Continental Monthly , Vol. 5, No. 6, June, 1864

A ray of sunlight, bright and warm, creeps through the lattice and falls on the veined lids; the eyes open, and instinctively moving from the too dazzling light, rest placidly on a fragment of blue sky just visible through the half-closed window. With eyes fixed intently on that hazy distance, moment after moment, silent and motionless he lies, and the blue orbs grow lustrous as he gazes with the mystic beauty of eyes whose inner vision rests on unutterable things, and gradually there comes upon the little face the look that never comes on any face but once. Oh, mystic change! Oh, strange solemnity of death! The little watcher by the bedside, face to face with its mysterious presence for the first time, ignorant of its processes, feels a dread, half-defined idea of what it may be, and, with a piteous effort to recall his dying brother back to his old look and seeming, tremulously falters:

'See all the nice things they've sent you, Harry, all the pretty toys you've got! Here they are, spread out upon the table. Look, brother, look!'

The eyes are bright and clear, the shadow of death has not yet dimmed their light. They turn slowly, very slowly, and, just glancing at the toy-strewn table, rest upon his brother's face. Oh! what is that look within them that chills the warm life-current, and makes him cold and shivering in the heat of that summer day, as the sick child feebly says:

'You may have them all, all, Charley; I sha'n't never want them any more.'

'You've hardly looked at them at all, Harry,' quavers the young voice in reply, bravely trying to continue the subject. 'You don't know how handsome they are. The nicest ones, the very nicest ones Betty bought you! Poor Betty! she has done nothing but cry since you've been sick—cry, and buy you presents. She says when you get well, Harry—' and here the brave little voice, that has been tremulous and tear-laden all along, breaks down entirely, and he puts up his hand to check the tears that are running down his face. There are no tears in those other eyes looking into his; the mists of death are gathering within them. He cannot see the tear-wet face so plainly now, but he feebly strokes the hand that lies against his own, and says, in a weaker voice, pausing now and then for breath:

'Poor brother, dear brother! Don't cry, Charley, don't cry! You must tell Betty not to cry. Poor Betty! I haven't seen her once since I've been sick. And poor mamma'—the faint voice, forgetful of its weakness, grows stronger for a moment, and dwells on that name with measureless compassion—'poor, poor, poor mamma! I don't feel afraid of ma any more, and I want to see her. I DO so much want to see her! Where is ma, Charley?'

There is a movement in the lower part of the room, and a bent form comes tottering forward, with hair hanging wildly about a haggard, despairing, woeworn face. Her hands are outstretched in piteous supplication.

'Here I am,' a voice choked with sobs makes answer, 'Here's your poor, miserable, guilty mother, Harry. O Harry! my sins have barred me out from the heaven you are entering; say you forgive me before we part forever. Oh! my darling, it is the last time I shall ever ask it; give me one kiss before you go!' He smiled as only the dying can smile, and stretched out his feeble arms. 'He smiles upon me, he forgives!' shrieked the half-demented creature. 'O God! most merciful! Thou hast not quite forsaken me!' and with a step forward, and a gesture of embrace, the hapless being falls heavily upon the floor.

'Raise me up, raise me up,' pleads the sick child, after partially recovering from the shock the fall had given him; and, as he gazes upon the prostrate form, the white, haggard, insensible features, an angel's pity and compassion shine in the dying face. 'Oh, I can't kiss her, Charley. Tell poor mamma I couldn't kiss her,' he faintly moans. Then the fitful strength gives way again, and the tired head droops wearily on his brother's shoulder. The chilled form creeps closer to a warm embrace. A little while they hold each other thus—these little ones, brothers by the ties of blood, bound nearer to each other than any tie of blood can bind, by the sacred bond of suffering! Then the arm around poor Charley's neck relaxes its hold, and falls with a dull, lifeless sound back upon the pillow. The little form grows colder, colder yet. He has no power to lay it down, no power to cry for help, but sits holding it, half paralyzed, as he hears them rushing up the stairs, urged wildly on by the dreadful fear that they have come too late.

There is a piteous supplication in the large, dilated eyes, a mute prayer for help in the white face he turns upon them as they enter. To the hurried questions which come pouring forth, the bleached, white lips make answer:

'He got cold, and went to sleep again; and he has been getting colder ever since.'

Then the father, stooping, looks into the little face lying on Charley's shoulder, and, staggering back as if a blow had struck him, cries out: 'Dead!' and the friend that Harry had loved so well raises the curly head and lays it back upon the pillow. There are no tears in her gentle eyes for him, for she knows the little, weary heart is resting now on the great heart of Infinite Love—that he is gone to One who, with outstretched arms, stood ready to receive him—One who said long ago: 'Suffer little children to come unto Me!'

AN HOUR IN THE GALLERY OF THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN

THIRTY-NINTH ANNUAL EXHIBITION

Great is the variety in the different classes of men to be found in picture galleries. First in importance stand the artists, oftentimes oracular personages, dangerous of approach by outsiders having opinions (such must generally expect a direct snubbing, polite indifference, or silent scorn), knowing much but not everything, no single one infallible, highly honorable as members of a guild, secretive as doctors or lawyers, chary of talking shop to the uninitiated, hardworking, conscientious, half luring, half scoffing at the glorious visions of the creative imagination granted them chiefly of all men, wonder workers, world reformers, recorders of the past and prophets of the future, comforters of prose-ridden humanity, stewards of some of God's best gifts, openers of the gates of the beautiful, and hence ushers into the vestibule of the glorious 'Land of the Hereafter.' May they all remember their lofty calling, and never diminish their usefulness by unworthy contests among themselves, or by sacrificing their own better judgment to the exigencies of popular requirement!

Next in order come the connoisseurs. Unmistakably one is that young man with near-sighted eyeglass, with Dundreary whiskers and jaunty air, who talks of breadth, handling, foreshortening, perspective, etc.; who perhaps quotes Ruskin, has seen galleries abroad, is devoted to genre pictures, and, after rattling through an exhibition for a half hour, pronounces definitely upon the merits of the entire collection, singly and en masse.

Equally recognizable is the older picture-fancier. He talks, if possible, even more learnedly, discoursing of balance, tone, chiaroscuro; he despises innovations, judges in accordance with names; is of course convinced the present can bear no comparison with the past; will look through a whole gallery, and finally be captivated by some well-executed conceit—a sun shining through a hole—three different sorts of light, of fire, candle, and moon, mixed in with monstrous shadows and commonplace figures—some meaningless countenance surmounting a satin whose every shining thread is distinguishable, and the pattern of whose lace trimming could be copied for a fashion plate; he is, in short, a fussy, loud individual, with money to buy and some out-of-the-way place to hang pictures.

Then there is the man who knows but one, or at most two or three artists, and will look at the works of none other; who sees, as travellers generally do, not that which is, but that which he had made up his mind to see before he left his own threshold. There are those attracted by nothing except brilliant color, and others who have heard so much of the vulgarity of 'high lights' and gaudy hues, that they will tolerate nothing but brown trees, russet grass, gray skies, slate rocks, drab gowns, copper skins, and shadows so deep that the discovery of the objects represented becomes a real game of 'hide and go seek.' There are also the timidly modest, who, although aware of their own preferences, are yet afraid to admire any new name until some recognized authority has given permission. Another division of this class consists of those who, knowing their own inability to draw or to color the simplest object, hesitate to refuse admiration to any art production that is even barely tolerable. Let us concede to this class our respect, as humility is the only solid basis for any human acquirement.

We also find the pretty young lady, who says 'lovely,' 'charming,' or 'horrid,' 'abominable,' in a very attractive, but most indiscriminating manner;—the individual who cares only for the design (to whom real depth or pathos and affected prettiness are too often one and the same), and the other, who looks only at the technical execution. Rare, indeed, are the imaginative analysts who, while considering the design, can comprehend its philosophy, tell why it pleases or displeases, why they like or dislike; and still rarer are they who add to impartiality, observation, common sense, imaginative perception, and analytic power, a sufficiency of technical knowledge to render their criticism useful, not only to outsiders, but even to artists themselves. Such a guide would indeed be an invaluable companion in any gallery of art. In default of him, let us do the best we can, and come to a consideration of some of the works offered us in this, the thirty-ninth annual exhibition of the National Academy of Design.

Before we begin, however, let us make a passing remark upon a custom that seems lately to have come in vogue, namely, to publish in the daily papers damaging criticisms upon pictures offered for sale at auction, such criticisms generally appearing one, or at most two days before the sale. The want of good taste, or even of abstract justice, in such a proceeding, must be apparent to every one who will pause a moment to consider. To compare small things with great, for the sake of illustration, if our neighbor has made his purchase of spring drygoods, and spreads them upon the counter of his store, we may or may not admire his taste in the selection of patterns, but we surely should not think ourselves called upon to rush to the newspapers and blazon forth an opinion to his detriment, especially if our assertions were mere guesses, perhaps even untrue, or if we were ourselves concerned in the selling of similar wares. Among the public are many tastes to be gratified, and each man can judge for himself of that which pleases him. A case of impudent pretension or actual imposition will of course require honest people to give in their testimony, but the facts adduced in such a case must be susceptible of proof, and not mere matters of individual taste or opinion; neither must they be advanced at so late an hour as to render their refutation difficult, or indeed impossible. A regular exhibition, such as that of the Academy, offers fair ground for discussion, as all sides have a chance of obtaining a hearing; but even there, the scales of justice should be nicely poised, and great care taken that neither rashness, flippancy, nor prejudice be permitted any share in their adjustment, and 'good will toward men' be the only extra weight ever added to either side.

To begin with the landscapes, one of the most remarkable, and, to our individual taste, the most attractive in the whole collection, is No. 147, 'The Woods and Fields in Autumn,' by Jervis McEntee, N. A. The fine tree-drawing and the exquisite harmony of color in this poetic representation of autumn scenery are worthy of all praise. The clouds are gathering for dark winter days, a few pleasant hours are yet left to the dying year, the atmosphere is saturated with moist exhalations, with tender mists softening but not obscuring the beautiful forms of the leafless trees and shrubs. The springs are filling, the low grounds marshy, the leaves on the woodpaths crisp and of a golden brown. Far away in the west is a band of gray light, that tells of clearer skies and brighter seasons one day to come, of new hopes to dawn, when the earth, and the soul, shall have been purified by adverse blasts, by the baring of their nakedness to the unimpeded, searching light of heaven. No. 124, 'The Wanderer,' is a picture of similar character by the same skilful hand. Thoughtful, refined, and discriminating lovers of art cannot fail to find instruction and delight in these noble conceptions, and indeed it is chiefly in the possession of such persons that we find the truthful, conscientious, tenderly conceived, and poetical pictures of Jervis McEntee.

S. R. Gifford, N. A., exhibits two works, differing widely from each other, but both worthy of his reputation. Let the names now longer and more widely established in the estimation of the general public look to their laurels, for here is one who is destined successfully to enter an honorable contest for the possession of the very highest honors. Unity of design, and warmth as well as vividness of light, positive atmosphere, characterize the works of this artist, and render each one a satisfactorily completed poem. No. 226, 'South Mountain, Catskills,' presents a view doubtless well known to many of our readers. The far-away horizon, the winding Hudson with its tiny sails, the square dent where lies the lake in the Shawangunk range, the serrated ridges of the lower hills, the smoke from the lowlands outside the Clove, the shadowed, ridgy sides of the Round Top Mountain, the stunted pines of the South Mountain, so characteristically represented, the great rock overhanging the cliffs, and the whortleberry bushes and other low growth clustering about its base—all speak to us unmistakably of that very spot, and tell the story of the place as we scarcely thought it could have been told, yet so simply, so naturally, that the art of the artist is almost forgotten in actual enjoyment of the scene portrayed. No. 250, 'A Twilight in the Adirondacs,' glows with an intensity of light suggestive of some secret art, and not of ordinary paint and canvas. A few brilliant cloud-specks float in a golden sky, which is reflected from the surface of a placid lake, high up among the hills, whose haze-flooded and light-crowned tops fade away into the far distance. To many this picture will prove more attractive than the view from the South Mountain: perhaps it is our familiarity with and love for the original of the last-mentioned view, which induce us to give to it our personal preference.

No. 158, 'The Old Hunting Grounds,' is by W. Whittredge, N. A. It gives a charming insight into the mysteries of the woods. The characteristic white birches, with their reflection in the quiet pool, the dark trunk and spreading branches of the great tree in the foreground, the tender foliage, and soft, hazy gleams into the depths of the forest, afford the materials for a delightful picture, the more precious in our sight that it is so truly a representation of our native land, so thoroughly American. The broken birch canoe adds to the beauty of nature a most effective and pathetic touch, by briefly figuring the melancholy history of a fast-departing race. Gone forever are the moccasoned feet that pressed that mossy soil, and the dusky forms that flitted to and fro among the white trunks that catch and hold the light so lovingly. That broken canoe has a stranger tale to tell than any ruined arch or fallen column of the Old World: the one speaks of some empire passed away, the other of the gradual extinction of an entire type of human beings, a race of men who seem to have accomplished the work assigned them, and who die rather than abandon their native instincts and habits of thought and life. The fortunate possessor of the 'Old Hunting Grounds,' when shut up within the confined streets and dreary walls of a city, need only lift his eyes to the picture to dream dreams of the freshness and freedom of the wild woods, of the scented breeze snuffed by the browsing deer, of the rocking branches glimmering gold and green against the clear summer sky. Mr. Whittredge's picture is suggestive and harmonious as nature itself, and one could never weary of it, as one infallibly must of weaker and more conventional productions, often highly prized by frequenters of galleries.

No. 153, 'The Iron-Bound Coast of Maine,' by W. S. Haseltine, N. A., has the freshness, brightness, and mistiness of such a shore. We have heard Mr. Haseltine's rocks complained of as too yellow; but, in the absence of knowledge, are content to presume he painted them as he saw them. The action of the dashing surf in washing away the lower strata, and strewing the beach with fragments, is one token, among many, of an actual observation of facts.

No. 236, 'An Artist's Studio,' and No. 131, 'Christmas Eve,' are by J. F. Weir. Both are well conceived and executed, the latter being especially interesting. The old wall, the great bell, the moonlight, and the elves set the fancy musing over many things in heaven and earth rarely dreamed of in our philosophy.

No. 12, 'The Argument,' is one of W. H. Beard's excellent fables. The attitudes of the two bears in discussion, of the sober-minded listener leaning with crossed paws upon the tree, and of the self-sufficient old fellow with his paw upon his breast, may read to many a good lesson, especially during the coming Presidential struggle, when the charities and bienséances of life will doubtless be but too often outraged. We have been surprised and pained to see attacks upon the works of this gentleman, coming from opposite quarters, said strictures being, in our opinion, unjust and uncalled for. If behind the animal form we see proof of more than animal intellect, let us not quarrel with the addition. It is an evil mind that will go out of its way to fasten evil intentions upon the work of a man of genius. If human faults and follies so ill beseem the brute creation, should not such representation render us heartily ashamed of their existence among ourselves. Love and pity for the animal world, and a proper holding up to ridicule and scorn of the brutish propensities, too prominent, alas! in the composition of the human race, have been the lessons taught us by all the works of this artist we have thus far seen.

No. 204, 'Out All Night,' by J. H. Beard, is an excellent warning to naughty puppies to keep good hours and shun bad company.

No. 114, 'A Buckwheat Field on Thomas Cole's Farm,' and No. 143, 'The Catskills from the Village,' are by Thomas C. Farrer, a representative of a school which professes to paint precisely what it sees. To represent nature is the aim of all our best modern landscapists. Of course, no painting can give all that is in any scene, but every painter must select the means best adapted to convey the idea he has himself received. Now, in the ultra ideal school (to use a slang word which we detest) we recognize but little known to us in nature; and in the ultra matter-of-fact (pre-Raphaelite) school of this country, we find the same absence of abstract truth, together with a painful stiffness, and the want of a sense for beauty. We are not sufficiently practical artists to fathom the difficulty, but it seems to us to arise from the absence of one of the most prominent elements of beauty and interest to be found in the universe, namely, mystery. If, in the metaphysical world, with our limited means, we attempt an exhaustive explanation of any of the attributes of the Infinite Being, the result must be unsatisfactory; we will always feel that there is something beyond, which we have failed to grasp, a something which makes our best effort appear shallow and crude. Now, the material mystery of actual landscape arises from the presence of an appreciable atmosphere, softening forms, etherealizing distances, modifying color, and lending the glow of variously refracted light to every object falling under its influence. In these pictures of Mr. Farrer we fail to find any trace of atmosphere, and hence they strike us as bald, hard, cold, and unnatural.

No. 213, 'The Awe and Mystery of Death,' by Eugene Benson, is an able treatment of a repulsive subject. As we gaze, we cannot but admire the genius that has so far overcome the intrinsic difficulties of the situation; and, while congratulating the artist upon his success, must add that the Victor Hugo style of morbid horrors, however popular in some species of literature, can never, we hope, become so in the purer domain of visible fine art.

No. 246, 'Portrait,' William O. Stone, N. A., is a charming portrayal of a charming subject.

No. 283, 'A Child,' by George A. Baker, N. A., has lovely brown eyes, and a beautiful, thoughtful expression.

No. 253, 'A Portrait,' by W. H. Furness, jr., strikes us as a picture carefully disfigured. The part in the hair is singularly continued in the part between the wings of the golden butterfly ornamenting the head, the eyes are just sufficiently turned aside to give them the appearance of avoiding a direct gaze, and the tight-fitting gown is of white moiré, a material of stiff texture and chaotic pattern. The shimmer of waves in sun or moonlight is beautiful because restless, but the watering of a silk is a rude attempt to fix the ever variable in form, light, and color, and hence is always unsatisfactory.

We are glad to see that the women in our community are beginning to make some serious efforts in the way of good painting. They are by nature subtile colorists, and there is surely no reason why they should not conquer form, attain to technical excellence, and be inspired by noble ideas. They must remember that excellence is attainable solely through hard study and patient assiduity, and small things must be well accomplished before great ones can be expected to succeed. With the general development of what we may call 'out-door' faculties, a taste for mere sentimental prettiness will vanish, and a healthy vigor, united to refined and acute perception, will, we hope, characterize the labors of the rising aspirants to artistic honors.

No. 91, 'The Sword and the Wreath,' by Miss A. E. Rose, is a poetical conception, beautifully elaborated. The flowers have no appearance of having been copied from wax or colored stucco, but are faithful representations of the actual, fragile, delicate texture of the lovely children of the garden. The method of presentation suggests a memory of La Farge, but Miss Rose is too talented and original ever to fall into servile imitation.

No. 132, 'On the Kaaterskill Creek,' and No. 64, 'Head of the Catskill Clove from the South Mountain,' are by Miss Edith W. Cook. The first offers some fine delineations of foliage, intermingled hemlock, and deciduous trees, and the latter is a spirited and truthful representation of a beautiful bit of Catskill scenery. The Hunter and Plattekill Mountains, Haines's Fall, the Clove Road and intervening ravines, the winding woodpath, and burnt trees, are close records of fact, set in a far-away sky and a real atmosphere.

Miss Virginia Granbery's 'Basket of Cherries' (No. 81) and 'Strawberries' (No. 73) are tempting specimens of fruit.

No. 202, 'The Seamstress,' by Miss C. W. Conant, gives proof of future excellence in the truthful pathos of its conception and the energetic rendering of the idea.

But our hour has come to an end, and we have only space left to mention the names of Bierstadt, Constant Mayer, Hennessy, May, Durand, Griswold, Suydam, Bradford, Brevoort, Cropsey, Colman, Cranch, De Haas, Hart, Homer, Hubbard, Huntington, Vedder, and White, who are all characteristically represented, and to counsel such of our readers as are fortunate enough to have the opportunity, to go and see for themselves. Americans are beginning to comprehend the full value of the arts, and to appreciate their own artists accordingly.

APHORISMS.

NO. V

With us it may not be the actual suffering of death, as it was with our Lord; but that we may truly follow Him, and do what we can for the good of others, we must hold life, with all its endearments, subject to any call for sacrifice that may be made on us; and actually give up, from day to day, just as much of the present life, its pleasures or interests, as may be necessary, that we may render the best possible service in the kingdom of Christ. We have the privilege of daily martyrdom, to be followed by its honors and blessedness, in whatsoever circumstances we may be placed: how much of the sufferings that sometimes accompany the spirit and the act, we need not concern ourselves to inquire.