.