PART II.

The Indian boy is fast asleep, And dew on his wolf-skin gray, Hath cried him weary long ago; His little grey dog is moaning low, And the big owl screams for day.

Poor lonely sleeping Indian boy,— How wild are his fitful dreams? —In mirth she comes; and sinking now To the water-moon she seems.

A wolf is trotting in the brake, All under the panthers’ limb; But they have licked a fawn’s sweet blood, And careless are grown of him.

Then darker grew the shadowy woods, And bent with a crackling sound; Shines through the dark the flashing foam On the pebbled beach around.

Too late the warning loon has yell’d To the shallow-wading crane; For now the thunder blast is up, And whirls the driving rain.

O, red girl of the sky-blue lake, Look well to thy dancing bark; The wind is loud, the wave is white, And the breaking morn is dark;

_The wind is loud, the wave is white,_ _Look well to thy slender oar:_ _The loon hath need of its wing of jet_ _To battle the might of the waves, that fret_ _Along to the foamy shore._

Alone, upon the frothy beach, In the still and pleasant morn, The Ottawa child is waiting yet, But frightened and forlorn.

His eyes are red, his hair is wild; He hath donned his wolf-skin gray; His shivering dog is moaning low; The child hath turned him round to go,— He can no longer stay.

Yet once, with aching heart, he looks To the isle of flowers again; It seems a sleeping bank of green Upon a silvery plain.

Within its shade, the voiceless swans Are sailing two by two; But never his eye can catch a glimpse Of the maiden’s birch canoe;— The bow-neck’d swans are all that move Upon the silvery blue.

Turn home, heart-broken child! turn home; That bark is in the deep; And she has gone with the tinted shells To their own green caves to sleep.

Her spirit owns a brighter isle Than floats the moon below; _Where never the thunder-blast is heard,_ _She lists to the song of the scarlet bird,_ _And plays with the beautiful doe._

There! for this letter you owe me an oyster supper,—but if you will give me that beautiful engraving from Claude, hanging in your study, I will call the matter settled.

THE UNHAPPY STRANGER.

I was a passenger on board one of those noble steamers which navigate the Sound. The hurly-burly attending our departure from the dock was at last ended, and I had a good opportunity to wander quietly about the boat, studying, as it is my wont to do, the variously marked countenances of my fellow passengers. When the supper bell rang, there was a general movement made towards the after-cabin, and as I fell in with the crowd, I happened to cast my eye upon the only group left behind. This was composed of a middle-aged man and his three children. The latter were getting ready to retire to rest, and the youngest one, a sweet little girl of perhaps three years of age, ever and anon kept questioning her father as follows—“where’s mother, pa?—pa, where’s mother? When will she come back?” The kind and delicate attentions of the father, as he smoothed the pillows and laid them in their nest, tended to interest my feelings; and, when at the supper-table, my fancy was busy with the scene just witnessed.

It was now quite late; the lazily-uttered joke, and the less frequent peal of laughter, seemed to announce the spiritual presence of repose. The newspaper, the book, and checker-board, were gradually laid aside, and in a little while nearly all the berth-curtains were drawn up, and their occupants in the arms of sleep. Many of the lamps were out, and those that did remain produced a dim, solemn twilight throughout the cabin—the only part at all animated being that corner where the boot-black was engaged in his appropriate duty. The cause of my own wakefulness it is unnecessary to relate; suffice it to say, it was entirely dispelled by the following incident.

Just as I was about to retire, the sigh of a burdened heart smote my ear, and as I turned, I beheld an individual sitting near a berth, with his face resting upon the pillow, weeping bitterly. He was a fine, intelligent looking man, in the prime of life; and on nearer observation, I found him to be the identical one, who had before attracted my attention. I approached his seat, and, in as kind a tone as possible, inquired the cause of his unhappiness; adding, that I should be pleased to do for him anything he might desire. For a moment, a fresh flood of tears was my only answer; but these he soon wiped away, and extending to me his hand, he thus began to speak.

“I am grateful to you, my dear Sir, for your expressions of kindness and sympathy towards me, but the weight which is resting upon my spirit cannot be easily dispelled. I have been sorely afflicted of late, and the associations connected with that event are what caused me to forget myself, and give vent to my emotions in tears. To be found weeping like a child, in the midst of a multitude of strangers, may be considered a weakness, I hope not a sin; but that you may understand my conduct, I will relate to you the cause.

“One short month ago, as I paused to consider my condition, I fancied myself to be one of the happiest of men. My cottage-home, which stands in one of the fairest valleys of New Hampshire, was then a perfect picture of contentment and peace. A much-loved wife, and three children, were then the joys of my existence. Every pleasurable emotion which I enjoyed was participated in by her, who was my first and only love. From our united hearts, every morning and evening, ascended a deep-felt prayer of gratitude to our Heavenly Father; and from the same source sprang every hope concerning the temporal prospects of our children, and, to us and them, of the life beyond the grave. We were at peace with God, and with regard to this world, we had everything we desired.

“The time of harvest being now ended, and an urgent invitation having been received from my father-in-law, I concluded to take my family, and make a visit to the pleasant village in New Jersey, where my wife and I were children together, and where we had plighted our early love-vows. All things were ready, and, leaving our homestead to the care of a servant, we started on our journey,—reaching in due time, and in safety, our place of destination.

“We found our friends all well, and glad to see us. Not a care or trouble rested on a single heart. Thankful for the blessings of the past and present, all our prospects of the future were as bright as heart could desire. ‘Old familiar faces’ greeted us at every corner, old friendships were again revived, and a thousand delightful associations crowded around us, so that we had nothing to do but be happy.

“Thus had two weeks passed away, when, on the very night previous to our _intended_ departure for home, my wife was suddenly taken ill, and when the morrow dawned,—_I was a widower, and my children motherless_. The idol of my heart, instead of returning to her earthly home, was summoned by her Maker to that blessed home above the stars, where the happiness of the redeemed will never end. God is great, and His will be done; but, alas, it almost breaks my heart to think of those bitter, bitter words—‘never more.’ I cannot bear to think of it; never more upon the earth shall I behold that beauteous form, and listen to that heavenly voice, which were my delight and pride. To my eye, the greenness of earth is forever departed. O who can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth? O how lonely, lonely, is my poor, poor, poor heart!”

These last words of my stranger friend were uttered in a smothered tone, and with a drooping head; and, though he held my arm after I had risen to go, I tore myself away, for I thought it my duty to retire.

When I awoke in the morning, after a troubled sleep, I found the boat was at the dock, and the day somewhat advanced. My first thought was concerning the unhappy stranger, with whom I longed to have another interview; but in making diligent search I found that he was gone, and with him his three sweet orphan children. His form, and the few words he had spoken, seemed to me like a dream. O yes, they were indeed the substance of a vision—a dream of human life. Surely, surely life is but a vapor, which appeareth for a little season, and then vanisheth away. As the great Jeremy Taylor hath eloquently written: “Death meets us everywhere, and is procured by every instrument, and in all chances, and enters in at many doors; by violence and secret influence, by the aspect of a star, by the emissions of a cloud and the melting of a vapor, by the fall of a chariot and the stumbling of a stone, by a full meal or an empty stomach, by watching at the wine, or by watching at prayers, by the sun or the moon, by a heat or a cold, by sleepless nights or sleeping days, by water frozen into the hardness and sharpness of a dagger, or water thawed into the floods of a river, by a hair or a raisin, by violent motion, or sitting still, by severity or dissolution, by God’s mercy or God’s anger, by everything in providence and everything in manners, by everything in nature and everything in chance. We take pains to heap up things useful to our life, and get our death in the purchase; and the person is snatched away, and the goods remain. And all this is the law and constitution of nature; it is a punishment to our sins, the unalterable event of providence, and the decree of heaven. The chains that confine us to this condition are strong as destiny, and immutable as the eternal laws of God.”

This picture of man’s condition is indeed most melancholy, but let us remember it is not a hopeless one. Only let us keep the commandments, and confide in the promises of the Invisible, and we shall eventually find that the laws regulating our final redemption will prove to be as immutable as those concerning our earthly condition.

A WEEK IN A FISHING SMACK.

On Monday morning of last week I started from Norwich, bound to New London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might have some sport in the way of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour after landing from the steamboat, I had boarded the handsome smack Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion secured a berth on board to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my previous preparation, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly equipped, the sails were hoisted, and we were on our course for Nantucket. An intimate acquaintance was soon formed between myself and crew, which consisted of the master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I spent in their company was six days, as I reached home on the following Saturday evening. The incidents that I met with were somewhat new, as a matter of course, and I employed a few moments of every evening during my absence, in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that medley I now put together as a literary chowder.

_Monday Evening._ My observations to-day have been limited to our little vessel, in consequence of a dense fog, which drenched us to the skin, and seems likely to continue us in this state of preservation. I have obtained some information, however, concerning the character of an interesting class of men, which may be new to you. Smack-fishermen are a brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and as my Captain tells me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked in the cradle of the deep.” Their vessels, or smacks, are generally of about forty tons burthen; the number of those which supply New York and Boston with fish is said to be near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the coast between the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils which these fishermen endure, and the privations they suffer, how little is known or thought by the great world at large! Yet I believe there is as much genuine happiness in their lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers were fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly been born within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as their fitting home, their only home, and would not part with it for a palace or a crown. Four is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master is invariably called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and fathers, whose families are snugly harbored in some convenient seaport, with enough and to spare of the good things of life. They are a jovial set of men, hailing each other upon the ocean as friends, and meeting upon land as brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the handsomest and swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races they sometimes run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that of the Arab for his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have been known even to weep over the grave of their darling and their pride.

The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are shad, salmon, lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, blackfish, paugies, bass, and halibut. The first three are generally purchased of local fisherman, but all the rest are caught by themselves. The haunts of the blackfish are rocky reefs, those of the bass and bluefish in the vicinity of sandy shoals or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen fathom water. These are the varieties they capture by way of business, but when in a frolicsome mood they frequently attack a sword-fish, a shark, or black whale; and soul-thrilling indeed, and laughable withal, are the yarns they spin concerning these exploits.

As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it should be, and what they would have it, although it would be “positively shocking” to a Bond Street gentleman of leisure. But they always possess a good appetite, which is what money cannot purchase, and without which the greatest delicacy in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish, sea-biscuit, corned-beef and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes, constitute their provisions, and what besides these would a reasonable man desire? It is with a mixture of some of these, that a _chowder_ is concocted, and where can anything more delicious be found, even at the tables of the Astor and American? And with these ingredients, moreover, they manage very well to keep body and soul together, unless a storm on a rock-bound coast happens to make a sudden separation.

I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my pen with a heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular gale of wind is blowing from the north, and the waves, seemingly in a revengeful mood, are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient Mariner, had shot another albatros. But like a fearless man, as he is, he stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and the men with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering something about the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere on our lee. Never before have I so distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he compares a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it in their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become exhausted and perish,—one upon a sandy beach, and the other, sweeping over the peninsula of time, finds a grave on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how the wind whistles, and the waters roar! Aye, but a still small voice salutes my ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips, and a feeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence in Him who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his hand.

_Tuesday Evening._ I was awakened out of a deep sleep this morning by the following salutation from the skipper, as he patted me on the shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning, and you ought to be up,—the fog is gone, and the wind is down; won’t you come up and take the helm awhile,—so that the boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching the fishing-ground, which will be about ten o’clock?” I was delighted to accept the invitation, and in a very short time the sailors were asleep, and I in my new station, proud as a king, and happy as a sinless boy. And oh that I could describe the scene that fascinated my eyes as I lay there upon the deck, with one arm reposing on the rudder, and my other hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt before, when standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that then, more than ever, I desired God to be my friend. I also felt, that if the world did not demand the feeble services of my life, I should wish to remain upon the ocean forever, provided I could have “one fair being for my minister.” More earnestly than ever did I long for a complete mastery of my art. The fact of being out sight of land, where the blue element announced that the ocean was soundless, filled my soul with that “lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be the eagle’s, when journeying to the zenith of the sky. The sun had just risen above the waves, and the whole Eastern portion of the heavens was flooded with the most exquisite coloring I ever beheld,—from the deepest crimson to the faintest and most delicate purple, from the darkest yellow to an almost invisible green; and all blended, too, in a myriad of forms of marvellous loveliness. A reflection of this scene was also visible in the remaining quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable deep, whose bosom is studded with many a gallant and glittering ship,

that have the plain Of ocean for their own domain.

The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy breeze is wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the grand rumpus last night; whereby I learn, that the offspring of a “rough and stormy sire,” are sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to the children of men. But look, even the dwellers in the sea and of the sea are participating in the hilarity of this bright autumnal morning! Here, a school of herring are skipping along like a frolicsome party of vagabonds as they are,—and yonder a shark has leaped out of the water, to display the symmetry of his form and the largeness of his jaw, and looking as if he thought “that land lubber would make me a first-rate breakfast;” there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some other _outlandish_ game; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman sword-fish is swaggering along to parts unknown, to fight a duel in cold blood with some equally cold-blooded native of the Atlantic; and now, a flock of gulls are cleaving their course to the South, to the floating body perhaps of a drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a league or two away,—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels, hastening onward to where the winds blow and the waves are white. Such are the pictures I beheld in my brief period of command. It may have been but fancy, but I thought my little vessel was trying to eclipse her former beauty and her former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked the water like a thing of life.” I fancied, too, that I was the identical last man whom Campbell saw in his vision, and that I was then bound to the haven of eternal rest. But my shipmates returning from the land of Nod, and a certain clamor within my own body having caught my ear, I became convinced that to break my fast would make me happier than anything else just at that time, and I was soon as contented as an alderman at five P. M. About two hours after this we reached our fishing place, which was twenty miles east of Nantucket. We then lowered the jib and topsail, and having luffed and fastened the mainsheet, so that the smack could easily float, we hauled out our lines and commenced fishing, baiting our hooks with clams, of which we had some ten bushels on board. Cod fishing (for we were on a codding cruize) is rather dull sport; it is, in fact, what I would call hard labor. In six hours we had caught all the skipper wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made sail again, bound to New York; and at supper-time the deck of our smack was as clean and dry, as if it had never been pressed save by the feet of ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce southerly wind sprang up, so that we were compelled to make a harbor; and just as I am closing this record, we are anchoring at Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten whales on our starboard bow.

_Wednesday Evening._ The weather to-day has been quite threatening, and the skipper thought it best to remain at our moorings; but with me the day has not been devoid of interest; for, in my sailor garb, I have been strolling about the town, studying the great and solemn drama of life, while playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning, as it happened, I went into the public grave-yard, and spent an hour conning over the rude inscriptions to the memory of the departed. In that city of the dead I saw a number of the living walking to and fro, but there was one who attracted my particular attention. He was a seaman of noble presence, seated upon an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a smaller one beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the other was occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping away a tear. I hailed him with a few kind questions, and my answer was the following brief tale.

“Yes, sir, four years ago I shipped aboard that whaler yonder, leaving behind me, in a sweet little cottage of my own, a dear, first-rate mother, a good wife, and an only boy. They were all in the enjoyment of good health, and happy; and, when we were under sail, and I saw from the mast-head how kindly they waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I too was happy, even in my hour of grief. Since that time I have circumnavigated the globe, and every rare curiosity I could obtain was intended for my darling ones at home. Last Saturday our ship returned. And while yet a league from port, I was again at the mast head, looking with an anxious heart towards my nest upon the shore. I saw that the blinds were closed, and that all around was very still; but ‘they are only gone a visiting,’ thought I, and rejoiced at heart. I landed, flew to my dwelling, and found it locked. The flagging in my yard attracted my notice, and I thought it strange that the rank grass had been suffered to grow over it so thickly. The old minister passed by my gate, and running to him with extended hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh Mr. B.,’ said he, ‘you must bless the Lord,—he gave them to you, and he hath taken them away.’ And as the thought stole into my brain, my suffering, Sir, was intense, and I longed to die. And there they are, my wife and darling child, and, a step or two beyond, my dear old mother. Peace to their memories. As for me, I am a victim to blight and desolation, and that sacred song which my mother used to be so fond of singing on Sabbath evenings long ago, that song I can understand now:—

‘I would not live alway; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o’er the way; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here, Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its cheer.’

In a few days I mean to deliver up my property to the Seaman’s Friend Society, and then launching upon the deep once more, become, and forever, a wanderer from my native land.”

Such is the simple story I heard in the Nantucket grave-yard, and I have pondered much upon the world of woe which must be hidden in the breast of that old mariner. May the tale not have been recorded in vain.

After dinner, to-day, I got into company with some fishermen who were going after bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had captured, with my own hands, two big bass and some dozen bluefish,—which I packed in ice as a present to some New York friends.

At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock at night, we are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me we shall be in New York by to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before coming on board this evening, I lounged into a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a company of whalemen there, as if I had ever been a _bonâ fide_ member of the craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and was sorry that I could not remain longer. There were some in that company lately arrived from every portion of the world, and yet they were engaged in the same business, and had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations. One was descanting upon the coral islands of the Torrid zone, another upon the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea, a third was describing the coast of California, and another the waters that lave the Eastern shore of Asia. The more I listened to these men the more did the immensity of ocean expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I led to wonder at the wisdom of the Almighty.

I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way to our desired haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course is between Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island, which is a route studded with islands and seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight like the pictures of a dream.

_Thursday Evening._ Instead of coming through the Sound last night, we headed our vessel outside of Long Island, and after a delightful sail have realized our skipper’s promise, for we are now floating beside the market in New York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater coldness of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has happened to us to-day, except the meeting with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a large ship, whose name we could not discern. It had a very old appearance, and from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed it must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the waves. “Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that scatters such splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a thousand thousand remorseless surges echo back the answer: “To us, belong the glory of those deeds.” If that wreck had language, what a strange, eventful history would it reveal! Its themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea, and all its dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and all its sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast as time is multiplying it, we cannot but realize the idea, that human life is but a probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing are our earthly inheritance.

_Friday Evening._ After portioning out my fish this morning, and sending them to my friends, I put on my usual dress, and having obtained a six hours’ furlough, set off towards Broadway, where, between the Mercantile Library reading rooms and the studios of a few artists, I managed to spend my time quite pleasantly. At noon we embarked for home, and had a delightful time, passing through the East River, and that pleasing panorama from the city to the Sound never appeared more beautiful.

It is now quite late, and I have been on deck all the evening alone. In a thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my spirits were saddened by the continual murmur of the sea. Of what avail, thought I, is all this excitement? Why was I created, and what, O what is my destiny? Is it to sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of life, and, when the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved and unremembered by a single human heart? If not an honored name, can I not leave behind me an humble memory, that will be cherished by a few, a very few, to whom I have laid bare my innermost soul, when I was younger than I am, and a hundred-fold more happy? What! O night! what is my destiny? And the tears upon my cheeks were the only answer that I received,—and I descended into the cabin to my berth, to pray, to slumber, and to dream.

_Saturday Evening._ We anchored off New London to-day, in time for me to take the evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted with my “shipmates,” I shook each one affectionately by the hand, and thought that I might travel many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men. I reached home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and was reminded that another week of precious time was gone, and “another Sabbath was begun.” That the present must be remembered as an unprofitable week, I cannot believe, for I feel that my soul has been enlarged, and my heart humbled, by listening to the teachings of the mighty deep.

TRIP TO WATCH HILL.

A few mornings ago, just as the sun had risen above the eastern hills, which look down upon the Thames at Norwich, the prettiest sailboat of the place left her moorings, and with a pleasant northerly breeze started for the Sound. Her passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all equipped in their sporting jackets, and furnished with fishing tackle, and their place of destination was Watch Hill, which is a point of land in Rhode Island, extending into the Atlantic, a few miles from Stonington. We were on a fishing frolic, as a matter of course, and a happier company, I ween, were never yet afloat, for the sport of a morning breeze. What with the story, the jest, the iced lemonade and exquisite cigar, the minutes glided by as swiftly and unobserved as the tiny waves around us. Now we met a solitary fisherman, towing for bass, and as we hailed him with a friendly shout and passed by, he began to talk in an under tone, and his voice did not die away until we had turned a point. Oh, what would I not give for an accurate record of that old man’s life! Anon, we witnessed the soothing picture of a well conducted farm, with its greengirt cottage, spacious barns, neat and flowing fields, and abundance of horses and oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and poultry. Now we saw some noble men, such as Vernet delighted to paint, hauling the seine, and, as the “fruit of all their toil” were thrown upon the sand, their flipping forms reflected back the sunlight, reminding us of the short-lived glory of an earth-born name. Now, we were overtaken and tossed about by a steamer bound to New Haven; and then we sailed in company with a boat, a sloop, and schooner; meeting others, beating up, from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. And the termination of this pleasing panorama was composed of Gale’s Ferry, the commanding town, fort, and monument of Groton, together with the city of New London, among whose anchored shipping floated the saucy Revenue Cutter, and at whose docks were chained a goodly number of storm-beaten whalers.

Having taken in “our stores,” and obtained from the fish-market a basket of bait, we again hoisted sail and put to sea, “bound first to Commit Rock,” and “binding” ourselves to capture all of the watery enemy which might tempt the power or the dexterity of our arms.

When about three miles from New London, all eyes were attracted by a beautiful craft on our lee, laden with a party of ladies and gentlemen. “They’re going toward a reef!” exclaimed our captain; and no sooner had the words escaped his lips, than the stranger struck, and stove a hole through her bottom. We were just in time to save the party from a watery grave; and when we had landed them in safety on the beach, we were well repaid for our trouble by the consciousness of having done a good act, and by the thankful words and benignant smiles of the ladies fair. A dozen minutes more and we were within oar’s length of the fishing rock. “All ashore, that’s coming!” shouted our mate, when we all leaped out, and a plenty of line being given her, the boat swung to, and “like a cradled thing at rest,” floated upon the waves. Then commenced the sport. The breeze was refreshing, and the breath of the salt sea-foam buoyed up our spirits to a higher pitch, and gave new vigor to our sinews. The youngest of the party was the first who threw his hook, which was snapped in the twinkling of an eye. Another trial, and a four-pound blackfish lay extended upon the rock. Another, and another, and another, until fourscore, even-numbered, came following after. Tired of the sport, two of the party entered the boat, and hoisted sail for a little cruize. Half an hour had elapsed, when the steady breeze changed into a frightful gale, capsizing within hailing distance a fishing boat with two old men in it. Hanging on, as they were, to the keel of the boat (which having no ballast could not sink), their situation was extremely dangerous, as there was not a vessel within two miles. The poor men beckoned to us to help them; but as our boat was gone, we could not do so, which of course we much regretted. For one long, long hour did they thus hang, “midway betwixt life and death,” exposed to the danger of being washed away by the remorseless surge, or swallowed up, as we were afterwards told, by a couple of sharks, which were kept away only by the hand of Providence. This incident tended to cool our ardor for fishing, and as we were satisfied with that day’s luck, we put up our gear, during which time the boat arrived, and we embarked for the Hill. We made one short turn, however, towards the boat which had picked up the fishermen, as we were anxious to tell them why we did not come to their relief. We then tacked about, and the last words we heard from our companions were,—“Thank you—thank you—God bless you all,” and until we had passed a league beyond Fisher Island, our little vessel “carried a most beautiful bone between her teeth.”

At sunset we moored our little boat on the eastern shore of Paucatuck Bay. On ascending to the Watch Hill hotel, we found it to be a large, well-furnished house, and our host to be a fat and jolly Falstaff-ish sort of man, just suited to his station. At seven o’clock we sat down to a first-rate blackfish supper, then smoked a cigar, and while my companions resorted to the ten-pin alley, I buttoned up my pea-jacket, and sallied forth on an “exploring expedition.” As I stood on the highest point of the peninsula facing, the south, I found that the light-house stood directly before me, on the extreme point, that a smooth beach faded away on either side, the left hand one being washed by the Atlantic, and that on the right by the waters of Fisher Island Bay, and that the dreary hills in my rear were dotted by an occasional dwelling. The breeze had died away, and the bright, full moon was in the cloudless sky. Many sails were in the offing, passing by and being passed by the Providence and Stonington steamboats bound to New York. The scenery around me, and the loveliness of the day, with its galaxy of stars above me, caused me to forget myself, and I wandered far away upon the shore—alone, in the awful presence of the great Atlantic Ocean. No sounds fell upon my ear, save the muffled roar of the ground swell, and the faint whispers of the tiny waves as they melted upon the sand. I traced my name, and beside it that of another, a being beauteous, for whose cabinet of curiosities I gathered many a round, smooth pebble, and many a delicate sea-shell. I wandered on, now gazing with wonder and admiration into the cerulean vault of Heaven, or into the still deeper blue of the mighty sea; and now singing with a loud voice one of the sacred songs of the sweet singer of Israel. Now, a thousand images of surpassing loveliness darted across my vision, as I thought of God—of an eternal life in heaven—and of love, divine and human; and then there came a weight upon my spirit, as I remembered the powers of darkness, the destiny of the condemned, and the miseries engendered by our evil passions. One moment I deemed myself immortal, released forever from the contaminating influence of sin, and then I thought of the valley of death, and trembled. In that communion with the mysteries of the universe, strongly blended as they were, I felt that I could wander on without fatigue, until the whole earth should be trodden by my pilgrim feet. But the chilly air and the fading night warned me to retrace my steps, and in an hour I had reached my home.

When the sun rose from his ocean-bed on the following morning, surrounded by a magnificent array of clouds, I was up, and busily engaged preparing for a day’s fishing,—first, and before breakfast, for bluefish, then for blackfish, and then for bass. While my companions were asleep, I went out with an old fisherman, and by breakfast time had captured thirty bluefish, weighing about two pounds apiece. The manner of catching these is to tow for them with a long line, the bait being a piece of ivory attached to a strong hook. They are a very active and powerful fish, and when hooked make a great fuss, skipping and leaping out of the water.

At nine o’clock our party were at anchor on a reef about one mile off, and for the space of about two hours we hauled in the blackfish fast as possible, many of them weighing eight to ten pounds apiece. For them, you must have a small straight hook, and for bait, lobsters or crabs. A broiled blackfish, when rightly cooked, is considered one of the best of saltwater delicacies.

But the rarest of all fishing is that of catching bass, and a first-rate specimen I was permitted to enjoy. About eleven o’clock, I jumped into the surf-boat of an old fisherman, requesting him to pull for the best bass ground with which he was acquainted. In the mean time my friends had obtained a large boat, and were going to follow us. The spot having been reached, we let our boat float, wherever the tide and wind impelled it, and began to throw over lines, using for bait the skin of an eel six inches long. Those in the neighboring boat had fine luck, as they thought, having caught some dozen five-pounders, and they seemed to be perfectly transported because nearly an hour had passed and I had caught nothing. In their glee they raised a tremendous shout, but before it had fairly died away, my line was suddenly straightened, and I knew that I had a prize. Now it cut the water like a streak of lightning, although there were two hundred feet out, and as the fish returned I still kept it taught; and after playing with him for about forty minutes, I succeeded in drowning him, then hauled up gradually, and with my boat-hook landed him in the boat safe and sound. The length of that striped bass was four feet two inches, and his weight, before cleaned, fifty-eight pounds. That is a “fish story” worth telling. As a beneficial effect and natural consequence of that triumph, I would state, that I have grown about one inch in height since then,—more or less,—as the saying is,—but probably less. You can easily imagine the chop-fallen appearance of my brother fishermen, when they found out that “the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.” At three o’clock in the afternoon, a piece of that bass tended to satisfy the appetite which had been excited by his capture, and I assure you it touched the _right_ spot.

Satisfied with our piscatorial sports, we concluded to spend the rest of the day quietly gathering shells upon the beach; but causes of excitement were still around us. No sooner had we reached the water’s edge, than we discovered a group of hardy men standing on a little knoll, in earnest conversation, while some of them were pointing towards the sea. “To the boat—to the boat,” suddenly shouted their leader, when they all descended with the speed of Swiss mountaineers, and on reaching a boat which had been made ready, they pushed her into the surf, and three of them jumped in, and thus commenced the interesting scene of hauling the seine. There was something new and romantic to us in the thought, that the keen and intelligent eye of man could even penetrate into the deep, so far as to designate the course of travel of the tribes of the sea. And when the seine was drawn, it was a glorious and thrilling sight to see those fishermen tugging at the lines, or leap into the surf, which sometimes completely covered them, to secure the tens of thousands of fish which they had caught. There was a grace and beauty about the whole scene, which made me long for the genius of a Mount or Edmonds.

A little before sunset, I was again strolling along the shore, when the following incident occurred. You will please return with me to the spot. Yonder on that fisherman’s stake, a little sparrow has just alighted, facing the main. It has been lured away from the green bowers of home by the music of the sea, and is now gazing, perhaps with feelings kindred to my own, upon this most magnificent structure of the Almighty hand. See! it spreads its wing, and is now darting towards the water—fearless and free. Ah! it has gone too near! for the spray moistens its plumes! There—there it goes, frightened back to its native woodland. That little bird, so far as its power and importance are concerned, seems to me a fit emblem of the mind of man, and this great ocean an appropriate symbol of the mind of God.

The achievements of the human mind “have their passing paragraphs of praise, and are forgotten.” Man may point to the Pyramids of Egypt, which are the admiration of the world, and exclaim, “Behold the symbol of my power and importance!” But most impotent is the boast. Those mighty mysteries stand in the solitude of the desert, and the glory of their destiny is fulfilled, in casting a temporary shadow over the tent of the wandering Arab.

The achievements of the Almighty mind are beyond the comprehension of man, and lasting as his own eternity. The spacious firmament, with its suns, and moons, and stars; our globe, with its oceans, and mountains, and rivers; the regularly revolving seasons; and the still, small voice continually ascending from universal nature, all proclaim the power and goodness of their great original. And everything which God has created, from the nameless insect to the world of waters, which is the highway of nations, was created for good, was created to accomplish some omnipotent end. As this ocean is measureless and fathomless, so is it an emblem, beautiful but faint, of that wonderful Being, whose throne is above the milky-way, and who is himself from everlasting to everlasting. But see, there is a heavy cloud rising in the west, the breeze is freshening, flocks of wild ducks are flying inland, and the upper air is ringing with the shrill whistle of the bold and wild sea-gull, whose home is the boundless sea; therefore, as my dear friend Noble has somewhere written, “the shortest homeward track’s the best.”

Still in the present tense would I continue. The witching hour of midnight has again returned. A cold rain-storm has just passed over, the moon is again the mistress of a cloudless sky, but the wind is still raging in all its fury.

“I view the ships that come and go, Looking so like to living things. O! ’tis a proud and gallant show Of bright and broad-spread wings, Making it light around them, as they keep Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.” _Dana._

God be with them and their brave and gallant crews. But, again.

“Where the far-off sand-bars lift Their backs in long and narrow line, The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, And send the sparkling brine Into the air; then rush to mimic strife; Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!” _Ibid._

But I must stop quoting poetry, for as “a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” I should be forever writing about the sea. Heavens! What a terrible song is the ocean singing! with his long white hair streaming in the wind. The waving, splashing, wailing, dashing, howling, rushing, and moaning of the waves, is a glorious lullaby, and a fit prelude to a dream of the sea.

At an early hour on the following day we embarked for home, but a sorry time did we have of it, for the winds were very lazy. We were ten hours going the distance of twenty-two miles. It was now sunset, we were off Gale’s Ferry, and not a solitary breath of air. Ashore we went, resolved to await the coming of the Sag Harbor steamboat, which usually arrived about nine o’clock, and by which we were taken in tow. Snugly seated in our boat, and going at the rate of eighteen miles, we were congratulating ourselves upon an early arrival home, and had already begun to divide and string up our fish. But, alas, at this moment the painter broke, the steamer, unconscious of our fate, still sped onward, while we sheered off towards the shore, _almost disgusted_ with human life in general—for our boat was large, and we had but one oar. But what matter? We were a jolly set, and the way we gave three cheers, as a prelude to the song of “Begone Dull Care,” must have been startling to the thousand sleeping echoes of hill, forest, river, and glen.

Having crept along at snails pace about one mile, we concluded to land, and, if possible, obtain a place to sleep, and something to eat; for not having had a regular dinner, and not a mouthful of supper, we were half starved. With clubs in our hands, to keep off hobgobblins and bull dogs, we wended our way towards a neighboring farm-house, where we knocked for admittance. Pretty soon a great gawky-looking head stuck itself out of an upper window, to which we made known our heartfelt desires, receiving in return the following answer: “My wife is sick—hain’t got any bread—you can go in the barn to sleep if you want to;” and we turned reluctantly away, troubled with a feeling very nearly allied to anger. “Come, let’s go off in this direction,” exclaimed one of the party, “and I’ll introduce you to my old friend, Captain Somebody,”—and away we posted, two by two, across a new-mown field. Presently our two leaders were awe-stricken by the sudden appearance of something white, which seemed to be rising out of the earth beside a cluster of bushes, and the way they wheeled about and put for the river, (accompanied by their fellows, whose fright was merely sympathetic,) was “a caution” to all unbelievers in ghosts and other midnight spectres.

At last we halted to gain a little breath, an explanation was made, and our captain forthwith resolved to _investigate_ the matter. He now took the lead, and on coming to the mysterious spot, discovered an _old blind white horse_; who had been awakened by a noise, and, following the instinct of his nature, had risen from his lair, to be better prepared for danger. I doubt whether the echoes are yet silent, which were caused by the loud and long peals of laughter which resounded to the sky. Being in a strange land, without chart or compass, we could not find the mortal dwelling place of Captain Somebody, and so we changed our course of travel.

We stopt at another house, farther on, but to save our lives we could not obtain an interview, although we entered the hen-coop, and set the hens and roosters a cackling and crowing, the pig-pen, and set the hogs a squealing, while a large dog and two puppies did their best to increase and prolong the mighty chorus. If our farmer friend did not deem himself transported to Bedlam, about that time, we imagine that nothing on earth would have the power to give him such a dream. Our ill-luck made us almost desperate, and so we returned to the boat, resolved to row the whole distance home, could we but find an extra oar.

It was now eleven o’clock, and the only things that seemed to smile upon us were the ten thousand stars, studding the clear, blue firmament. Anon, a twinkling light beamed upon our vision; and as we approached, we found it to proceed from a little hut on an island, where the Thames lamplighter and his boy were accustomed to pass the night after their work was done. Having again concluded to land, we received a hearty welcome, as the host proved to be an old acquaintance of our captain and mate. “Have you anything to eat?” was almost the first question of every tongue. “No, nothing but this barrel of crackers and some cheese,” exclaimed the man of light. “And we,” shouted one of our crew, “have plenty of fish,—can’t we have a chowder?” “Aye, aye; a chowder, a chowder it shall be,” were the words which rang aloud to the very heavens. A wherry was despatched to the main-land, to the well known habitation of an old fisherman, for the necessary iron pot and bowls; for the potatoes and onions, which were dug for the occasion; for the pork, the pepper, and salt; all which, added to our biscuit and black-fish, nicely cleaned and prepared, constituted a chowder of the very first water. There was one addition to our company, in the person of the old fisherman; and our appearance, as we were seated in a circle on the floor, each with a bowl of thick hot soup in his hands, constituted a picture rich and rare. After we were done, it was acknowledged by all, that a better meal had never been enjoyed by mortal man. In about thirty minutes from this time the odd one of the company bade us “good night,” and the midnight brotherhood resigned themselves to sleep. The last sounds I heard, before closing my eyes, were caused by the regular opposition steamboats from New York, as they shot ahead almost as “swift as an arrow from a shivering bow.”

The first faint streak of daylight found us on board our boat, homeward bound, wafted on by a pleasant southerly breeze. At the usual hour, we were all seated at our respective breakfast tables, relating our adventures of the excursion just ended.

OUR NEW YORK PAINTERS.

Sometime ago, when I indited a letter on the paintings of Cole, I partly intended it to be the first of a series, which should include all those of our painters who have established themselves as masters. Since then, however, I have relinquished that idea. I am not _sufficiently_ well acquainted with all these gentlemen, and the number of their productions, to devote a separate paper to each, and have, therefore, concluded briefly to embody my opinions concerning them in a single letter. I propose to speak of those only who are identified with New York, and who are now in the full tide of successful operation; and my object will be merely to write what would correspond to a letter of introduction. In my list, made without respect to persons, are the following names; Durand, Huntington, Edmonds, Page, Mount, Doughty, Wier, Inman, Ingham, Chapman, and Harvey.

_Durand._ If you are at all conversant with the history of art in this country, you need not be told that this gentleman has long borne the enviable reputation of being our best engraver of the human figure. It is also a well-known fact, that he has executed some remarkable pictures in the way of portraiture and fanciful history; but as he is now devoting himself principally to landscape, I shall consider his merits in this department alone.

His only imaginative landscapes, are a pair, allegorically portraying the “Morning and Evening” of human life. In one, the monuments of art and the works of nature are in their prime, and a halo of hope seems to surround the brow of every living creature, young men and maidens, and dancing children. In the other, the same monuments and the same nature are falling to decay, and most of earth’s children are trembling under the weary load of life. And here, on a fallen column, is seated an old man leaning upon his staff, and listening, as it were, to a song of memory, as it recalls the unnumbered joys of other days. A saddening subject, in reality, is here portrayed, but how has the genius of the painter endowed it with a spirit of immortality! To the thoughtful mind, it possesses a world of eloquence, and touches the heart with the thrill of poetry. Considered as a maiden effort in the most exalted branch of landscape painting, it affords abundant reason to believe that Mr. Durand would accomplish great things in this department, if he would but persevere. The only fault I can find with it, is this—in the idea of its design, and in some parts of its execution, it bears too close a resemblance to the Departure and Return, or the Past and Present, of Thomas Cole.

The majority of Mr. Durand’s landscapes I should designate as actual views and fanciful pictures; and here, I think, he is without a superior. In the choice of subjects, he always displays an exquisite taste; and as he paints with great care, and finishes highly, there is an indescribable summer-day charm about his pictures which is peculiarly their own. The three most difficult things in nature for an artist to delineate, are trees, atmospheres, and figures; but all these have been thoroughly mastered by Mr. Durand. His trees are strongly characteristic, and his figures numerous, happily introduced, and accurately drawn. Of his views, I mostly admire “Lake Geneva,” “Shakspeare’s Church,” two “Views in Switzerland,” “Island of Capri,” “Deserted Road-side,” “Farm Yard on the Hudson,” “Oak Tree with horses under it,” and a “View on the Rhine.” Each one of these is a perfect gem, a beautiful and poetical reproduction of the original scene. But the most unique and superb of all his paintings, is a fanciful picture of a large size, exhibiting an extensive lake in a wilderness. The sun is on the verge of the horizon, the sky is studded with an array of most gorgeous clouds, and the surface of the lake is quivering under the pinions of an evening breeze. In one corner of the foreground is a cluster of luxuriant trees, encircled with grape-vines, and in the other, an admirable rock, on which is standing a solitary heron, the only living creature in the whole scene. The great triumph of this picture is in the water—the gold-tipt waves.

The last time I saw Mr. Durand, he was finishing some studies of chestnut trees in blossom, which stand on the margin of Esopus Creek. They are wonderfully true to nature, and will enhance his reputation, even if he should not paint anything more during the coming summer. But I hope that he may not only live to do this, but to paint a dozen summers more, and a dozen pictures in each summer; for he is a great artist, and an honor to his native country.

_Huntington._ Although this gentleman is under thirty years of age, he has produced many admirable pictures, which place him on a level with the most gifted artists of any country. He commenced his career by painting landscapes, many of which were wood-scenes and waterfalls on the Rondout. They are remarkable for their rich coloring, and dashing style of execution. But it is as a portrait and historical painter that he is most celebrated. In both these departments his power is wonderful. Eight years ago he was a pupil of Mr. Morse, but now is an acknowledged master, and the pride of his profession. He uses the most glowing colors, and yet there is a perfect harmony in all he paints; he handles the pencil in a fine off-hand style, and yet his flesh possesses the softness of the reality; he can take the most ordinary head, and by his arrangement and his faculty of exalting his subject, make an interesting picture, while at the same time it will be a speaking likeness. Of his portraits, the most superb are those of his father, an uncle and aunt, “The Venetian Girl,” the “Roman Girl,” and “Shepherd Boy of the Campagna.” The last of these, which we think is equal to Murillo’s “Beggar Boy,” was painted in the incredible short period of four hours. If this fact and this picture do not prove Huntington to be a wonderful genius, we do not know what could do so. But even all the pictures just mentioned are eclipsed by his two historical ones, taken from the Pilgrim’s Progress, viz.: “Mercy’s Dream,” and “Christiana and Family passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.” In the first, Mercy is in a reclining position, resting on one arm, with her face raised heavenward, while the angel hovering above her is on the point of placing the crown upon her head. In her position there may be something a little unnatural, and the expression of the angel may be somewhat too earthly; but where, in the whole range of art, is there anything more beautifully designed, more accurately drawn, or more richly colored? In the other picture, Christiana and her family are represented on a rock overlooking a valley of flame. At first we are startled by a feeling of terror, but when the eye falls upon the principal figure, her upraised countenance beaming with holy confidence and hope, the first impulse vanishes, and the heart throbs with peaceful joy. The soul depicted in that countenance, its conception and execution, is a triumph of art which we believe can never be surpassed. But the interest does not stop here. What a world of poetry has the painter portrayed in the eldest son attempting to shield the loved ones from the impending danger, and in the youngest child cleaving to its mother for protection! All, in fact, look to Christiana for safety, while she, with the meekness of childhood, looks calmly up to the Almighty. I should rather be the author of that painting than of any others of superior merit. Oh, it is a blessed thing to see genius consecrating its powers to the promotion of His glory, from whom all genius flows! Huntington possesses both great and good qualities, and we trust that his sojourn in Europe will not be prolonged beyond an extensive tour.

_Edmonds._ This gentleman, who occupies the responsible station of cashier in a bank, is considered one of the ablest financiers in New York, while, at the same time, he enjoys a remarkable reputation as an artist. His paintings are comparatively few, owing to his peculiar situation, and to the correct notion which he entertains, that a work of art should not be exhibited to the public until its author has done his best to make it perfect. His style of coloring is warm and glowing, and his drawing exceedingly accurate. As a designer, he is more particular than our artists generally; and very few, I think, understand the principles of composition so well. He is a man of quite extensive reading, and of expansive mind, and his pictures are an index to the humor which it contains. They are of a comical character, and never fail to tell their story at a single glance. They are always intended to make you laugh, and are, therefore, agreeable helpers on to a long life; and sometimes possess an undercurrent of poetry or philosophy, which makes them voiceless preachers to the thinking man. His best pictures are the “Newspaper Boy,” “The Country and City Beaux,” “Sparking,” “The Bashful Cousin,” “Italian Mendicants,” “The Epicure,” and “Stealing Milk.” The first represents a large room thronged with men, women, and children, into the midst of whom a ragged boy has entered to sell his Sunday morning papers. In the second we have a charming country lady and her accepted lover, suddenly surprised by the appearance of a city dandy; and while the latter is nettled by the appearance of things, the former, who is rocking himself in an arm-chair, very coolly puffs the smoke of his cigar into the face of his disappointed rival. In the next, a country damsel is peeling apples before a large blazing fire, while a hearty fellow is talking to her, “solemnly and slow,” about his heart and other kindred matters. In the next, a bashful young fellow is taking leave of his friends, who urge him to sit down to tea, which is now ready. The next is a blind old man, led by a little girl, asking alms in the streets of Rome. In the Epicure, we have a butcher displaying his nice things to an old gentleman, almost eaten up in health by rich living. In the last, we have a school-boy in his mother’s pantry, swallowing large quantities of rich cream, who is discovered by his “anxious Ma” in the very act. All things considered, I think Mr. Edmonds one of the most remarkable men of the age, and hope that he may live to make many more additions to the genius-stamped treasures of American art.

_Page._ Here we come to another honored artist, but one who has been greatly over-rated; not a man of genius, but one of rare, of extraordinary talent. As a mere portrait painter or map-taker, he is without a rival, I believe, in any country. The man who sits to him for a likeness, must expect to have every hair on his face delineated to perfection, but must not expect to have himself exalted or intellectualized. This is a thing which Page has never done, and can never do, and consequently he will never excel as an historical painter. I am warranted in making this assertion by looking at his past efforts in this department? What admirable execution has he squandered on his picture of “The Whistle,” his “Prison Scene,” and lately in his “Ecce Homo.” In coloring and drawing, these pictures cannot be surpassed; but how very inferior are they in conception, and especially the last! Surely, the Saviour of the world could never have borne so _physical_ a countenance as Page has here conceived! It is understood, that he is engaged on a large picture, to be called “Jephtha’s Daughter.” I sincerely _hope_ that he may triumph there, but I cannot but doubt. Parts of it I know will be astonishingly fine, but, as a whole, it will be a failure. I have been thus free in my remarks concerning this artist, because he is lauded as a great _genius_, which I am not willing to acknowledge, although I admire him as a portrait painter. His style of coloring is not easily described, for it varies with every one of his subjects, now pale as death or red as a cherry, and now blue as sapphire or green as an emerald. If I desired my children to behold their very Pa long after he is in the grave, I would rather have Page paint me than any other man. His greatest portraits are those of Mrs. Ridner, a single head and with a child, of Lowell the poet, of Mr. Leup, and of himself.

_Mount._ Three cheers for the laughter-loving and incomparable genius of Stony Brook, whom I know to be a first-rate fisherman, and a most pathetic player on the violin. Here is a man who stands alone in the art of painting, for, in everything he does, he is entirely original. His productions are stamped with an entirely American character, and so comically conceived, that they always cause the beholder to smile, whatever may be his troubles. His coloring is what we call cold, but remarkable for its fidelity; and his power and knowledge of drawing are superior to those of any other man in the country. Unlike Mr. Edmonds, he pays but little attention to designing by rule, but in expression, he always lays himself out, and I know not that he has ever failed, in a single instance, to delineate the character he aimed at. He is peculiar in the habit of tasking his own mind for his subjects, so that you never see him illustrating the pages of any writer, historian, poet or wit. And this is a feature I greatly admire. The man who cannot conceive and execute a picture on his own hook entirely, is nothing but a copyist, whatever may be his knowledge of the art. Thinking and strictly original painters, are the only ones that exert a lasting and salutary influence on the pictorial genius of their country, and Mr. Mount, I am glad to know, is emphatically one of these. But let me glance at those pictures which I believe warrant the foregoing opinions. Their general character may be imagined by their titles, which are as follows: “Cider Making,” “The Raffle,” “Tough Yarn,” “Fortune Telling,” “Bargaining for a Horse,” “Gamesters Surprised,” “Winding Up,” “Ringing a Hog,” “Artist showing his Work,” “The last Clam,” “Hoeing Corn,” “Husking Corn,” “Rustic Dance,” and “Rabbit Catching.” In the first, we have a Long Island cider mill, with all the laughable appurtenances thereof. In the next, a company of loafers in a country bar-room are raffling for a goose, illustrating the proverb, that “birds of a feather flock together.” The next picture, a lame old “covey” telling a story to two impatient gentlemen, which has been illustrated by an admirable story from the pen of Seba Smith, Esq. In the next, a couple of farmers, in a barn-yard, are discussing the merits of a “slick looking” horse hitched to a fence, one of them rolling a stone with his foot, and the other whittling a stick. In the next, we have some truant boys, who have stolen into a barn to play “heads or tails,” who are discovered by the farmer; and while he approaches cautiously, with a long stick in his hand and vengeance in his eye, one of the boys is frightened by the approaching step, but another is so absorbed in the game, that a nameless portion of his body is about to sting under the chastising stroke. The next exhibits a gentleman lover holding a skein of yarn for a buxom country damsel. The next, is a _painted_ “concord of _sharp_ sounds.” In the next, an artist is showing a country farmer a picture, which causes him great delight. The next, portrays the garret of a disappointed bachelor, seated before a fireless fireplace, and mourning over the departure of a few clams, the shells of which are on the hearth at his feet. The four remaining pictures are described in their titles. The man who could paint such a variety of subjects, ought assuredly to be a good portrait painter; and Mr. Mount is such. His portraits are only occasionally executed, and for particular friends, and the former only when the spirit moves him, for he is a creature of impulse. And besides, his health has ever been of a delicate nature, which will not suffer him to “bone” down to labor. This fact, I presume, will be a satisfactory answer to those who are continually inquiring, “Why don’t Mount paint more?” The pictures he has produced, admirable and numerous as they are, are but as the bud to the fruit, when we consider his great capacity. I hope that it may be his fortune to enjoy a long and happy life, and that he may make many more additions to American art.

_Doughty._ This gentleman has long been a favorite landscape painter with the public, and has executed many exceedingly beautiful pictures, principally of a fanciful character. In number they are too great, which is his misfortune and not his fault. He has been obliged to paint at a cheap price, or the public would have let him starve to death, as they would any other artist, or a man of refined and exalted taste. And having painted so much, it is not to be wondered at that many of his productions should have been too hastily done, and that there should be a sameness in his subjects. Finishing, as he generally does, with great care, it always gratifies the eye to behold his pictures; but it is obvious that he has never painted much from nature, for there is a monotony in his touch, which cannot escape the criticism of the attentive student of foliage. There are some, however, and very important features too, in landscape painting, which are completely mastered by Mr. Doughty, and in which he is without a rival, either in Cole, Durand, or Huntington. His skies and water are the most true and beautiful that we have ever seen. A carefully painted waterfall by Doughty, is a picture of rare excellence and great value. His atmospheres, too, are sometimes most exquisitely conceived and executed. Good figures are the principal things wanting in his paintings to make some of them nearly perfect, and his inability to paint them is undoubtedly another reason for the sameness of his subjects. When a man paints without a story or a moral in view, it is difficult to designate his pictures; but our favorites among those of Mr. Doughty, are a large “upright” with waterfall, an autumn scene, owned in Boston, another sold to the Apollo Association, and a scene on Lake George.

_Wier._ This gentleman is the accomplished teacher of drawing at the Academy of West Point. The majority of his productions, which are numerous, give evidence of his possessing extensive literary acquirements, a refined mind, and brilliant imagination. He is the author of a number of pleasing landscapes, the best of which, “Constable Bourbon’s March to Rome,” has been illustrated by the pen of Gulian C. Verplanck. The amusing pictures, called the “Boat Club,” and “St. Nicholas,” have proven, that if he would attempt it, he might excel in that department of the art occupied by Mount and Edmonds. But it is as an historical painter, that his name will live, and is now mostly celebrated. His drawing is remarkably correct, his coloring rich, and his style of execution highly finished. Another qualification belonging to his works, and one which makes us love the man, is, that they are purely American. Who that has seen it, can ever forget his full-length portrait of “Red Jacket,” the warrior and orator of the Senecas? Aside from the noble subject, it is unquestionably the most faithful and competent delineation of Indian character to be found; and who that has ever seen the “Indian Captives,” by the same hand, has not mourned over the fate of the much wronged Aborigines of our land, even as “brave men mourn the brave?” In this painting, we have an Indian and his squaw, in prison, and an English soldier warning them of their impending fate. Although it is an intensely interesting scene, yet the painter has not availed himself of a single “face divine,” which I fancy to be a beautifully poetic idea, and could not be carried out but by a man of genius. Mr. Wier is one of the four artists appointed by the General Government to execute four paintings for the Rotunda at Washington. The subject of his, is the “Departure of the Pilgrims from Leyden;” but as I have not yet seen it, I am unable to express an opinion as to its merits.

_Inman._ The reputation of this gentleman as a portrait painter is very extensive, and he has ever commanded a higher price than any other in New York. His productions are very numerous, and there is not a single branch of the art in which he has not made some successful attempts. His coloring is rich and life-like, his style of execution exceedingly bold and free. Painting as he does with great rapidity, we find that his drawing is seldom as correct as it should be. He manifests a refined and exalted taste in the arrangements of his portraits, and generally in his miscellaneous designs. But, after all, he has painted some poor pictures, and this is an evidence of the fact, that he is a man of uncommon genius, and not talent. There is a wonderful spirit in his heads, and unlike his rival, Page, he portrays the mind, which, after all, is a greater triumph of art, and far more important in a portrait, than the mere shell of humanity, as delineated by Page. His full-length portrait of Macready, as William Tell, is a masterly performance, well conceived, well colored, and well drawn; and among his miscellaneous pictures, the most remarkable, are—“Rip Van Winkle,” “Bride of Lammermoor,” “Mumble the Peg,” and “News-Boy;” all of them possessing many peculiar beauties, with some glaring faults. Of his plain portraits, I would mention only two as good specimens of his skill in general, namely, those of Nicholas Biddle and Bishop White. I do not deem it within the power of any man to go beyond these in portraying the body of man and the soul within. Mr. Inman is also one of those artists honored by a commission from the Government for a 10,000 dollar painting. I understand that he is very far behind-hand in his great undertaking. I know, however, that he has met with some sad misfortune, which may be the cause; but I trust that he will soon be at work, and may accomplish a national work worthy of his ability and his fame.

_Ingham._ This gentleman is one of the most celebrated and unique of all our portrait painters. His style is emphatically his own, and may be designated as that of exquisite finishing. You can never discern the traces of his pencil, and the reason is, he produces his effect by successive glazing. His pictures are distinguished for their transparency, richness of color, and harmony; and being a man of sentiment and delicate feeling, he is the universal favorite among the ladies, and probably the most faultless painter in this country of those charming but incomprehensible creations of Heaven. His best productions are the portraits of “Miss McNevin,” “Mr. Dunlap,” “Dr. Channing,” and the “White Plume;” and as genuine works of art, are inferior to nothing in the whole range of that department. That of Dr. Channing, is one of the best specimens of soul painting that I have ever seen, and any one familiar only with the writings of the great original, could not fail to select this portrait as his, from the midst of a hundred of other men, so full is it of expression, and so perfect and exalted is the effect of the painter. Ingham is a man of genius as well as talent, a friend to young artists, and an honor to American art.

_Chapman._ All hail to this poetical and ready artist, and accomplished gentleman, who has executed first-rate pictures in almost every department of painting! His coloring is rather gaudy and paint-like, but his drawing, when he takes pains, is correct and vigorous. His knowledge of design is profound, and his conception of a picture is quick, and always in admirable taste. He has been a devoted student of the old masters, and copied more celebrated paintings than any other American. Having been an extensive traveller throughout the United States, and ever being on the lookout for valuable subjects to paint, and a lover of historical lore, he has collected a large quantity of valuable materials, the whole of which I hope he may live to embody in national paintings. It was he who received the commission from Government to paint the third picture (Vanderlyn is at work on the fourth) for the Rotunda at Washington, and he has manfully fulfilled his obligation in the execution of the “Baptism of Pocahontas.” Some of his other prominent pictures, are “Hagar and Ishmael fainting in the wilderness,” full length portrait of “David Crocket,” “Beppo,” “The First Ship,” a large historical landscape representing “The Retreat from Fort Necessity,” and a full length of “Washington in his youth.” These, however, are but a small portion of what he has done, for he is one of the most industrious men living. He is also a complete master of sketching, and as he has a historical mind, his efforts of this kind are very beautiful and very numerous. He is without a rival in this lucrative branch of art, and for the past two years has mostly been devoted to it, and is consequently a favorite among booksellers. He is a lover of the “poor Indian,” and has done much toward perpetuating their personal and national characteristics. Among the many things which now occupy his time, is an American Drawing Book, which is what we very much need in this country, and his I know will be a superb and valuable one in every point of view.

_Harvey._ This gentleman is a landscape painter of rare merit; but many of his pictures, unfortunately for us, are owned in England. His principal work, and one which places him in a very high rank, is Forty Atmospheric Views in the United States, executed in watercolors, and in a style of uncommon beauty. He is a good draftsman, and possesses a remarkable eye for color, and everything from his pencil teems with sentiment and poetry. His contemplated work of “American Scenery,” when published after his own expensive plan, will be an invaluable acquisition to our treasury of art, and I hope that it may be received by the public with the favor it so richly deserves.

Such is the array of painters, of which the emporium of America may well be proud. Fame must ever attend their names, as surely as it is attending those of West, Copley, Stuart, Allston, Jarvis, Trumbull, and Malbone, among the dead; and Sully, King, Harding, Fisher, Neagle, Morse, Vanderlyn, and Audubon, among the living of other cities;—altogether making a company which would reflect honor on any nation in the world.

A SONG OF MEMORY.

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.

And now come the recollections of the past summer, which I have attempted to commemorate in the foregoing letters. I know not with what feelings you may have perused them, but to me they are very dear, on account of the feelings and conceptions with which they are associated, and these are a kind of treasure, that my heart cherishes as the miser does his gold. Much of the time, during my various journeyings have I been alone, and I have held a blessed communion with my mother nature,—not only in the morning and at noon, but in the calm evening and in the most holy night. Thou hast, O Nature, instructed me in the “magic of thy mysteries,” and given my spirit an idea of its immortal destiny. I thank thee for having, even in my infancy, consecrated my affections to thy rational worship. Next to those of revealed religion are thy consolations. Thou art the Empress of a world of poetry, and yet the great human world is familiar only with thy name. Next to my Creator, thou hast proven thyself my most faithful friend, and when I cease to love thee as I now do, may my right hand forget its cunning, and the silver cord of my life be forever loosened. In all my mortal pilgrimage may I be influenced by thy teachings, so that when I come to be an immortal, I may be fitted for a station at the footstool of God.

JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY ARE PUBLISHERS OF NOTES ON CUBA.

Containing an account of its Discovery and Early History; a description of the face of the country, its population, resources and wealth, its institutions, and the manners and customs of its inhabitants; with directions to travellers visiting the Island.

By A PHYSICIAN.

12mo. pp. 359.

“The main purposes of this volume is to serve as a guide and a companion to invalids, travellers, and others who may visit Cuba. There is no other work of this character in the English language, nor in any language is there a book which embraces the information which is contained in this. The directions to travellers for their guidance, comfort and conduct, are very full, and we may add, very necessary. Then we have a methodical arrangement of matter which presents us with a complete and exceedingly interesting narrative, seeming to anticipate every question, and to draw a full picture of the country, of its inhabitants, their employments and characteristics. The towns upon the island, with its general scenery, curiosities and striking objects, are described in full. The history, the geology, the government and commerce of the island, are noticed at length, and present the results of an evidently laborious investigation, and a faithful use of the eyes. The resources which a traveller or visitor will find for occupying his time, or for amusing himself, have their full share of space. The whole volume, coming from a source which stamps it with a high authority, is a valuable addition to our libraries, and will be much prized by those who read it.”—_Christian Register._

“A well written, carefully printed, and instructive book, by a Physician. No invalid who seeks the blissful climate of Cuba, should leave home without this best of all guides and counsellors. We are delighted with the valuable contribution which he has made to history, as well as with the intelligence and good judgment he evinces as a physician. In recommending the Notes on Cuba to medical readers and voyagers, it would be unjust not to recommend it also to the whole reading community.”—_Boston Medical Journal._

“Notes on Cuba, by an American Physician. This is a truly valuable and interesting book, both to the invalid intending to visit Cuba in search of health, and to the general reader, and supplies a gap in literature which it is surprising has not long ago been filled. The work is well written, and affords very pleasant reading. The author is known to us, and we can assure the readers of the work that it is entirely authentic, and entitled to the most entire confidence.”—_New Bedford Bulletin._

JAMES MUNROE AND CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. TWICE TOLD TALES. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.

2 vols. 12mo., elegantly printed on clear type and fine paper, and neatly bound in cloth, gilt.

“To this little work we would say, ‘Live ever, sweet, sweet book.’ It comes from the hand of a man of genius. Every thing about it has the freshness of morning and of May. * * * * The book, though in prose, was written by a poet. * * * A calm, thoughtful face seems to be looking at you from every page. * * One of the most prominent characteristics of these tales is, that they are national in their character. The author has wisely chosen his themes among the traditions of New England. * * Another characteristic of this writer is the exceeding beauty of his style. It is as clear as running waters are. Indeed he uses words as mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and recrosses the bright and rushing stream of thought. * * In speaking in terms of such high praise as we have done, we have given utterance not alone to our own feelings, but we trust to those of all gentle readers of the Twice Told Tales. Like children we say, ‘Tell us more.’”—_North American Review._

“The Tales are worth _twice telling_ and a dozen readings.”—_Boston Courier._

“A book like this, evincing a mind of such peculiar organization, may, or may not become popular; but whether they read it or not, the public may be assured, that in this unpretending volume by a countryman and neighbor, they will find more of that which indicates thought in the writer, and begets thought in the reader, than in nine-tenths of the English reprints, which are so eagerly devoured.”—_Boston Daily Advertiser._

“Mr. Hawthorne’s style is rich, refined, and graceful, and the present volume is an ornament to the literature of our country.”—_Boston Atlas._

“This modest volume, which comes before us without preface, or any sort of an appeal to the public regard, is well calculated to stand on its own merits, and to acquire enduring popularity. The author possesses the power of winning immediate attention, and of sustaining it, by a certain ingenuous sincerity, and by the force of a style at once simple and graceful. In all his descriptions, whether of scenes or emotions, nature is his only guide. In short, in quiet humor, in genuine pathos, and deep feeling, and in a style equally unstudied and pure, the author of ‘Twice Told Tales’ has few equals, and with perhaps one or two eminent exceptions, no superior in our country. We confidently and cordially, therefore, commend the beautiful volume to the attention of our readers.”—_Knickerbocker._

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Transcriber’s note:

--Added author's name on the title page.

--Silently corrected a few obvious typographical errors.