THE

COURSE OF EMPIRE,

VOYAGE

OF

LIFE,

A.ND

OTHER

PICTURES
OF

THOMAS COLE, N. A.
W I T H SELECTIONS FROM

HIS

LETTERS

AND

MISCELLANEOUS

WRITINGS:

Illustrative of his Life, Character, and Genius,
BY
LOUIS

L.

NEW

NOBLE.

YORK:

CORNISH, LAMPORT & COMPANY,
8

PARK

PLACE.

MDCCCLIII.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
C O R N I S H , L A M P O R T & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.

Stereotyped "by Vincent Dill, Jr.,
No. 29 Beelrman Street, N. Y,

759.1
C67n

TO

WM.

G U L L E N

B R Y A N T ,

Esq.,

WHOSE PEN,

WITH THE PENCIL OF COLE,

IS ALIKE IDENTIFIED WITH
AMERICAN SCENERY,
THIS VOLUME

IS

R E S P E C T F U L L Y

INSCRIBED.

L.

L. N.

PREFACE.

AN apology for undertaking a work, from some incompetency,
is almost as common as a preface. Such an apology, however,
common as it is, the present writer feels himself bound to offer.
He confesses himself incompetent, for several reasons, with which
he will not trouble the reader, to write well of the genius, character, and life of a true artist.
Why then was it attempted ? Because it was thought that he
could, at least, do justice in part ; and because the work seemed
naturally to fall to him. The relation of pastor, and that in the
retirement of the country, admitted him, at length, to an intimacy
with the painter, in which he told him much of the story of his
life, and, at its close, committed to his discretion most of his
papers.
It might be asked, in the present flood of publications, why the
memoirs of a person, whose life is usually so quiet as that of an
artist should be written at all ? It may be said, that the history
of any man who was simply a model of conscientiousness and
moral purity, and of earnestness in the pursuit, and reproduction
of the beautiful and true,—who, with strong will and great purpose,
had a vast patience, is well worth the writing and the reading.
Much more so, if, to the above qualities, there were added those of
a fine genius.

6

PREFACE.

It may also be said, that not all readers, even in these times of
haste and excitement, love only books which resound with " the
weaving of chance and the rolling of accident;" and, that the
many who do, might "rise wiser and better" from the story of a
quiet life.
Cole, however, is somewhat an exception among artists. The
stream of his life is very frequently broken by touching and stirring incident, amusing and romantic recital.
The first intention was to have made, comparatively, a large
work,—interweaving with his personal history full notices of all
his finer pictures, most of his correspondence, and copious selections from his poems and various prose writings. Under advice,
this first intention was given up, after it was partially carried into
effect, and the present work taken in hand ; which is, virtually
but an abridgment of the one originally designed,—having interspersed with what is strictly biographical—always from the painter's own pen, when it could be made to serve the purpose—such
letters and selections from his literary remains, and such notices
of his pictures as help to unfold and illustrate his character and
genius.
In what is just said, the author hopes, may be found the propriety of the somewhat novel title of his book, adopted for certain
reasons, instead of the more natural one of Life or Biography.
Should it be thought that he has drawn more from his own imagination than from actual fact, in speaking, for instance, of the
artist's pictures, and of his feelings, thoughts and intellectual processes in the study of nature and the old masters, let the reader be
reminded of some years of intimacy between the painter and the
present author, when those very studies and pictures—with some
of which he was permitted to be familiar, from the time of their
conception to their completion on the canvass—were perpetually
recurring themes of conversation.

PREFACE.

7

The wish to present Cole, particularly in the moral and spiritual, only on the heroic side, is not only disavowed, but the confession
frankly made of a frequent feeling of inability to do full justice to
his admirable character. Of all men, he seemed to have naturally
the smallest taint of vice, and the rarest virtues. These were subsequently multiplied, and made " beautiful exceedingly " by religion. " There goes a man that never trifles, even in his merriment,
—never loses the native sense of his proper dignity, in homeliest
scenes and commonest circumstances :" such was the spontaneous
utterance of the heart, more than once, while following him through
the fields and mountains.
In conclusion, while the author of the present volume (where
he is the author) would remind the critical reader that he undertook it as a work of love, and accomplished it, from time to time,
as the manifold duties of a clergyman would permit, he would
also acknowledge his indebtedness to the Rev. C. S. Henry,
D. D. of the University of New York, to Mr. Bryant, and many
other persons, in different parts of the country ; some of whose
names are in no way alluded to in the following pages.
CATSKILL, Mayt

1853.

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I .
PAGE .

Cole's Birth and Parentage.—School-days.—Wood Engraving.—A Companion.—Recreations.—Poetry.—Reading.—Enthusiasm for America.—At Liverpool,
15
CHAPTER II.
The Family removes to America.—Mr. Cole a Tradesman in Philadelphia.—Thomas, his Employment and Recreations.—The Family removes to Steubenville.-Thomas continues his Wood Engraving in Philadelphia.—Manners and Character described by Companions.—Sails
for the West Indies.—Incident of the Voyage.—St. Eustatia.—
Return to Philadelphia.—Journey to Steubenville,
. . .
19
CHAPTER III.
Life in Steubenville.—Influence of Nature upon him.—Develops his
Powers.—Finds him his Vocation, and his proper Language.—Influence of a Portrait Painter.—Resolves to become an Artist.—Enters
upon his Profession.—First efforts.—His timidity.—Becomes a Portrait-Painter from necessity,
.
.
.
.
.
.
24
CHAPTER IV.
Cole an itinerant Portrait-Painter.—His first Day out.—Night at
Mount Pleasant.—Arrival at St. Clairsville.—Life at. St. Clairsville.—Adieu to St. Clairsville.—Walk to Zanesville.—Life at Zanesville.—Finds a Friend.—Falls into Difficulties.—On his way to Chilicothe.—Entrance into Town.—Letters of Introduction.—Discouragements.—Brighter prospects.—A total Failure.—Returns to Zanesville.—Paints a Picture.—Adieu to his Friend.—Returns home,
30
C H A P T E R V.
Cole remains at Steubenville.—Scene-painting.—Further Disappointment.—Conclusion of his Life in Steubenville.—Letter to William
A. Adams.—Life in Pittsburgh.—Studies nature.—Method of Study.
Industry in Drawing from Nature.—Acts upon his earlier Resolution to pursue Art in a wider Field.—Leaves for Philadelphia.—His
Journey,
38
CHAPTER VI.
Life in Philadelphia.—Privations and Sufferings.—Energy and Industry.—Pictures.—A Portrait.—Cole at Law.—Character of his Pictures.—An early Landscape.—Cole an Author.—His Poetry.—Prosewritings.—Emma Moreton,
.
.
45

X

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER

VII.
PAGE.

An unexpected arrival.—Leaves Philadelphia, and settles in New York.
—Life in New York.—Coles' Studio.—His difficulties.—His energy
and cheerful industry.—First pictures, and their effect upon the
public.—Their results.—A student of nature again.—The Hudson
and the Catskills.—Pictures of their scenery.—First acquaintance
with artists.—Success and reputation,
53
CHAPTER VIII.
Cole the Dupe of an unworthy Patron.—National Academy of Design.—
Life in the Catskill Mountains.—Miscellany : Sunrise from the Catskills ; Extracts from the Wild, a poem; Thoughts on Nature; Characters of Trees; Trip to Windham; Storm in the Catskills,
.
60
CHAPTER

IX.

Cole in Catskill.—Miscellany : The Bewilderment,
CHAPTER

.

.

.

71

X.

Cole's Spirit in the Study of Nature.—His Pictures the Embodiment
of Simple, wild Nature.—A higher kind of Art naturally suggested,
and growing out of the Elements of his Character,
. . .
79
CHAPTER

XI.

Cole enters upon a higher style of Art.—Its consequences.—Letters to
Mr. Gilmor: picture painted for him; remarks on pictorial composition ; pictures in the Academy; the Garden of Eden; the Expulsion.—Trip to the White Mountains,
89
CHAPTER

XII.

Cole anticipates going abroad.—Letters to Mr. Gilmor : asks a favour;
a favourable reply.—A Visit to Niagara,
100
CHAPTER

XIII.

Cole in England.—Delight at its Rural Beauties.—Studies Nature
rather than Pictures.—Disappointment at English art.—To his Parents : rural scenery; London; Westminster Abbey; pictures; the
poet Rogers.—Hagar in the Wilderness.—Life in London.—Disappointments.—Sir Thomas Lawrence.—English art.—Notes on A r t :
Turner ; Hogarth ; Claude; Rembrant; Elzheimer ; the effects of
time on pictures; of detail in pictures.—To Sarah Cole : pictures in
the Exhibition; a musical gentleman.—To Mr. Gilmor: Sir Thomas
Lawrence; opinions of painters.—To Mr. Cummings.—To Sarah Cole :
The Storm.—-To Mr. Gilmor,
107
CHAPTER

XIV.

Cole in Paris.—Notes on Art: the Louvre; French a r t ; Ary Scheffer;
Luxembourg.—Journal: the Rhone.—To his Parents : from Paris
to Marseilles.—Journal: Genoa.—To his Parents: from Marseilles
to Florence,
.
125

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER

XI

XV.
PAGE.

Cole in Florence.—Journal: Visit to Volterra.—To Mr. Morton : Life
in Florence.—Bryant's Sonnet to Cole.—Life in Florence.—To Mr.
Gilmor: a picture for him.—Sunset on the Arno.—Love of Florence, 132
CHAPTER

XVI.

Cole at Rome.—In his Studio, and in Society.—Among the works of
Art.—In Nature,
145
CHAPTER

XVII.

To his Parents : from Florence to Rome; Roman labourers; the Carnival.—Notes at Naples : the Colosseum; Pantheon; St. Peter's; the
Vatican; Apollo ; Venus; Transfiguration; St. Jerome; Moses.—
Panorama of Naples.—Paestum,
156
CHAPTER

XVIII.

Journal: from Rome to Florence.—To Mr. Gilmor : in Florence again.
—In the Spirit of Painting.—Unexpected call Homewards.—His Florentine pictures.—Their reception at Home.—Cole's opinion of modern Italian pictures.—His opinion of the Old Masters.—Opinion of
Landscape Painting.—Florentine pictures, neither copies of the Old
Masters, nor false to Nature.—The grounds of these charges considered,
166
CHAPTER

XIX.

Cole in New York.—Luman Reed.—Letter to Mr. Reed: plan of the
Course of Empire.—Cole's gratitude.—To Mr. Adams.—Rebuked for
Ingratitude.—To Mr. Adams : vindicates himself.—To the same : renewal of friendship.—To the same : II Arco di*Nerone.—Cole's generosity.—To Mr. Alexander : painting in Catskill.—To the same.—
Angels appearing to the Shepherds.—Picture for Mr. Alexander,
175
CHAPTER

XX.

Thoughts and Occurrences: a dream; a walk; regret on leaving the
country; dislike of the city ; the music of colours; recollections of return from Europe; musings; poem.—To Mr. Alexander.—Thoughts,
&c. : sad recollections; lecture on American scenery; sympathy with
nature; after the storm; a walk to the river; Scott and Irving.—
Anecdote of Cole's tenderness,
189
CHAPTER

XXI.

Thoughts and Occurrences: holidays on the mountains; a walk; Rip
Van Winkle's dell; the Mountain House; the lakes; a voyage;
mountain landscape ; title of the series of pictures; musings.—To Mr.
Reed: painting the third picture of the Course of Empire.—Thoughts,
&c.: Schroon scenery; musings on nature; monument to Washington ; want of a congenial spirit; true lovers of nature few.-Spirits
of^he Wilderness, a poem,
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
200

XII

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER

XXII.
PAGE.

Thoughts and Occurrences: a new year.—First winter in Catskill.—
An Attachment.—To Mr. Reed: ornamental designs for doors.—
To the Same: the fourth of the Course of Empire begun.—To the
Same.—how far advanced.—To the Same: difficulties of the third
picture.—To the Same: the fifth picture proposed for the approaching exhibition of the Academy of Design.—To the Same: the third
picture finished.—To the Same; motives to labour; maledictions on
tree-destroyers.—To the Same : nature of the malediction.—To Mr.
Durand : sickness of Mr. Reed.—To the Same : effect upon Cole's spirits.—Thoughts, &c.: cares of life.—To Mr. Durand.—Thoughts, &c.:
death of Mr. Reed.—Thoughts, &c. : beauty of the season; a walk up
the Catskill river.—To Mr. Durand: the fourth picture.—To the
Same; country air for a painter.—Thoughts, &c. : completion of the
Course of Empire,
210
CHAPTER

XXIII.

Cooper's opinion of Cole and his pictures.—Remarks on the course of
Empire.—Cole's marriage,
.
.
.
.
. . .
224
CHAPTER

XXIV.

Commission for the Departure and Return.—Thoughts and occurrences :
Retrospection ; pictures painted ; death of his father ; visit to Schroon
Lake; scenery ; song of. a spirit.—To Mr. Van Rensselaer : the
Departure and Return.—Thoughts, &c. : autumn; the dying year.—
To Mr. Van Rensselaer : description of the Departure and Return.—
Bryant's criticism.—Thoughts, &c. : Death of his mother,
.
237
CHAPTERXXV.
To Mr. Durand: his Rip Van Winkle; Schroon Mountain picture.—
Thoughts and Occurrences : poetic musings.—To Mr. Durand : Conrad and Medora; Coleridge's "Love," a subject for a picture.—
Pictures for Mr. Stuyvesant.—To Mr. Durand : pictures.—To the
same : painting the Dream of Arcadia.—The Dream of Arcadia,
247
CHAPTER

XXVI

Thoughts and occurrences : spring; the fields; his own works compared
with the old ; discouragements ; the ruined tower.—To Mr. Adams :
Cole an architect.—To Mr. Durand: the critics.—Thoughts, &c. :
the summer; the landscape; vine in the grove.—To Mr. Durand.—
To Mr. Adams : designs for the State-house.—Thoughts, &c. : excursion to Schoharie; to High Peak.—To Dr. Ackerly ; home amusements,
262
CHAPTER

XXVII.

Thoughts and Occurrences: winter in the city; commission for the
Voyage of Life ; the season.—To Mr. Adams : Ohio State-house.—To
Mrs. Cole: Canandaigua.—GenneseeWaterfall.—To Mr. Ward: the
Voyage of Life.—Thoughts, &c. : death of Mr. Ward.—To Mr. Durand : a new painting-room.—Thoughts, &c.: religious musings, * 273

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER

XIII

XXVIII.
PAGE.

Thoughts and occurrences : the new year; to his son.—To Mr. Ver
Bryck; first picture of the Voyage of Life.—Thoughts, &c, birthday. To Mr. Adams: Daguerreotype.—To the Rev. Mr. Phillips
of the Voyage of Life.—To Mr. Durand : the Architect's Dream.—
Thoughts, &c.: spirit of the Gothic artists.—Description of the Voyage of Life.—Bryant's remarks on the series.—'Spiritual meaning of
his pictures,
279
CHAPTER

XXIX.

Thoughts and Occurrences : Birth-day.—To Mr. Adams : the season.—
Thoughts, &c: Beauty of summer; Canoe Lake; flowers; a complaint.—Determination to re-visit Europe.—Remarks on the duplicate series of the Voyage of Life painted at Rome.—To Mrs. Cole :
eve of embarkation,
292
CHAPTER XXX.
To Mrs. Cole : thoughts of home.—To the same : Kenilworth Castle;
Warwick Castle ; Stratford.—To the Same : the Louvre.—Journal;
N. Poussin; Correggio; spirituality of the earlier painters.—
Thoughts, &c. ; thoughts on the works of the old masters.—Journal:
Neufchatel; distant Alps; Bernese Alps.—To Miss Maria Cooke : of
Switzerland.—Journal: Vaucluse,
300
CHAPTER XXXI.
To Mrs. Cole : at Rome again.—Thoughts, &c: retrospection.—To Mrs.
Cole: commences the second Series of the Voyage of Life; life at
Rome.—To the same : New Year's Day; Tasso's face; invitation to
a prince's party.—To Ver Bryck : Rome; recollections.—To Mrs.
Cole: gaieties; Prince Torlonia's party; Princess Doria; French
embassador's party ; flowers.—Journal: Catacombs of St. Agnes.—
To Mr. Durand; anticipations of Sicily.—Thoughts, &c.: Thorwaldsen.—To Mrs. Cole : the Vatican by torch-light.—To the same : the
pictures finished; the miserere; anticipations of home, .
.
311
CHAPTER XXXII.
Journal: south of Italy.—Tour of Sicily: Taormina; ascent of iEtna.—
Journal: Milan ; The Last Supper.—Lago Maggiore.—Down the
Rhine: an adventure.—To Sarah Cole : on the eve of embarking for
America,
324
CHAPTER XXXIII.
To Mr. Greene ; the Catskills.—Thoughts, &c.; arrival
beautiful, the true.—Cole a member of the church.—To
picture of Mount iEtna.—Thoughts, &c. ; New Year's
Greene; art, artists.—To Ver Bryck.—To the Same;
Thoughts, &c. : associations,
.
. .

at home; the
Mr. Edmonds;
Day.—To Mr.
art, critics.—
. .
333

CHAPTER XXXIV.
Thoughts and Occurrences : the Falls of the Caterskill in winter; winter ; pictures painted.—The Ministration of Angels.—Thoughts, &c:
Allston.—A sunset,
343

XIV

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER

XXXV.
PAGE

Picture of AEtna from Taormina.—To Mrs. Cole: the Sketch Club.—To
Mr. Parker: L'Allegro and II Penseroso.—Campagna di Roma.—To
Mr. Wadsworth : proposed pictures, Sowing and Reaping; Life, Death,
and Immortality.—To Mrs. Cole: the Mill at Sunset.—To the Same :
Moon over the left Shoulder.—Poem of the Voyage of Life.—Thoughts,
&c. : death of Ver Bryck. —Pictures of 1845-6.—To Mrs. Cole; the
Elijah.—Church, the painter.—Twilight,
353
CHAPTER

XXXVI.

Thoughts and Occurrences: anticipations of a great work ; birth-day ;
the Tread of Time; death in the family; lost time.—Excursion to
the Shawangunk.—Excursion to South Peak.—A new studio.—Its
views.—Excursion to the Adirondack. Mountains.—Thoughts, &c.:
Christmas-day ; birth-day ; death in the family.—Niagara.—To Mr.
Falconer: sculpture and painting.—Thoughts, &c. : New Year'sday; the season.—Cole's last letter: mental and moral habits of
artists.—Thoughts, &c.: Cole's last notes,
.
.
.
.
366
CHAPTER
XXXVII.
Cole's mental maturity.—Cole, a master.—His great works yet in anticipation.—Feelings with respect to those already accomplished.—
The consolation for their moral defects found in his hopes of a future,
and his greatest work.—Pictures preceding it.—Pictures succeeding
it.—Conception of the Cross and the World.—The Prometheus Vinctus, and Proserpine gathering flowers in the fields of Enna,
.
381
CHAPTER

XXXVIII.

The Voyage of Life, an exponent of his religious faith at the time it
was painted.—The Cross and the World, the exponent of a ripened
and true faith.—Its theology.—First picture of the Cross and the
World.—The second picture, the Trial of Faith.—Its unity.—Feeling
with which it was painted.—Its characteristics,
.
.
.
388
CHAPTER

XXXIX.

Manner of life in his last days.—Book on art.—A volume of poems.—
Life out of doors.—His conversation.—Favourite topics.—Ripeness of
his Christian character.—The Triumph of faith, the last of the pilgrim
of the Cross.—Painted in solitude.—Miltonic in its character.—The
Lord is my Shepherd, last pure landscape.—As a work of art.—An
Italian pine in the Proserpine, his last painting.—Death, .
.
397
CONCLUSION,

CHAPTER

I.

Cole's Birth and Parentage.—School-days.—Wood Engraving.—A Companion.—Recreations.—Poetry.—Reading.—Enthusiasm for America.—At
Liverpool.
THOMAS COLE, the only son of James and Mary Cole, and
the youngest but one of eight children, was born at Boltonle-Moor, Lancashire, England, on the 1st of February, 1801.
His father, a woolen manufacturer, was better fitted to enjoy
a fortune than to accumulate one. Possessed of the kindest
heart, a gentle disposition, and of perfect honesty, in connection with much poetic feeling, taste and fancy, he never
thrived as a man of business, and succeeded infinitely better
in attaching his children to him by a lasting affection, than
in providing for their advancement in the path of wealth.
He failed eventually in his manufactory, at Bolton, and
finally removed to Chorley, a town in the same shire.
Now in his ninth year, Thomas was sent to school, at
Chester, where, from harsh discipline, poor fare and sickness, he suffered so severely as to carry the remembrance,
if not the effects of it, through life. While his first lessons
in suffering were at school, it was at Chorley that young
Thomas was more intimately made acquainted with those
trials and privations which attended him for several years.

16

WOOD ENGRAVING.—A COMPANION.—RECREATIONS.

He there entered a print-works as an engraver of simple
designs for calico. Although his father wished to apprentice him either to an attorney or to an iron manufacturer,
for which there occurred good opportunities, yet there was
a secret impulse in his breast, even at that early age, which
turned him from those substantial vocations to make, what
seemed to others, but a foolish choice. In the designs and
colours, with which his daily work was making him familiar,
there was a charm of which he could never dream in the
subtleties of the law, and the ponderous operations of ironmaking.
From the rude character of many of his fellow-operatives,
his moral sense, which, from earliest childhood, was most
delicate and lively, forbade him to form any intimate acquaintances with those of his own age. Almost his only
associate was an old Scotchman, who could repeat ballads,
and talk of the wild hills and blue lakes of his native land.
This of itself well nigh compensated for the loneliness of
his situation, and the many petty annoyances to which,
from his finer organization, he was almost necessarily subjected by the youthful inmates of the works. That he had
so congenial and proper a companion, at a time when otherwise the evil around him could scarcely have failed to give
some taint to his unfolding character, was a cause of gratitude in after years.
But if he was subjected to much loneliness and vexation
during the hours of work, he had his happiness in the intervals of leisure. The park-scenery, the ivy-mantled walls,
and even the sounding rooms of some of the old halls in the
vicinity, afforded a range for his eye and fancy. With his
flute, upon which, even then, he was a tolerable player, it
was his delight to wander off into the shady solitudes, and
mingle music and lonely feelings with dreams of beauty.

POETRY.—READING.—ENTHUSIASM FOR AMERICA.

17

Another favorite pastime was to go with his youngest sister,
Sarah, through the surrounding country, in search of the
picturesque, for which he had already a remarkable love.
When weariness, or the allurement of some pleasant spot,
invited them to stop, they would fill up the time with song
and melody—she singing, and he accompanying with his
flute.
From the manner in which the youthful Cole then rejoiced
to spend his hours of freedom, a careful observer would not
fail to see that he was one of "the many poets sown by
nature." In fact, he had, for some time, enjoyed this reputation in the family circle, and even beyond i t ; for a lady
of some literary taste, having by chance seen several of his
effusions, pronounced them very clever. Thus passed the
days at Chorley, engraving designs for calico, as an employment, and passing most of his leisure in the sweet
indulgence of sentiment and fancy.
It must not- go unnoticed that master Cole was a great
reader, especially of books about foreign countries. None,
however, made so lively an impression upon him as a book
which set forth, in glowing language, the natural beauties
of the North American states. The great lakes, the flowery
plains, the mighty forests, the Alleghanies, the broad rivers,
particularly the Ohio, kindled all his enthusiasm. He
dreamed of them, talked of them, longed to cross the ocean
and behold them. That the eloquence of the boy, on this
subject, should have given a new direction to the mind of
the father, we may well imagine when we consider that his
character was tinged with an element of romance. In fact,
the parent sympathized with the son, and heartily wished
himself over the sea among the wonders of the New World.
This wish became, at length, too strong for suppression;
and he proposed, in order to repair his shattered fortunes,

18

AT LIVERPOOL.

at once to bid a final adieu to England, and embark, with
his remaining effects and family, for America.
A short time previous to this we find Thomas at Liverpool with an engraver. "Whatever may have been his advantages or improvement there, it is certain that he presently
made himself familiar with the choice views within and
around the city, and endeavoured, upon the arrival of the
family, as far as the time up to their embarkation would
allow, to renew with his sister Sarah that rural and poetic
life which was theirs at Chorley.

CHAPTER

II.

The Family removes to America.—Mr. Cole a Tradesman in Philadelphia.—
Thomas, his Employment and Recreations.—The Family removes to Steubenville.—Thomas continues his Wood Engraving in Philadelphia.—
Manners and Character described by Companions.—Sails for the West
Indies.—Incident of the Voyage.—St. Eustatia.—Return to Philadelphia.—Journey to Steubenville.

IT was in the spring of 1819 that Mr. Cole sailed with his
family for America. After a prosperous voyage, he arrived,
on the 3rd of July, at Philadelphia. Here he resolved to
settle, at least for awhile, and make a new trial to gather a
competence. Accordingly he rented a house and shop, and
began, with a small stock of dry-goods which he had brought
over with him, the business of a tradesman. Change of
country, though, had wrought no alteration in the tastes
of Thomas. The new calling of his father was as little to
his mind as almost anything well could be. The best to
which he could turn his hand for any immediate profit was
wood-engraving, at which he very presently found employment, in a small way, with a person who supplied wood-cuts
for printers. A specimen of his work still remains with his
family, in a little block four or five inches square, the design
of which is Grief leaning against a monument beneath a
weeping-willow, and probably intended for a stone-cutter's
advertisement. Instead of executing these simple works in

20

EMPLOYMENT AND RECBEATIONS.

the shop of. his employer, he was permitted to take the
blocks and work them off at home. While this arrangement was less profitable than to have worked, at regular
hours, in the shop, it was nevertheless greatly to his liking.
He was in the sound of his sisters' voices and music : occasionally he could join them with his flute, and help to make
their new home in the New World resound with melody
that awakened touching remembrances of the old. And
when the hours of recreation came, he was ready, with his
sister, to enjoy the woody squares of the city, or the green
pastures and groves along the banks of the Delaware and
the Schuylkill.
In this manner passed the summer and a portion of the
autumn, when his father, becoming dissatisfied with his
prospects in the city, resolved, in accordance with his
earlier wishes, to seek a home in the distant and romantic
regions west of the Alleghanies. As has been already intimated, the banks of the Ohio appeared to the eyes of his
fancy wonderfully fertile and beautiful. They spread themselves out to his mind, in the midst of his ill success at
Chorley, like regions of the fabled Eldorado : and now that
his expectations from trade in Philadelphia were far from
being realized, he felt that nothing should keep him from
immediate efforts to seek a permanent settlement in the
valley which had at first taken so powerful a hold upon his
imagination. With the exception of Thomas, all reached
Pittsburgh, late in the fall, from whence, in a few weeks,
they removed to Steubenville.
For what reasons Thomas remained behind, it is not now
distinctly known. He continued wood-engraving until in
the winter, and lived in an amiable and respectable family
of the society of Friends. " I well recollect," writes a
member of that family, " his working on a pine table in the

MANNERS AND CHARACTER DESCRIBED.

21

back-room of our old Second Street house. He was engaged
upon illustrations of an edition of Bunyan's Holy War, and
used sometimes to complain of the rudeness and indelicacy
of his employer, who called him a wood-cutter, speaking
lightly of his craft, and wounding his sensitive mind. He
had a fine natural ear for music, and played very sweetly
upon the flute. Prom him I learned some of the most beautiful of the old Scotch airs. He frequently mingled with
us children, (who all loved him dearly,) in our plays in the
yard, at marbles, and the like. I well remember what a
privilege I used to think it to be admitted to his room, and
look at the works of his graver."'
In the course of the fall, a law-student came to board in
the family, and was his room-mate. " Young Cole/ 7 says
the person alluded to, " was employed in engraving on wood
for a publisher of school-books. He had his little workbench put up in our room, under the window-sill, that he
might have the benefit of the light. We sat with our backs
to each other: while he plied the graver, I studied Blackstone. At intervals he whistled, and sung, then laid aside
the tool with which he was working, took up his flute, his
constant companion, and played some sweet air. He was
an admirable performer, and many a time brought tears
into my eyes. At the time referred to, I was in feeble
health, and seldom went out: I was therefore much in his
company, and had a good opportunity of studying his character. I had not been long with him before I perceived
that his was a mind far above the common order, and his
morals pure and spotless. An improper word never seemed
to escape his lips. Artless and unsophisticated, he was
without the least hypocrisy. The more I knew him, the
better I loved him."
On the 4th of January following, Cole, with his room-

22

SAILS FOR THE WEST INDIES.

mate, whose health required a trip to the South, sailed for
St. Eustatia. The only incident of note upon the passage,
an unusually long and rough one, was a visit from a piratical
ship. Their own little brig, now within the tropics, was
coursing pleasantly along one beautiful moonlight night.
The companions were on deck, enjoying the splendour peculiar to those seas and skies, when a dark vessel bore down
upon them, and gave them a shot through their main-sail.
A short time was sufficient to bring the pirate along side.
As the Philadelphians were found not to be the particular
object of search, a small pillage of liquors and provisions,
and some fright, were about all the mischief to which they
were subjected. The wild desperadoes bounding on board
•^•the gleaming of their sabres in the moonlight—the drollery of leave-taking, by a shake of hands all around, was a
scene that Cole could afterwards render both merry and
picturesque.
St. Eustatia was a wonder of beauty and sublimity to the
youthful Cole. He had enjoyed his first American autumn
in the rural outskirts and squares of Philadelphia; but here,
in this mountain island of the tropics, he caught his first
view of nature in her grander forms. Out of the bright
ocean sprung the rifted rocks into the blue heaven: cliffs
bathed their feet in the surf, and their brows in the clouds
of the Atlantic: fields of flowery luxuriance, groves of dark
and glistening green made the spaces between the sea-shore
and the distant slopes look to his enamored eyes like Paradise : a glory sat on the rugged peaks after the sun went
down into the shining waves. All this was a new world
indeed to the young voyager, and moved his heart with
mingled, love and astonishment.
Among the numerous excursions he made through the
island, one to the summit, and into the crater-like hollow

ST. EUSTATIA.—RETURN TO PHILADELPHIA.

23

of the mountain, manifested the spirit for which he was
afterwards remarkable as a pedestrian. He started at daybreak, on foot and alone, and returned only with the evening, "more altered," says his friend, "in appearance than
almost any person I ever saw, in the same space of time.
He appeared to have lost pounds of flesh, so great had been
his fatigue, and so copious the perspiration."
At his intervals of leisure, he busied himself in making
for a gentleman a copy of a view of St. Eustatia; and also
drew some heads in crayon. These were among his earliest
artistic efforts.
In the May ensuing, he returned to Philadelphia, and. left,
at the close of summer, to join his father at Steubenville.
The lengthy journey was performed, with a single companion, almost entirely on foot, with the greatest delight and
alacrity. They rose at the peep of day, and went along
merrily, singing songs, and playing upon the flute. At
noon, they usually took their rest and refreshment by some
shady brook or spring; and at dusk, stopped at the inn or
farm-house which seemed most likely to be favourable to
their slender purses. Humour and frolic, under the circumstances in keeping with the freshness of youth, now and
then broke the sameness of their hours, and sped them
forward. Among several instances that might be given,
more remarkable for oddity than innocence, perhaps, one was
to burst in, with their faces, now and then, a pane of the
oiled-paper windows of the small houses close on the roadside, and wish the startled inmates, while yet in their beds,
a loud and cheerful good morning. Thus with light foot
and joyous bosom, gathering into his heart almost unconsciously some new beauty every day, the future artist made
the journey to his new home on the banks of the Ohio.

CHAPTER

III.

Life in Steubenville.—-Influence of Nature upon him.—Develops his Powers.
—Finds him his Vocation, and his proper Language.—Influence of a Portrait Painter.—Resolves to become an Artist.—Enters upon his Profession.—First efforts.—His timidity.—Becomes a Portrait-Painter from
necessity.

THE two years which followed Cole's arrival at Steubenville, during which he remained mostly at home in the service of his father, though marked by little that could strike
ordinary observers, were perhaps two of his most important
years. It was then that he formed the great determination
of his life. Naturally timid and retiring, he had ^ver sought
with eagerness to be much alone: now he was thrown by
circumstances into comparative solitude. What was once
the object of search, now could hardly have been avoided,
had he been disposed to escape it. The scenes of childhood, the show and noise of cities, the tame loveliness of
long-pastured fields, the sounds and motions of the mighty
sea, were all behind. The great wall of the Alleghanies
lifted itself darkly between him and them: the waters
rolled away majestically to the west: the current of his
thoughts and feelings set in a new direction, and flowed
through vistas of a new world indeed. All, parents and
sisters, were with him, and quietly settled in that region
so fascinating to their imaginations while in old England:

LIFE IN STEUBENVILLE.

25

but all were lonely as they had never been before, and he
the loneliest of all. It was the still and solitary pause on
that romantic ground where youth first gazes feelingly forward into manhood. His breath was the odorous air of
solitude: the voices to which he listened were voices ol
solitude: the objects of his contemplation rose up before
him clothed with the apparel of the wilderness. The native
loneliness of his soul and the loneliness of nature embraced
and kissed each other. Then he fell back upon himself, as
he had never fallen back upon himself before, and began
sounding into the deeps, and winding through the mazes of
his own affections and imagination. Longings of a shadowy
nature began to rise within his heart, and move him with
strange power. At times he strove to grasp them, and lead
them captive in the bonds of poesy; at times they grasped,
and mastered him. He could feel them, but with no power
adequate to their utterance. Then there were melancholy
hours, and long wanderings in the woods, and by the streams
flowing merrily, and the great river moving solemnly, when
he thought himself into moments of stillness, full of joys and
sorrows, not without tears. There were pleasures and duties
at home—in his father's little manufactory of paper-hangings—combining colours, drawing and designing patterns,
and engraving, as usual, upon wood: there were pleasures
though abroad in nature, of a kind that showed the strength
of her claims upon his deepest sympathies. She carried
him, a creature of feeling, far into his own spirit and called
him to gaze upon her, a creature of beauty. He obeyed the
call with the quick and silent readiness of a lover, and saw,
as he had never yet seen, how full her face was of divine
loveliness, and confessed in sentiment that a passion for
nature was his ruling passion. Of this brief period of his
life he would sometimes speak, long afterwards, in a strain

26

FINDS HIM HIS VOCATION

that could not fail to remind one of these lines of Wordsworth :
*

*

*

*

For nature then

*

*

*

*

To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and" their forms, were then to me
An appetite : a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.

In unfolding the Story of Cole, it is much less important
to inquire what he did, at the time I am now speaking of
him, than what was doing within him. The tones and expressions of the outer world found answering tones and
expressions in his soul. He was beginning to behold in
that something of himself, an<J to see in himself something
of that. Somewhat of the truth and secret life, both of his
own being and the visible creation, were opening up to him,
revealing harmonies and relations, and asserting the fact—
for others afterwards, rather than for himself then—that he
was a poet, and a very great poet, whose mission upon
earth, like that of every fine creative genius, was to make
men see and feel, with respect to nature and the human
heart, as he saw and felt himself.
What, up to this' time, he had been feeling after, amid
faint hints and doubtful whisperings, was now, in his lonely
communion with the visible without and the spiritual within
him, revealed, namely, his vocation. Silent wanderings with
nature found him his true vocation. Those still walks,
though, did not rest here: they found him also the appropriate language by which he should most effectively speak

AND HIS PROPER LANGUAGE.

2T

his thoughts and feelings, and best accomplish his mission
among men. That language was the form and countenance,
the colours, qualities and circumstances of visible nature.
To some extent music was to him a language. He had a
native fondness and ability to express by music many of the
finest sentiments. Architecture was also to him a very expressive language. Vastly greater than these, and equally
natural, were the power and love to express himself in
verse. Higher than all was the natural gift to speak his
soul through the medium of that visible, sensuous language
which nature supplied in her light and darkness, her masses
and spaces, her lines, her textures, and her hues. These
were the true language of his love and genius. His choice
of it, however developed by circumstance or accident, was
spontaneous and inevitable. Hence the poet was to speak
by the pencil, rather than the pen, and delight and teach
through the means of pictures, instead of verse, or any of
the several instrumentalities by which genius gives to man
its creations.
An incident that had something to do in hastening a
determination to which Cole could not have failed very
soon to come, was the arrival in his village of a portraitpainter by the name of Stein. His conversation, the expression of his faces, the witchery of the colours on his
palette, above all, a book that he lent him, an English
work on painting, illustrated with engravings, and treating
of design, composition and colour, wrought like magic on
his mind. The book was studied thoroughly, and with the
greatest enthusiasm. A curtain suddenly rose, and exhibited to him a vision of renown. His heart was on fire.
"While the long train of old masters, Eaphael, Titian,
Claude, Salvator, passed before him like so many celestials, the names of modern artists sounded like titled he-

28

ENTERS UPON HIS PROFESSION.

roes. His ambition and resolve to become a painter were
complete.
He had already acquired some knowledge and facility
in drawing. He had sketched in childhood the picture on
the face of the family clock, and afterwards the figures and
landscapes on English china-ware. Then he rose to copying engravings, sketching heads and natural objects occasionally, and finally to making some few simple designs of
his own. What was now wanting in order to step at once
into the path of his chosen art, were the requisite materials.
With these he presently supplied himself, very rudely, by
making, in part, his own brushes, and getting his colours
from a chair-maker, by whom he was employed, for a short
time, as a kind of ornamental painter. His easel, palette,
and canvass corresponded. His first efforts were chiefly
landscapes, dictated by recollection or fancy. Crude as
they were, one of them had the good fortune to please a
gentleman of the town, an amateur artist, who invited him
to look at a portrait, a copy of his own from Stuart, (whose
student he had been for a short time,) and gave him, with
some good advice, a few pencils and colours, and the loan
of a palette. This, however, he broke, unfortunately. But
from a constitutional timidity, which made him shrink, even
in the presence of persons in no way distinguished, he could
never gather sufficient courage to make the least explanation or apology, although keenly alive to the impropriety
of the neglect, and frequently meeting the gentleman in the
street. This incident serves graphically to illustrate that
peculiar trait of his character which led him, before he
could overcome it, to commit many foolish mistakes.
Cole's second efforts were portraits. These, though,
were more a work of necessity than of love. A glance at
society, and the circumstances under which it was placed,

A PORTRAIT PAINTER FROM NECESSITY.

29

at that period, in Ohio, will show how this necessity arose.
Prom certain causes, not important to mention, a commercial crisis had taken place. The banks had suspended:
men of business were hopelessly involved in debt. Produce,
and not money, was the medium of exchange. So great was
the scarcity of money that the transactions of a whole community were frequently carried on, for weeks almost, without the sight of a dollar. Recently a frontier, and without
proper roads, the country was new and isolated. Men were
utilitarians from necessity. Things were valued in proportion to their capability to supply the common wants of life.
Thought for the fine arts, in such a state of affairs, could
not reasonably be entertained. In fact, it was as far from
the mind as from the ability of society. Under such adverse circumstances, in such a community, young Cole
began his career in a profession which was regarded by
the mass of individuals as idle and worthless, and commanded, not even from the few, much encouragement or
sympathy.
But even in such a condition of things as this, there were
some who would gladly possess a likeness of a friend or
relative, and others, one of themselves. Portraits, then,
would occasionally sell at a trifling cost, while pictures,
such as Cole wished to paint, would moulder on his hands.
Struggling, in common, with all around him for a living,
the youthful artist was therefore compelled to turn his
energies in that direction where alone he could have any
hope of emolument. Landscape was resigned with regret,
and portrait-painting, a department of art for which he had
neither taste nor ambition, taken up with reluctance.

CHAPTER

IV.

Cole an itinerant Portrait-Painter.—His first day out.—Night at Mount
Pleasant.—Arrival at St. Clairsville.—Life at St. Clairsville.—Adieu to
St. Clairsville.—Walk to Zanesville.—Life at Zanesville.—Finds a Friend.
—Falls into Difficulties.—On his way to Chilicothe.—Entrance into Town.
—Letters of Introduction.—Discouragements.—Brighter prospects.—A
total Failure.—Returns to Zanesville.—Paints a Picture.—Adieu to his
Friend.—Returns home.

BY way of pluming his wings for a passage of fortune
through several of the more flourishing villages of the state,
he first tried his pencil at home. His father, then a friend
of the family, and, lastly, a little girl, sat successively for
their pictures. As they were pronounced to be " like," the
preparation *was deemed sufficient, and he took his departure.
This was in the February of 1822, wThen Cole had just
completed his twenty-first year. With a green baize bag
slung over his shoulder, containing a scanty stock of wearing apparel, his flute, colours, brushes, and a heavy stonemuller, he left his father's house, on foot, in the clear, keen
morning. With hopes as brilliant as the frost-crystals on
the boughs around him, and with a purse nearly as light, he
quickly took, from the hill-tops, a last look at the early
smokes of Steubenville. St. Clairsville, the place at which
he proposed to make, in good earnest, his entrance into the

COLE AN ITINERANT PORTRAIT PAINTER.

31

world as a painter, was distant some thirty miles. For one
like himself, with a foot trained for travel, and thoughts
more inspiriting than the talk of a merry companion, this
distance, on the hard road and in the bracing air, was only
a walk of pleasure. All went gaily till the warm mid-day
made the footing heavy and slippery. To complete the ills
which so soon began to worry him, he broke through in
crossing a frozen stream. Fortunately, the w^ater was only
breast-deep in the deepest, and the cold current not of sufficient force to sweep him under: by breaking the ice with
one hand, and holding his treasures on his head with the
other, he succeeded in reaching the opposite bank in safety.
At the end of two miles, up hill, all of which he ran, was
the little village of Mount Pleasant, where he stopped for
the night. Through the kindness of the inn-keeper, who
supplied him with dry clothes and the comfort of a blazing
fire, the toils and perils of the day warmed into pleasant
recollections ; and like a hero who had conquered one
powerful enemy, he felt himself quite equal to all that were
before him.
Poor youth, he little dreamed of the trouble he was to
encounter next morning. Upon his arrival at St. Clairsville, he learnt from the tavern-keeper, with whom he took
up his lodging, that a German had already reaped the
harvest which, but the day before, he had so fondly hoped
to gather himself. Although his scanty funds were now
nearly exhausted, he was too proud to resign the field without an effort, and return. A look at the portraits revived
him ; and he determined to compete with this German
master, at the earliest opportunity. This, to his great delight, was presently afforded by a saddler. For five whole
days, well nigh from morning till night, the kind-hearted
craftsman sat to his painter, and saw himself slowly coming

32

LIFE AT ST. CLATRSVILLE.

out upon the canvass, in a manner that gave him, finally, no
little satisfaction, and called forth the encomiums of an old
man who had once been in Philadelphia. In his own emphatic language, " the handling was excellent." To this
cheering compliment was added, on the part of his employer, the more substantial reward of a new saddle. And
while no one, in the course of the three succeeding months,
was so liberal as to bring him a horse, which, in the bloom
of his good luck, he had faintly hoped, yet there came an
ugly-looking militia officer, and a dapper tradesman, whose
united pay for their portraits was- an old silver watch, and
a chain and key that turned out to be copper. Whether it
was owing to the natural generosity of the captain that his
compensation was more liberal than that of the shop-keeper,
or to the fact that there was a martial hint given to his
rugged countenance by a red battle-piece in the background of his picture, is uncertain. But if the purse of the
artist was growing no heavier, while his paints and his
patience were getting on towards their end, he was evidently increasing in reputation. Not that there were growing symptoms of a throng of persons* sitting in their turn in
his little low chamber for their likenesses, but that he was
called in, on account of superior skill, to retouch, in a single
instance, the works of his rival. For this he received a
pair of shoes and a dollar, to take the place, for a long time
to come, of the one with which he set out in the world.
St. Clairsville, it was evident, was not the field for a
portrait-painter. His flute would do as well for him there
as his pencil, and perhaps better. It introduced him among
the elite of the village, and drew forth a suppressed, but
sincere applause, when it melted off the rough edges of discord in the singing-school, at which he was invited to attend
as an honorary member.

WALK TO ZANESVILLE.

33

•With the life and beauty of spring came the impulse to
seek a more generous clime. A gentleman from Zanesville,
a small town at a hundred miles distance, happening, at this
crisis, to make Cole's acquaintance, encouraged him to try
his fortune there. Accordingly, after settling with his
landlord at the expense of all his emoluments, (the dollar
excepted,) and a bar-room scene in addition, he re-commenced his journey, as before, on foot, and with his wallet
over his shoulder. What between the blooming month, the
shades of the past, and the lights of the future, keeping his
heart and fancy like fountains playing alternately in the
sun and shadows of an April afternoon, his walk of three
days was one of pleasure on the whole, although his melodies
were sweeter than his fare.
His first impressions of Zanesville, like those of St. Clairsville, were other than what he had expected. To his great
annoyance, he found, at the tavern wnere he put up, that he
had been following in the footsteps of the German. The
tavern-keeper and his family were all newly painted. What
he would have finally resolved on is uncertain, had not his
host encouraged him to make himself quiet by intimating
that an historical picture would be received in payment for
his board and lodging. For the present, then, our painter
felt himself at home, and in a fair way to thrive. A room
was arranged for painting, and the gentleman who had encouraged the visit sat for his portrait. The beginning,
though, was better than the end. After a few patrons
more, dropping in at painfully long intervals, his pencil,
in its professional capacity, was laid to rest. Before the
arrival of this disheartening period, however, Cole had
found some agreeable companions, and among them a
friend, who proved to him not only a source of pleasure,
but, in the sequel, of substantial benefit.

34

ON HIS WAY TO CHILICOTHE.

Though a student of law, his friend was an amateur
artist, and possessed congenial tastes and habits. They
walked, conversed upon art, and painted together. In one
instance they painted a large landscape jointly from nature,
Cole yielding to his friend as his superior in drawing the
figures.
The low condition of his purse would not permit a long
continuance of this pleasant companionship, and he looked
forward to a speedy departure, upon the completion of the
historical picture for the landlord. To his amazement and
distress, he foupd that his deceitful host had no intention
of receiving anything in payment less precious than the
ready money. In vain did the poor young painter reason,
and expostulate: he must promptly pay the charges, or go
to jail. As the first was utterly impossible, an arrest would
have inevitably consigned him to the other but for the generous interference of his friend, who, though poor as himself
nearly, became, with two or three other young men, bound
for the debt—the small sum of thirty-five dollars.
On a sultry afternoon, near the close of August, Cole
found himself on the bank of the Sciota, in sight of Chilicothe. It was his third day from Zanesville, a walk of
seventy-five miles. As may well be imagimed, both his
strength and spirits were much spent. But in the timid
young man of slender frame there was a power of endurance that would have carried him forward as long as there
was a prospect upon which to hang the least hope. Of this
invincible temper a simple and touching incident, in the
course of that day, is an illustration. " Here goes poor
Tom," said he, " with only a sixpence in his pocket.'7 The
sound of his own voice actually staggered him, and brought
the tears to his eyes. He sat down upon a fallen tree by
the. roadside, took out his flute, chased away the evil spirit

ENTRANCE INTO TOWN.—DISCOURAGEMENTS.

35

of melancholy with a lively air, and then went forward
through the heat and dust of mid-day, as if his sixpence
had multiplied to pounds. After a quiet hour in a little
wood on the river-bank, a refreshing bath, and some slight
change of raiment, he made his entrance into town with an
anxious heart, and silent invocations to his good angel to
give him better fortune.
In his pocket were two letters of introduction, from his
Zanesville friend, to persons of some consideration, which
he proceeded at once to deliver, whispering to himself, as
he reached the door of the first, to hold up his head, and
look like Michael Angelo.
While the reception he met with from the persons spoken
of was kind, the encouragement they gave him was little
calculated to elate. To one less enthusiastic and hopeful
than himself, the prospect, under the circumstances, would
have been utterly cheerless. Indeed, it was almost too
much for patience and energy like his own. The many
weary miles that he had journeyed, his perpetual disappointments, the heartless treatment from the inn-keepers,
his want and penury—in a word, all that had worn upon,
and smitten his sensitive and generous nature, and now the
likelihood of failure where he had felt there was ground of
some tolerable success, brought on, for a moment, that sickness of the heart which is the harbinger of despair. It
was, however, but momentary. He seized a bit of paper,
and hastily inscribed upon it, with a pencil, these words—
" ALL IS NOT OVER—HOPE FOR GOOD LUCK YET."

For a brief season, that " good luck" seemed to be actually approaching. The hotel-keeper, by whom he was favourably received through the introduction of his new friends,
engaged him at once in his own family. He made some
agreeable acquaintances^ and was invited occasionally to

36

RETURNS TO ZANESVILLE.

an evening party. In a letter to his friend in Zanesville he
portrayed, in warm colours, the prospect before him. But
this was of short duration. Affairs soon relapsed into their
former condition. A few sat for their portraits ; a few took
lessons in drawing; he sold a picture or two, one of Washington, copied from a print: these were the fruitsof those
glowing anticipations during his first few days at Chilicothe. So great was the strait to which he was at last
reduced, that he had not only no money to pay for the
washing of his linen, but no linen to be washed. But for
the kindness of a young physican of the place, his friend
and frequent companion, he would have left without a solitary shirt.
Intelligence from home, of a proposed removal of the
family to Pittsburgh, now put an end to all thoughts of
further travel, and he returned speedily on his way as far
as Zanesville. Here he remained a few days in the vain
attempt to find employment. In the meantime, he busied
himself painting a picture for his friend. The subject was
a feudal scene,—moonlight—beacon-fires blazing on the
distant hills—in the fore-ground men in armour. The picture still exists. Its manipulation is pronounced by a judge
to be as free and bold as many of his later works, with indications throughout of great invention and fine imagination.
On the morning of his adieu, he held with his friend an
earnest conversation, in which he laid open to him something of his future intentions. He proposed to himself a
grander and more genial field of operation. He was going
to Philadelphia. With all the eloquence of which he was
master, he then endeavored to persuade his friend to bear
him company, to abandon his studies, and become a painter,
describing the glories of art in enthusiastic language, referring to the renown of the great masters of Italy, and

ADIEU TO HIS FRIEND.—RETURNS HOME.

37

contrasting the pleasure of their lives with the labour and
drudgery of the law, " its statutes and recognizances."
Considering the truly touching contrast to this fine picture
which was, at that very moment, presented in himself, there
is little cause for wonder that his eloquence was lost. His
friend continued quietly at his studies, and he, in his usual
wayf on foot and alone, with his green wallet over his
shoulder, journeyed home—one day, it is said, at the rate
of sixty miles—to Steubenville. Thus ended Cole's first
and last pilgrimage for fortune, if not for fame, as a
portrait-painter.

CHAPTER

V.

Cole remains at Steubenville.—Scene-painting.—Further Disappointment—
Conclusion of his Life in Steubenville.—Letter to William A. Adams.—
Life in Pittsburgh.—Studies nature.—Method of Study.—Industry in
Drawing from Nature.—Acts upon his earlier Resolution to pursue Art
in a wider Field.—Leaves for Philadelphia.—His Journey.
UPON* his arrival, he found the family only waiting his
return in order to their removal to Pittsburgh. The chance
of immediate employment for himself, however, decided that
he should remain, for the present, in Steubenville. He took
lodgings accordingly, after their departure, and held himself ready for all commands in his profession.
The first object to which he proposed to devote the proceeds of his pencil, after paying his current expenses, was
the discharge of the debt due to his friends in Zanesville.
Of this they were duly apprized by letter, in a way which
intimated his sanguine expectations, and also that simplicity
and trust which often made him rely with singular confidence on the slightest promises.
What had chiefly induced him to remain behind at Steubenville, and which now so raised his hopes, was some scenepainting for an association of amateur actors, called the
Thespian Society. The scenes were satisfactorily painted,
but proved, in the sequel, far more illusory to him than to

SCENE PAINTING.—LETTER TO ADAMS.

39

the play-going villagers, whose eyes their showy colours
deceived and amused for a merry hour. The Thespians
paid him, to be sure, but not with that liberality which left
him much for the debt in Zanesville. There was a chance,
though, he hoped, for that yet. He had on hand a landscape, and forthwith commenced two pictures more, one
suggested by Ruth gleaning in the field of Boaz, and the
other by the feast of Belshazzar: these he proposed to send
in lieu of the money. A letter, partially anticipated in the
foregoing, will tell the story of his further ill luck, and
furnish the conclusion to his life in Steubenville.
TO WILLIAM A. ADAMS, ESQ.
STEUBENVILLE, February 8th, 1823.

DEAR SIR,—Those only who have been placed in circumstances similar to my own, can feel the sorrow and pain
that arise from not being able to perform a promise, so
generously confided in as mine has been by you, and my
other friends, at Zanesville: but I hope you will not consider me as altogether unworthy of your confidence and
regard, when you have learnt the reasons why that promise
has not been punctually performed. I trust, when you have
read this letter, you will forgive me my seeming negligence.
I think I said, in my last letter, that there was some probability of my having a job from the Thespian Society. I
have done it. But the pay of a Thespian Society is very
poor; and when I had finished it, I found that the money I
received was hardly sufficient to defray my expenses of
board, &c. I then saw that there was no probability of
sending you cash. I therefore painted two pictures, which,
with another that I had, I intended sending to you by the
first opportunity. But here again I was disappointed. As
my parents have moved away from this town, I took a room

40

FURTHER DISCOURAGEMENTS.

to paint in, in which I put all my pictures : one Sunday my
room was broken open by boys, who cut and tore my paintings so as to render them not of the least value: they also
mixed all my paints, and destroyed my brushes. The boys
I found out: but they were young, and their parents poor:
I could get no redress except a promise of ten dollars from
the father of the younger boy. The other boy has no
father, and his mother is a poor old woman. I got advice
from a lawyer, but found that nothing could be done except
to send the older boy to the penitentiary, and that I disliked
to do. My loss I estimated at about forty dollars, at the
lowest, besides the time I have lost, as I have no brushes
to paint with. I had, at that time, two portraits to paint:
I had laid the grounds for both; but the delay has lost me
the job.
My parents are at Pittsburgh, where I intend to go
shortly; They did intend going over the mountains, but
found they could not, from inability, in a pecuniary way.
They intend residing at Pittsburgh; and I hope they will
succeed better than they have done here. But we have
been so often disappointed that we dare not flatter ourselves. The gay and bright prospects I once pictured to
myself are all faded except some faint lingering lights of
hope.
But I am sure you are sick of this stuff, for I am ashamed
of it. It is a fact, that I scarcely ever knew what are
called the " blues " before I came to Zanesville; but -they
have been pretty regular companions ever since. You
would confer a favour on me if you would write. If you do
not, I shall feel that you will not notice me because you
consider me an ungrateful fellow. I hope it may not be so.
I have still some hopes of sending you either the money or
the pictures before the time—I have lost the date when you

LIFE IN PITTSBURGH.—STUDIES NATURE.

41

were bound for me. I should be glad to know it. I must
conclude by hoping that you enjoy health and prosperity,
and that you will never labour under the same pecuniary
difficulties as your sincere friend,
THOMAS COLE.
The ensuing spring found Cole with his parents in Pittsburgh. While affection and a sense of filial duty, for which
few were more remarkable, called him to assist in his father's
employment—the manufacturing of floor-cloths—still, art
was the subject in which his earnestness was enlisted.
It was now that a great thought came to Cole, and told
him he had gone to work wrong. Hitherto he had been
trying mainly to make up nature from his own mind, instead
of making up his mind from nature. This now flashed upon
him as a radical mistake. He must not only muse abroad
in nature, and catch her spirit, but gain for his eye and hand
a mastery over all that was visible in her outward, material
form, if he would have his pictures breathe of her spirit.
This thought set him at work right: it changed his whole
mind and method at once, and turned him from his easel
and the dreams of fancy to seek first, as a humble learner,
the rudiments of his art out in the fields and under the
open sky.
Once in possession of the golden thought, revealing where
he should go, it was not long before there came another
equally precious, revealing how he should do. And this was,
that he must go to the centre, and work outwards: that he
must hot first skim the surface, and touch the outline, reversing the -order of the vital processes of nature, but must
begin, as nature herself begins, at the heart, and move outward and upward to the extremes, s.eeking the principle
under the fact,—coming up with the living spirit through
the earth, the stone, the water, and the wood,—rising from

42

ACTS UPON HIS EARLIER RESOLUTION TO PURSUE ART.

elements to masses, from minutest details and particulars
to general forms, thus reaching the surface and the outline
last.
According to this thought he worked : it was henceforth
his law of proceedure, and the path to a great mastery over
nature, both in her sublime unity, and in her infinite and
beautiful variety. At its first and last light, many a spring,
summer, and autumnal day found him on the wild banks of
the Monongahela, carefully drawing, from the crinkled root
that lost itself in the mould to " the one red leaf . . . . on
the topmost twig that looks up at the sky"—to the mountain-line on the skirts of the sky—tofi the clouds far up in
the sky, and the blue sky far away from the clouds.
With the return of autumn, ripened the resolution, expressed the year before in that parting conversation with
his friend in Zanesville, to seek a more favourable field of
action. In this he was discouraged by his father, who
urged some substantial calling. His mother, though, who
had taken the truer measure of her son's genius, entered, as
she did at the outset, warmly into all his wishes, and incited
him forward in the path of his choice. Prom her sympathy
and encouragement did he gather heart to face the disapproval of,his father, and strengthen himself in his determination.
A mere trifle, often, lights up a person's circumstances and
character, and instantly decides a question that affects his
whole life. A singular illustration of this is the following
incident. Cole was taking a solitary walk, unusually agitated by a recent conversation with his father: " Well,"
said he to himself aloud, at the same moment picking up a
couple of good-sized pebbles, " I will put one of these upon
the top of a stick; if I can throw, and knock it off with the
other, I will be a painter; if I miss it, I will give up the

LEAVES FOR PHILADELPHIA.

43

thought forever.77 Stepping back some ten or twelve paces,
he threw, and knocked it off. He turned, and went home
immediately, and made known his unalterable resolution.
That autumn,. Cole took a final adieu of the west, and
came to Philadelphia. It was in the month of November,
1823. In addition to a small trunk, and a purse of six
dollars, he had, in lieu of an overcoat, a cloth cover which
his kind mother drew from the table, and threw about his
shoulders with her blessing and her parting tears. Unlike
that bright inspiriting morning upon which he left home for
St. Clairsville, the early hour of his departure from Pittsburgh was dulled with the leaden gloom which usually broods
over the threshold of winter. To one whose spirit took an
impress from the aspect of nature as easily as the new-fallen
snow then took the print of his feet, there was something in
the sad feelings with which he set out upon his journey prophetic of the suffering that awaited him at its end. He felt,
as he went along, widening the distance between himself
and home, that the melancholy around and within him was
the foreshadowing of trials such as he had never yet experienced. But away beyond them was there a prospect, and
deep within his heart were there energies and hopes, which
girded him for the onset, and made him impatient to " run
upon the thick bosses of their bucklers.77
The long journey was accomplished: and*a miserable
journey it was—very different from that, a few springs
before, along nearly the same road, with a pleasant companion. Now both the season and his fellow-traveller (a
low waggoner who carried his trunk) were against him.
At the inns it was usually drinking, brawl and profanity,
and sometimes insult from the coarse creatures, with whom
he was occasionally compelled to pass the evening at the
bar-room fire: on the road, as his clothing wa^ not well

44

HIS J0UENEY.

adapted to the mists and chills of late and early hours, he
suffered much from cold. Not unfrequently, after sunset,
he went back long distances on the dismal, muddy road in
search of the slow-paced, tippling waggoner, to be assailed
by his ribaldry for having walked on as one who felt himself too fine for a teamster's company.

CHAPTER

VI.

Life in Philadelphia.—Privations and Sufferings.—Energy and Industry.—
Pictures.—A Portrait.—Cole at Law.—Character of his Pictures.—An
early Landscape.—Cole an Author.—His Poetry.—Prose-writings.—Emma
Moreton.

THE hardships related in the last chapter were in a
measure soon forgotten in a crowd of others more bitter.
" That was indeed/ 7 he afterwards said, " the winter of my
discontent." A youthful stranger in a humble quarter of a
great city, in a little upper room, without bed, fire or furniture, saving a few articles needful for a painter, alive with
sensibility, friendless and nearly penniless, with a baker's
roll and a pitcher of water for refreshment by day, and the
table-cloth for a cover at night, is no exaggerated picture
of Cole at the edge of that wider field of action to which he
had come with so much enthusiasm. That he did not lose
it, and retreat, is more surprising than that he lost his health.
For weeks, the inmate of a poor family, whom he had no
pecuniary means of compensating for their affectionate kindness, he was, from the cold, and the meagre fare to which he
had been subjected, the victim of inflammatory rheumatism.
Although his ardour was damped, it was not extinguished.
He returned to his work and his privations as soon as he
was able to bear them. An unobserved spectator might
have seen him laying down his palette and brushes, from

46

PRIVATIONS AND SUFFERINGS.

time to time, and with benumbed hands and shivering limbs
almost embracing the shattered stove which his ingenuity
had at last provided.* On some particularly cold days he
interspersed these cheerless warmings with the brisk exercise of whipping his hands about him as he ran up and down
a neighbouring alley. Who could think, as he looked out of
his chamber window, in the sharp morning, upon the countless columns of warm smoke, and caught the sound of ChristChurch bells, that there would have been a cheerful light in
his eyes, and hopeful anticipations in his bosom? There
were both. Though the passing days could not but tapestry
his inhospitable room with gloomy imagery, a strong faith,
that blessed attendant on real genius, ever looked forward
to times of prosperity. The trials were severe indeed, but
conquerable : and the many already surmounted were always
wrought into an argument that there were but few more
remaining. And when the moistening eye and stifling sensation at the heart intimated a momentary giving up, his
flute, the ever-ready harp for his sadness, soothed his disturbed spirit, rekindled his enthusiasm, and gave new life
and force to his resolutions. Nor, as Coleridge says of
Hamlet, was the power of action lost in the energy of resolve. He was unremittingly industrious. He painted
numbers of pictures, sketched from nature, and drew in the
Academy.
What is remarkable, considering the sad circumstances
under which he laboured, his subjects were mostly of a comic
character. " The most laughable scenes/7 he was once heard
to say,—" indeed, about the only ones of the kind I ever
painted, were those executed in my most forlorn situation."
* It was what was called a ten-plate stove, smoky at the seams, and
without doors to the oven. Through this oven, the openings of which were
opposite, he often used to thrust his limbs up to the body.

PICTUBES.

47

This, though, was rather the dictate of necessity, than of any
natural taste. Scenes of frolic and drinking would sell in
the bar-room, the barber's shop and the oyster-house, when
simple representations of nature could not find a purchaser.
The small avails of these trifling works were not the only
benefit he gained from them: they invited attention, and
procured him some little reputation. He received a commission from a gentleman to paint a couple of landscapes
for his parlour. Upon these he tried an experiment of
baking, which, at the time, he thought quite successful: it
gave them, he fancied, finer tone and mellowness, and the
air of old pictures. As he was going to deliver them, he
was met and accosted by an artist, who wished to know
what he had got there. With much reluctance he permitted
the stranger to look at his pictures, who at once inquired
where he obtained them. " I painted them myself/7 said
Cole, with much diffidence. " Indeed," said the stranger ;
" and what do you ask for them ?" " Eleven dollars, sir."
" Eleven dollars ! is that all ?—young man, you are doing
wrong; you are lowering the a r t ; it is by no means their
value." This was no disagreeable rebuke: it stole into his
breast with a pleasure that made the delivery of the landscapes a more agreeable undertaking than he had anticipated.
Prolific as was his pencil in small landscapes and comic
scenes, Cole was still too close upon beggary to refuse the
offer of regular employment. The nature of his work was
to ornament with figures, views, birds and flowers, various
articles, such as bellows, brushes, and Japan-ware. The
last work upon which he engaged for his employer was one
more to his mind: a picture from an engraving of Louis
XVI. parting with his family. Had his pay corresponded
with the dimensions of his canvass, he would have hailed it

48

A PORTRAIT.—COLE AT LAW.

as the advent of good fortune indeed. " I recollect, perfectly well," says a friend, " meeting him one morning, in
Third Street, in a very cheerful mood. He said that he was
painting a piece from French history, and invited me to
come and see him. His room was in New Street, below
Third, and the picture filled up nearly one end of it."
Among the several engagements into which Cole entered,
at this period, the least grateful to his taste was one to take
the portrait of a dead man. Necessity was a terrible master,
and drove him to the task, repulsive as it was to his finer
feelings. Easel, paints and palette, in short, nearly the
entire apparatus of his poor studio, were duly transferred
to the room of his ghastly subject, and he began. As the
desire was intense, on the part of the friends of the deceased,
that the picture should be both good and true, he bestowed
uncommon pains in the drawing, and wrought with all the
rapidity and excellence possible. Unfortunately, the corpse
was obliged to be taken to burial sooner than was expected,
and he had to finish the portrait from recollection. During
this part of the process he was continually annoyed by the
relatives, male and female, each making some suggestion
vitally important to a beautiful and perfect work. It was,
at length, completed: but, alas! not at all to the satisfaction of the friends. " It was not a true likeness—it lacked
the fine expression:" and the poor painter, with all his expenditure of time, patience and materials, was forced to
retire unrewarded. For once he was roused, and determined upon having his due. A suit was instituted, and he
recovered thirty dollars.
With some abatement of the difficulties of the first few
months, the remaining portion of Cole's life, in Philadelphia, is too much like that already related to.need further
notice.

CHARACTER OF HIS PICTURES.—AN EARLY LANDSCAPE.

49

Of his pictures, up to this time, it is necessary to say
little more than that they contained the germs of future
excellence. A landscape, painted in the summer, at Pittsburgh, and now in the possession of his family, is perhaps a
tolerable specimen of them. By the*side of one of his later
productions it would undoubtedly provoke a smile from a
connoisseur. But when-allowance is made, not alone for
want of science and experience, but for other difficulties
with which he had to contend, all wonder may well cease
at the excessive difference. It is painted on muslin, prepared by himself, and with the coarsest pigments. "With
such materials, and without the proper implements of his
art, one need not be surprised at the roughness of execution, and the defects of colouring. Although in some parts
faded, and in others deepened into unnatural darkness, it
still bears certain evidences of the same hand that left upon
the canvass the beauties of the Mountain Ford and The
Good Shepherd. Beneath a heavy stone bridge in the foreground, a deep, calm stream glides out of the picture,—the
outlet of a lake, quietly sleeping among hills. Glancing in
to the right and left, where the little bays lose themselves
behind the rocky points, the eye slides forward into the
luminous distance with something of the pleasure that it
does in nature. Pouring in from the east, the broad light
brightens the water before you, contrasting finely with the
rugged dark foreground, upon which stands a tree with
much of that lightness in its top, and woody, bark-like
effect in its trunk and limbs that distinguish many of his
finest trees. The sky, unusually far off, is filled with white
clouds, carefully studied from those that were floating in
the heavens. One cannot avoid feeling, though, that they
serve the purpose of a curtain to conceal a sky which he
could not touch with sufficient assurance to expose. It

50

COLE AN AUTHOR.—HIS POETRY.

may appear out of place to make any mention whatever of
so crude a work: but let it be remembered that if The
Good Shepherd was the last pure landscape of the artist,
this was among the very first after he went earnestly to the
study of nature. They occupy the two extremes of his
artistic life : one exhibiting the skill and power of the
master, the other the learner in his simplest rudiments;
but still a learner that writes in almost every stroke of his
pencil a promise of the excellence which, in the lapse of a
quarter of a century, could well nigh rival nature herself.
One of the very best of these earliest landscapes, an Autumnal Sunset, with rich bright foliage, still remains in
Philadelphia with a lady, for whose father it was painted—
a pleasing memento of the artist, who helped to save her
life, when a child, from fire.
• Before taking leave of Cole, in Philadelphia, a few words
may be said of his efforts as an author. The passion for
writing poetry did not subside in his enthusiasm for painting. During the intervals of toil at the easel, he took the
pen with earnestness, and composed many poems. While
these, for the most part, would find little compassion with
a critic like the one who said of the Excursion, " This will
never do," yet they exhibit, in spite of many faults of measure and diction, tokens of true poetic genius in a far higher
degree than his early pictures. What is more, they throw
a light upon the purity and religious tendency of his mind,
which the works of his pencil, at the time, do not. His
poems were the outpouring of his thoughts for himself: his
pictures were more for others. He painted for bread and
raiment, fire and lodging, and he must paint for those who
would pay. But poetry, in the written word, was a work
of secret love. He could not but shed it around him, in his
poor solitude, for its own sake. The exquisite pleasure

HIS POETRY.

51

which its creation brought was more than compensation for
all the pains it cost him. Once penned, though, it was laid
away, and never permitted to wander forth to offend by any
simplicity or rudeness of its apparel. The following lyric,
from a blank-verse poem, written in the sad days with which
the reader has just been made acquainted, and containing
some truly fine passages, may claim his indulgence for the
moral picture it presents of its author:
Thou art like the young breeze of the morn:
Over hill, over valley it swept;
On a gay heedless wing was it borne ;
And it reck'd not the place where it slept.
Round the rough mountain brow was its play,
And afar on the ocean's blue breast;
O'er the green velvet lea was its way,
And the full blushing rose it caress'd.
But, alas! was there aught for it there,
On the bleak mountain rock, or the deep ?
Where all is so restless, and bare,
There was naught for the zephyr to reap.
It is true, that the leaves of the grove,
With a worship bent low as it pass'd,
And the rose, in return for its love,
On its raiment her spicery cast.
But what of the leaves or the rose
Could it carry away in its breast ?
In a moment, they sank to repose,
As if nothing had broken their rest.
So forever it fared with the breeze :
Though a world full of beauty it met,
It could find, but no treasure could seize^
'Tis a poor careless wanderer yet.

52

HIS PROSE.—EMMA MORETON.

Cole wrote prose as well as verse. A tale, called Emma
Moreton, written, soon after his return from St. Eustatia,
and subsequently printed in the Philadelphia Saturday
Evening Post, is a story of some interest. The seas and
the scenery of the West Indies, especially that of St. Eustatia, took a strong hold of his feelings and imagination. In
the exhibition of this is the chief merit of the tale. We see
there the first wrestlings of genius with the grander forms
of the visible world. That it is a fair recital of suffering,
and finally prosperous love, with the merit of language that
paints sunsets and surf and the splendours of a tropical evening in fine colours, is of little importance when compared
with the evidence, which the writer unconsciously gives, of
the way that nature strikes a poet when she strikes him
strongly. What was said of the tale of Emma Moreton by
the readers of the Saturday Evening Post, its poor author
presently ceased to think, in the change which carried him
into entirely new circumstances. He left the city which
had failed to give reality to those delightful visions of
prosperity, in whose beauty he had walked behind the Alleghanies, and settled in that, where both fame and fortune
began,%at last, to smile upon him.

CHAPTER

VII.

An unexpected arrival.—Leaves Philadelphia, and settles in New York.-—
Life in New York.—Coles' Studio.—His difficulties.—His energy and
cheerful industry.—First pictures, and their effect upon the public.—
Their results.—A student of nature again.—The Hudson and the Catskills.—Pictures of their scenery.—First acquaintance with artistp,—
Success and reputation.

IT was early one Saturday morning, near the close of
April, 1825, that Cole thought with delight he was taking
his final leave of Philadelphia. His effects were already
waiting at the door, no heavy load, upon the porter's wheelbarrow. The unexpected arrival of Dr. Ackerly, his brother-in-law, and his sister Sarah, both recently from the
"West, and on their way to join the family, then living in
New York, caused him a joyful delay until the following
Monday. With these dear and welcome ones he visited,
during the day, the Academy of Fine Arts, a place where
he had more frequently studied than drawn, and pointed
out what appeared to him, at the time, the almost unattainable excellencies of several of its landscapes. In the evening, which happened to be a moonlight of unusual brightness, he took them round his favourite walks, and desired
his sister, on passing through an old and finely wooded
square, to point out to him the tree which, of all others in
the city, he loved the most. This, to his great delight, she
happened to do.

54

LIFE IN NEW YORK.—COLE'S STUDIO.

As intimated in the foregoing chapter, the epoch of Cole's
prosperity was his settlement in New York, at twenty-four
years of age. Of the coyness of fortune he had, therefore,
notwithstanding his many disappointments, no great reason
for complaint; for seldom have the hopes of genius come
to the dawn of their realization at a period earlier than
this. Had her devotion been as lasting as her welcome
was warm and speedy ; had the city of his adoption been
faithful, in after years, to foster the talent which it was
prompt in finding out and rewarding in the beginning, the
artist would not have felt, as frequently he could not help
but feel, though would seldom mention to his intimate
friends, that he was defrauded of a just due, a reward ample enough to place him where, above all mere moneywants, he could work out such things as can only be accomplished when genius expatiates with entire freedom in the
fields of art. Only four years later, when he went to Europe,
Cole left behind him many pictures, some of high price
comparatively, and the reputation of a fine painter. When
study and practice enabled him to execute works of higher
order, his reward did not answer the promise of his opening success. But let us follow him through this bright
youth of his good fortune, as we have already done through
seasons of adversity.
For the first two years, his studio was in Greenwich
street, in the garret of his father's house, a room so narrow
as to afford him barely space enough, in his process of painting, to retreat the requisite distance from his canvass. To
increase its inconvenience, it had only the half of a small
window. Could the young artists of these better days look
in upon that poorly lighted closet, they might possibly wonder how anything good could have been done in a situation
so pinched and blinded. There it was done, nevertheless.

DIFFICULTIES.—ENERGY.—CHEERFUL INDUSTRY.

55

There, perpetually fighting with a kind of twilight, and that
too almost in fetters, elbowed and pushed by mean partitions, worked the young man of serious mind, and strong
heart—more serious from suffering, stronger from painful endurance and great faith,—a faith made still greater through
release from trials that were sometimes actually perils.
In a word, training had made Cole at home with difficulties. Where most men would have retired with impatience
and disgust, and many have surrendered in despair, he could
labour on not only resigned, but with hope and right good
cheer. Obstacle was his stepping stone, and embarrassment his element: but he had energies wJiich lifted his foot
surely, if not quickly, upon the one, and moved him certainly, if not rapidly, through the meshes of the other.
Born with the will to persevere, exercise gave it such a
force, and ostrich-like breath, that he .could run long against
a gale of opposition, and work almost freely in the fretting
entanglements of a huge perplexity, trip and hamper when
they would. Unlike the impatient person in an old play,
he was one that could sing with truth, as well as with a
grace, " My mind to me a kingdom is :" and so, in the narrowness of his father's garret, he had a wide patience, and
a lofty spirit, and a luminous chamber in his soul. A light
flowed out upon his canvass from the silent cave of thought,
though but little entered the moiety of his dormer-window.
And when his small pictures were dismissed from their humble birth-place to be startled- by the brilliancy of strong
day-light, and the bold gaze of the public eye, and the keen
glance of criticism, they did not shrink away, but stood
still, and looked back out of their freshness and live beauty,
till they smote the quiet beholder with the conviction of
their truth and originality, and prompted him to ask the
name and place of the unknown artist.

56

FIRST PICTURES, AND THEIR EFFECT.

His first picture, according to an obscure pencil-list, is
marked simply, " Composition f his second, " Composition—
a Storm ;" the third, " A composition f the fourth, " A
Tree ;" the fifth, " A Battle-piece."
These were his first pictures in New York, and were
placed for exhibition in the shop of an acquaintance, Mr.
Dixey, where they attracted the attention of Mr. George
Bruen, who purchased three of them for the sum of twentyone dollars. Of the remaining two one was sold to Mr.
Dixey for ten dollars, and the other to whom, or at what
price, is unknown. Forty dollars, at the most, (a fair compensation at the time according to the judgment of the
painter himself,) was the amount realized for five pictures,
any one of which, inferior as it might be comparatively,
was well worth the sum. Trifling as they were, Cole had
reason, in the end, to be satisfied with his prices. The pictures were the means of his introduction to the public.
Among the substantial friends which they gained him,
was Mr. Bruen, through whose liberality he was enabled
for a while to suspend his labours at the easel, and devote
himself to drawing and painting from nature. Prom the
moment when his eye first caught the rural beauties clustering round the cliffs of "Wehawken, and glanced up the distance of the Palisades, Cole's heart had been wandering in
the Highlands, and nestling in the bosom of 'the Catskills.
It is needless to say that he followed its impulses at his
earliest liberty in the autumn ensuing.
If it be interesting to know what were his first impressions of the romantic scenery, now made familiar to art by
his pencil, it is certain that they were even more lively than
he had himself anticipated. It charmed his eye, and took
his soul captive. And what his affections so readily embraced, only became dearer to him, the more he enjoyed it.

THE HUDSON AND THE CATSKILLS.—PICTURES.

57

Wherever he subsequently travelled, whether among the
lakes and hills of England, the Alban heights or the Alps, up
the sides of the Apennines or of iEtna, along the sea-shore,
down the Rhone or the Rhine, he always turned to the Hudson, and the summits that pierce its clouds, and darken its
blue skies, with the strength and tenderness of a first-love.
It is questionable whether, after this, he ever painted a picture, with the exception perhaps of his European landscapes,
which does not bear witness to some feature peculiar to this
land of his heart.
The works executed, upon his return to the city, were
" A view of Fort Putnam," A view of some locality not
named, " Lake with dead trees," and " The Falls of the
Caterskill." Three of these, upon their being offered for
sale, were presently purchased, at twenty-five dollars a
piece, " by three artists, who generously and cordially acknowledge their merit, and continued ever after his friends
—Trumbull, Dunlap, and Durand."*
The first that happened to discover their excellence was
Colonel Trumbull, whose choice was " the Falls/ 7 which he
hung up at once in his own studio, and invited Durand to
come and see it, and also make the acquaintance of the
painter, who was to be there by appointment. Trumbull
also expressed to Dunlap on the same day " his admiration
of the unknown young man's talent."
At the hour appointed, Cole came—a young man, in appearance not more than one and twenty, of slight form and
medium height, soft brown hair, a face very pale, though
delicately rosy from agitation, a fair fine forehead, and large
light blue eyes, in which it would have been difficult to say
whether there was more of eloquent brightness, or feminine
* Bryant's Funeral Oration.

58

FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH ARTISTS.

mildness. For the first few minutes, a painful timidity, indicated by a quick, nervous movement occasionally, and
which no reasoning with himself could overcome, restricted
all conversation on his part to the briefest replies. But
this subsided only to give place to another species of embarrassment with which he was much less familiar—that which
arose from the complimentary language of Colonel Trumbull : " You surprise me," said he, asking him some few
questions with respect to his circumstances, " you surprise
me, at your age, to paint like this. You have already done
what I, with all my years and experience, am yet unable to
do." Into whatever confusion this generous compliment
might have thrown Gole, at the time, its recollection was
undoubtedly inspiring. Indeed, the' whole affair of the
three pictures was very gratifying, and well suited to raise
hopes. They were not raised in vain. Through the kindness of his new friends, the attention of the public was enlisted, and the way opened to success. He soon received
abundant commissions, some from distant cities. " His fame
spread like fire," said Durand, in conversation on that subject, many years afterwards; a spirited remark, corresponding with the fine strain in which Bryant speaks in the following passage.* " Prom that time he had a fixed reputation, and was numbered among the men of whom our country
had reason to be proud. I well remember what an enthusiasm was awakened by these early works of his, inferior as
I must deem them to his maturer productions,—the delight
which was expressed at the opportunity of contemplating
pictures which carried the eye over scenes of wild grandeur
peculiar to our country, over our ariel mountain-tops with
their mighty growth of forest never touched by the axe,
* Funeral Oration.

SUCCESS AND REPUTATION.

59

along the banks of streams never deformed by culture,
and into the depth of skies bright with the hues of our own
climate; skies such as few but Cole could ever paint, and
through the transparent abysses of which it seemed that
you might send an arrow out of sight."

CHAPTER

VIII.

Cole the Dupe of an unworthy Patron.—National Academy of Design.—Life
in the Catskill Mountains.—Miscellany : Sunrise from the Catskills; Extracts from the Wild, a poem; Thoughts on Nature; Characters of Trees;
- Trip to Windham; Storm in the Catskills.

THE ensuing winter, we look in vain for Cole in his
narrow painting-room. Whatever might have been the
regret of friends at his absence, it certainly could not bear
comparison with that which he felt himself. The victim of
patronage far more pitiful than that of Gainsborough's
Philip Thickness7, he was lured away by fine promises to
the upper waters of the Hudson, there to toil, through the
solitude of the cold months, for a person who had neither
the mind to appreciate, nor the honesty to reward the ability
he had entrapped into his service. To this cruel injustice
his heartless employer added the grossest insult. He caused
his apartments to be rendered cold and cheerless, and not
unfrequently embarrassed, and mortified him at table. For
the kind of picture which Cole then delighted to paint he
affected a contempt, and advised him to turn his pencil to
the bullocks of his farm-yard. Apprehension that his friends
in the city might attribute his retreat to fickleness, or an
over-sensitive nature, alone prevented his quitting the place
with indignation in the depth of winter. He resolved,

COLE THE DUPE OF AN UNWORTHY PATRON.

61

therefore, to bear quietly with his wrongs, for the time
stipulated, and labour on as well as possible.
Of the works then executed, and which (perhaps with a
single exception retained by the artist) were apparently
presented by his very worthy patron to his friends, as specimens of the genius he had found and fostered, but really, to
enlist attention to the beauty of the country in which was
his own estate, " one of them was," as Bryant describes it,
" a wild mountain scene, where a bridge of two planks
crosses a chasm, through which flows a mountain stream.
It has not the boldness and frankness, the assured touch,
of his later productions, but it is full of beauty* There are
the mountain summits, unmistakably American, with their
infinity of tree-tops, a beautiful arrangement of light,
striking forms of trees and rocks in the foreground, and a
certain lucid darkness in the waters below. The whole
shows that Cole, amidst the discomfort and vexations which
surrounded him, suffered no depression of his faculties, and
that the vision of what he had observed in external nature
came to him, in all its beauty, and remained with him until
his pencil had transferred it to the canvass.77
Among those incidents of his early history of which Cole,
in the small circle of his intimates, would occasionally talk
with gaiety—and he could talk, at times, with ineffable
humour—his falling in with this unlucky patron was one.
The story of his grand expectations, as he removed the implements of his art from the humble chamber in Greenwich
Street for what he fondly imagined delightful rooms in a
species of sural palace, and of his brilliant fancies of happy
fortune, on the passage up the Hudson, in pleasant intimacy
with his opulent friend, all in broad contrast with the disappointment, annoyance and chagrin that succeeded, was
irresistibly ludicrous.

62

NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.—THE CATSKILLS AGAIN.

Cole was now a member of the newly-formed National
Academy of Design, of which also he was one of the
founders. Of the originators of this institution he speaks,
several years afterwards, in his private journal, in terms of
high praise,—as men high-minded, distinguished as artists,
and bound together by congenial feeling.
At its first exhibition in the spring, that of 1826, he contributed one of the pictures, the exception mentioned above,
painted in the foregoing winter. Its subject quite corresponds with his then cheerless situation,—a snow-piece,
thrown off at the moment when his feelings were crisp
with the frost about him;—" not one of his most remarkable works, perhaps," says Bryant, " but bearing the characteristics of his manner."
With autumn came another release from the toils of the
painting-room, and the joyous freedom of the romantic
Catskills. It is quite impossible to convey a true impression of that blissful feeling with which Cole both anticipated, and enjoyed a season of retirement in the regions of
the picturesque. He himself could not have spoken of it
intelligibly had he seriously made the attempt. Long companionship and sympathy with him could alone make the
discovery. Religious fellowship with nature ever fills the
bosom with an incommunicable happiness, more especially
the bosom of a true poet; and Cole walked with her as
such, even while he looked, and laboured as an artist. He
thought and felt as one that was making himself ready for
the lofty task of sublime song, rather than the great picture,
even while he was seeking the knowledge needful for the
painter—the knowledge of all that can be mastered by the
eye in the material creation. It was an axiom with him:
" To walk with nature as a poet is the necessary condition
of a perfect artist."

MISCELLANY: SUNRISE; FROM THE WILD, A POEM.

63

It was usually his habit at the close of the day, particularly in these choice haunts, to write some little description
of the scenes and incidents of his rambles, or to embody in
verse a thought* or sentiment. These, at his leisure, were
sometimes copied, and improved. They are interesting
chiefly on account of the occasional illustration they afford
of that exquisite feeling of which I have just been speaking.
The reader is presented with the following:
SUNRISE FROM THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS.

The mists were resting on the vale of the Hudson like
drifted snow: tops of distant mountains in the east were
visible—things of another world. The sun rose from bars
of pearly hue: above there were clouds light and warm,
and the clear sky was of a cool grayish tint. The mist
below the mountain began first to be lighted up, and the
trees on the tops of the lower hills cast their shadows over
the misty surface—innumerable streaks. A line of light on
the extreme horizon was very beautiful. Seen through the
breaking mists, the fields were exquisitely fresh and green.
Though dark, the mountain side was sparkling; and the
Hudson, where it was uncovered to the sight, slept in deep
shadow.
A similar prospect is painted in fresh colours in the passages below, taken from a poem called The Wild:
*

*

*

*

*

*

Friends of my heart, lovers of nature's works,
Let me transport you to those wild, blue mountains
That rear their summits near the Hudson's wave.
Though not the loftiest that begirt the land,
They yet sublimely rise, and on their heights
Your souls may have a sweet foretaste of heaven,

64

MISCELLANY: FROM THE WILD, A POEM.
And traverse wide the boundless. From this rock,
The nearest to the sky, let us look out
Upon the earth, as the first swell of day
Is bearing back the duskiness of night.
But lo, a sea of mist o'er all beneath;
An ocean, shoreless, motionless and mute.
No rolling swell is there, no sounding surf;
Silent and solemn all;—the stormy main
To stillness frozen, whilst the crested waves
Leap'd in the whirlwind, and the loosen'd foam
Flew o'er the angry deep.
See! now ascends
The lord of day, waking with heavenly fire
The dormant depths. See how his luminous breath
The rising surges kindles: lo, they heave
Like golden sands upon Sahara's gales.
Those airy forms, disparting from the mass,
Like winged ships sail o'er the marvellous plain.
Beautiful vision ! Now the veil is rent,
And the coy earth her virgin bosom bares,
Slowly unfolding to the enraptured gaze
Her thousand charms.

The following from the same poem shows the finest eye
and feeling for nature:
*
*
*
*
*
*
O, for an hour
Upon that sacred hill that I might sleep,
And with poetic fervour wake inspired!
Then would I tell how pleasures spring like flowers
Within the bosom of the wilderness;
And call from crumbling fanes my fellow-men
To kneel in nature's everlasting dome,
Where not the voice of feeble man does teach,
But His, who in the rolling thunder speaks,
Or in the silence of tenebrious night
Breathes in his power upon the "startled ear.
Then would I tell the seasons' change :—how spring
With tears and smiles speeds up the mountain side,
And summer sips the moisture of her steps;—

MISCELLANY : THOUGHTS ON NATURE.

65

Tell how rich autumn, decked in coloured robe,
Laughing at thirsty summer, ceaseless shakes
The juicy fruits from her luxurious lap;—
And winter, rending in his angry mood,
With cold remorseless hands, the mantle bright
His dying sister left him, rudely sweeps
His snowy beard o'er all the beauteous world.

*

*

*

*

*

*

The sun was set in peace. It was the hour
When all things have a tone of sadness;—when
The soft cloud moves not on its azure bed,
Left by the purple day to fade and die,
But beautiful and lovely in its death
As is the virgin who has died of love.

THOUGHTS ON NATURE.

In the shady vale, on the mountain top, in the forest, by
the stream, a banquet is ever spread; and he who feasts
may exclaim: Here is pleasure that neither palls nor brings
remorse.
The most inattentive observer of nature is often struck
with a transient delight -as her beauties are disclosed: what
then must be the enjoyment of one who contemplates her
with the ardour of a lover ?
Nature has secrets known only to the initiated. To him
she speaks in the most eloquent language. * * * *
CHARACTERS OF TREES.

Treading the mosses of the forest, my attention has often
been attracted by the appearance of action and expression
of surrounding objects, especially of trees. I have been led
to reflect upon the fine effects they produce, and to look into
the causes. They spring from some resemblance to the
human form. * * There is an expression of affection in

66

MISCELLANY: TRIP TO WINDHAM.

intertwining branches,—of despondency in the drooping
willow.
In sheltered spots, trees have a tranquil air, and assimilate with each other in form and character. So with men
secluded from the world. They have an equality seldom
broken by originality of character. Expose them to adversity and agitations, and a thousand original characters start
forth, battling for existence or supremacy. On the mountain summit, exposed to the blasts, trees grasp the crags
with their gnarled roots, and struggle with the elements
with wild contortions.
Attracted by the wild scenery of Windham, one of the
Catskill Mountain towns, Cole made an excursion there in
the autumn of 1826. The following is a description of an
ascent to a mountain summit:
TRIP TO WINDHAM.

October 8th.

At an hour and a half before sunset, I had a steep and
lofty mountain before me, heavily wooded, and infested with
wolves and bears, and, as I had been informed, no house for
six miles. But I determined, in spite of all difficulties and
an indescribable feeling of melancholy, to attain my object:
so, pressing my portfolio to my side, I dashed up the dark
and woody height. After climbing some three miles of
steep and broken road, I found myself near the summit of
the mountain, with (thanks to some fire of past times) a
wide prospect. Above me jutted out some bare rocks ; to
these I clambered up, and sat upon my mountain throne,
the monarch of the scene. The sun was now nearly setting,
and the shadows veiled in dim obscurity the quiet valley.

MISCELLANY: TRIP TO WIND HAM.

67

Here and there a stream faintly sparkled ; clouds, naming
in the last glories of day, hung on the points of the highest
peaks like torches lifted by the earth to kindle the lamps
of heaven. Summit rose above summit, mountain rolled
away beyond mountain,—a fixed, a stupendous tumult.
The prospect was sublime. A hasty sketch or two, and I
commenced my descent. After a hurried walk of two or
three miles, I came to a log-house, a rude swinging sign
pointing it out as a place of sojourn for the night. I walked
in, and it appeared comfortless enough. The floor was covered with dirty water—a process of cleaning, I suppose.
I felt as though I should be more comfortable in the woods.
I was relieved, however, a little when my landlady appeared
with clean and smiling face, and asked me to walk up stairs.
A scene of neatness here presented itself that I had not expected. After a plain supper of cheese, rye-bread and
butter, I was entertained by an old hunter with a recital
of feats of the chase. Here, in this valley, he and his wife
had resided for more than twenty years, and raised, without
the help of any hands beside their own, the first log-house.
Those were days of privation and hardship for the pioneer ;
but he looks back upon them as days of happiness. " There
were few of us then," the old hunter said, " and we loved
one another, and helped one another ; but it is not so now."
I believe all the people in the little settlement flocked together, this evening, to see me,—a strange animal, surely;
and a hard-featured, long-bearded, long-legged company
they were. My portfolio was an object of universal curiosity. One wiseacre pronounced it, with low voice and a
look of profound wisdom, " a grammar"
They took the
liberty, when my back was turned, of opening it, in order
to see what so large a book might contain. What discoveries they made, in their own estimation, I hardly know: I

68

MISCELLANY: STORM IN THE CATSKILLS.

simply heard something about maps. As I could see but
one room and two large beds with a trundle-bed under
each, I began to suspect that I should have to turn in with
the family. I was agreeably surprised, however, when I
was shown-into a closet, the door of which could not be
shut until I was fairly in bed. But I slept soundly, and
rose early, ate a good breakfast, and desired of my kind
host what was to pay. One shilling! I offered them a
bank note, as I had no silver: unfortunately, they could
not change it, and so I gave my note for one shilling, payable on demand, at
's, about nine miles distant. I then
took my way back, " over hills, over dales, thorough brush,
thorough briar."
STORM IN THE CATSKILLS.

In one of my mountain rambles, I was overtaken by a
thunder storm. In the early part of the day, the sky was
brilliant and unclouded. As it advanced, huge masses of
vapour were seen moving across the deep blue. Though
there was some reason to expect a storm, I contented myself
with the hope that the clouds would pass over the mountains
without unburthening themselves. My hope proved fallacious. A sudden darkness enveloped the scene, which a few
moments before was beaming with sunlight, and thunders
muttered in the distance. It was necessary in a few moments to seek a shelter, which I found beneath an overhanging rock. Under this massy conopy of stone I took
my station, with the^ feeling of one who knows himself out
of the reach of peril, while it is all around him. Here,
thought I, as I paced the rocky floor of my temporary
castle, I will watch, unharmed, the battle of the elements.
The storm came on in all its majesty. Like a hoarse

MISCELLANY : STORM IN THE CATSKILLS.

69

trumpet sounding to the charge, a strong blast roared
through the forest, which stooped in its weakness, and
shook off its leaves thick as in October. To this tremendous onset succeeded a death-like calm. The deep gorge
below me grew darker, and the general gloom more awful:
terrific clouds gathered in their black wings upon the
hollow, hushed abyss closer and closer. Expectation hung
on every crag. A single pass of one long blade of lightning through the silence, followed by a crash as of a cloven
mountain, with a thousand echoes, was the signal for the
grand conflict. A light troop of rain-drops first swept
forward, footing it over the boughs with a soft and whispery
sound; then came the tread of the heavy shower: squadrons
of vapour rolled in,—shock succeeded shock,—thunderbolt
fell on thunderbolt,—peal followed peal,—waters dashed on
every crag from the full sluices of the sky. I was wrapped
in the folds of the tempest, and blindfolded to every prospect beyond the rugged doorway of the cave. Then came
up a thousand fancies. I fancied anything and everything.
I thought myself careering, in a chariot of rock, through
airy wastes beyond the reach of gravitation, with no law
but my own will: now I rose over mountainous billows of
mist, then plunged into the fathomless obscure: light shot
athwart the darkness, darkness extinguished light: to musical murmurs succeeded quick explosions: there was no
finish, no fixedness, nor rest. But the storm kept on, strong
and furious : no fancy could dissipate the awful reality, no
imagery of the mind could amuse the fears that began to
throng around my heart. Trees fell with a stifled crash,
cataracts mingled their din with the general uproar. I
actually began to fear the rocks would be loosened from
the brow of the mountain above me, and roll down with
overwhelming force. The lightning played around my very

70

MISCELLANY: STORM IN THE CATSKILLS.

tenement, and the thunder burst on my door-stone. I felt
as feeble as a child. Every moment my situation was becoming more comfortless, as well as romantic. A torrent,
to all appearance parted by the projecting crag which
formed the roof of my shelter, came rushing down on both
sides of me, and met again a short distance below me.
Here I was, a captive to the floods, and actually began to
meditate the possibility of having to pass the night in this
dismal nook. There was the hard rock, a little mat of
moss, and the remains of a mountain dinner in my knapsack. In a word, my lodging furnished almost everything
but comfort. The wind now drove the chilly vapour
through my portal, the big drops gathered on my stony
ceiling, and pattered on my hat and raiment, and, to complete my calamity, the water began to flow in little brooks
across my floor. My anticipated bed of moss suddenly became a saturated- sponge. I was reduced to the hard necessity of piling up the loose flakes of rock that lay scattered
through my inhospitable hall, and courting contentment on
the rugged heap. I had one remaining hope, the sudden
cessation of the storm. I knew the sun was hardly yet
setting, although the darkness had deepened fearfully within
the last few moments. But this turned out, to my great joy,
to be the crisis of the tempest. All at once, a blast, with
the voice and temper of a hurricane, swept up through the
gulf, and lifted with magical swiftness the whole mass of
clouds high into the air. This was the signal for general
dispersion. A flood of light burst in from the west, and
jewelled the whole broad bosom of the mountain. The
birds began to sing, and I saw, in a neighbouring dell, the
blue smoke curling up quietly from a cottage chimney.

CHAPTER

IX.

Cole in Catskill.—Miscellany : The Bewilderment.
NATURAL aversion to a city and the gay society in which
he now occasionally mingled, with the love for rural life
which finally settled him in the country, led Cole to Catskill again, early in the summer of 1827, where he took lodgings, and fitted up a painting room. As usual, much time
was spent in the open air, painting and drawing natural
objects, and wandering alone through his favourite mountains.
The following singular story, very likely in part a fiction,
is, nevertheless, a lively and exciting sketch of the poetic
artist in the midst of the fatigues and dangers not unfrequently incident to his walks for the picturesque.
THE BEWILDERMENT.

The sun hung low in the sky, and to me seemed to hasten
down with unaccustomed speed, for I was alone, and a
stranger in the wilderness. The nearest habitation I knew
to be on the other side of a mountain, that rose before me,
whose tangled woods were well known by the hunters to be
the haunt of wild animals. I had walked far that day, but
my path had been through regions of nature that delight
and impress the mind. Excitement had well nigh carried

12

MISCELLANY :

me above the reach of all fatigue. Though not quite as
buoyant in spirit as in the morning, still my feet were not
slow upon the leaf-strown path. In the midst of society
and the stir of cities, men do not experience those vicissitudes of feeling which result from the change of natural
objects: a lone man in the wilderness is affected by eyery
change, by the light and by the shade, by the sunshine and
the storm. In the fine morning, his spirits are fresh and
elastic as the breeze he breathes, sad thoughts vanish like
mists in the sunbeams, and he feels as though weariness
could never overtake him; but when evening is dropping
her dusky curtains, the wind has a tone of sadness, and the
sound of the waterfall steals through the arches of the
forest like the voice of a moaning spirit. Thus was it with
me ; joyous as I had been through the splendour of the day,
I could not but feel a tone of melancholy as I threaded the
deepening shadows of the woodlands. The road was steep
and difficult, and the thick boughs, on both sides, shut me in
from every distant object. I reached, at length, the top of the
the mountain, and enjoyed a glorious prospect. The sun was
sinking behind a dark fringe of pines and rocks, leaving the
vales in solemn shadow : here and there beams of reflected
light shot up from the depths, and discovered the quick
brook or the quiet pool: on every hand, the mountains bore
their ancient burden of woods; far as sight could stretch,
through glens and craggy passes, and up to the mountainline melting away in misty distance, all was the old, woody
wilderness. Here and there, piled on the overtopping pinnacles, clouds bathed themselves in the last, red sunbeams.
Before I could leave this glorious solitude, I was breathing
the chilly air of twilight. Anxious to reach my intended
resting-place for the night, I hastened forward with redoubled speed. My path was steeply down into a deep valley:

THE BEWILDERMENT.

13

the shades thickened at every step, and rendered its windings more and more obscure: several times I hesitated in
doubt of its course; at length, I lost it entirely. A tornado had recently passed this way, and laid prostrate almost every tree in its track of desolation. How long I
struggled through the entangled roots and branches, I
could not tell; but they seemed interminable. I went
forward and back, to the right hand and to the left; I
went every way, and finally became so perplexed and bewildered as to be utterly incapable of deciding in what
direction I ought to go. I suspect that I went round and
round, not unfrequently, through the same toils and entanglements. The truth, at last, crept over me—J was lost
—lost past finding out, or being found, at least for that
night. Fatigued, dripping with perspiration, and disheartened, supperless and vexed, I sat down in the briars with
the resolution of waiting patiently the break of day. This
was but a transient resolve : the air grew very chilly, wild
clouds hurried across the sky, and the wind sounded hollow
and forebodingly in the forest. Inaction I could endure no
longer. Again I endeavoured to extricate myself from the
windfall with a desperate energy : I climbed and stooped,
scrambled, crawled and dodged ; now a limb struck me in
the face, and I fell backward among the brambles ; then I
made a misstep, or a rotten bough broke beneath my foot,
and I plunged forward with a crash. I was momentarily
in danger of breaking my limbs, and putting out my eyes.
At length, to my unspeakable delight, I struck into open
ground, and advanced for a few yards with as much spirit
as if the difficulty was all over, and the end of my efforts
was attained. This again was of short duration. The
ground was a pitch black ; I could no more detect the nature
of its surface than a blind man. One moment, I fancied it

n

MISCELLANY :

was smooth when it was rough ; another, J seemed on the
edge of a hollow, and started back, when the surface was
actually rising. This kept me in a succession of false steps
nearly as annoying, if not so dangerous, as my scramble in
the windfall. I came in a short distance to a stand. With
all the penetration of a keen eye-sight, I found that the
various objects around, logs, hillocks, hollows, outlines of
neighbouring rocks and ridges, were all imagination : it was
dark as Egypt. No human eye could sound the black obscurity. Again I ventured forward a few rods, and then
stood still as before. I stood perfectly still. Although the
next few moments were amongst the most strange and critical of my life, I stood without the least sense of peril, listening to the rapid beating of my heart, when the sod burst from
beneath my feet, and I shot down an almost perpendicular
bank of earth, with a force and swiftness that outstripped
the loose earth and stones that came on pell-mell in my
pursuit. In vain did I throw out my arms with the hope
of grasping rock, root or shrub : it was only plucking more
mischief down with me: everything I seized gave way instantly, and joined in the general plunge. How lengthy was
the earthy steep, or how high was the rock over which, at
last, I dashed headlong, I formed no calculation : deep water
received me in its cold embrace. By what manoeuvre (for
I never could swim) I managed to escape instant drowning
I cannot tell: an involuntary struggle brought me from the
depth, and clinched my hands with an iron grip to a rock
that rose above the surface of the water. Upon 1his cold,
yet kindly mass, I pulled myself up with some difficulty, and
lay for a while almost motionless and exhausted. In a few
minutes, I was sufficiently recovered to sit up, and look
around: the centre of the earth could be no darker than
the chasm into which I had fallen. Saving a small spot of

THE BEWILDERMENT.

75

blue sky, far, far overhead, with a single star, all was- dark
as .Erebus itself. I soon discovered that the rock on which
I rested was in all likelihood in the very middle of the pool,
of whose depth and dimensions I was entirely ignorant.
My first thought was to sit out the night; a few minutes
of inactivity were enough, however, to convince me that I
was on the rack ; my hands and feet began to ache with
cold, and my whole frame to shiver. The lone star was
now extinguished, and the wind began to howl in the forest
above me in token of a coming rain : the trees moaned sullenly, and chafed each other, and a large rain-drop fell upon
my face. My situation, I felt, was one of exceeding peril,
and I grew restless with painful uncertainty. A heavy rain
I knew would speedily swell the brooks to raging torrents,
and sweep me inevitably from my little islet. Something must
be done quickly in order to relieve me from my present
critical situation. Taking firm hold of the rock, I lowered
myself carefully .into the water, and found it, to my distress, beyond my depth: it was with the greatest difficulty
that I regained my former situation. I then tried in the
same cautious way the other side of the rock, and with better success; I could touch the bottom. Quitting with no
small reluctance my strong hold, I turned, breast deep in
the water, and waded slowly and cautiously towards—the
darkness. A few steps satisfied me that I was approaching
something; I felt it with my face so sensibly. that I put
forth my hands, and laid them flat upon a wet, solid wall.
As wide a circle as I could describe with both hands was
on the same perpendicular surface: my heart sunk within
me, my blood ran with a sort of chilly tingling through my
veins, a cold sweat stood upon my forehead. I was imprisoned in a dungeon of precipices, and the rain was falling
in sheets. A kind of sickness seized me, the sickness of

76

MISCELLANY :

despair. "Here, then/' I exclaimed aloud, " I shall perish:
my friends will never know what has become of me.77 Almost involuntarily I hallooed ; but all to no purpose. My
voice was smothered instantly in the roar of the wind and
rain. A sort of desperation now took sudden possession
of me, and I determined to rescue myself at every hazard.
My fears subsided, and I stood up by the dripping wall
of my prison with the calmness of one that knows at last
his deliverance. I first tried by holding my hand in the
water to ascertain the direction of the current, in order to
search for some escape by the outlet: the water was in perfect repose, duller than Styx. With complete self-possession, I then commenced a process of exploration, wading
round the pool with one hand upon the rock. The caution
with which I took my steps, sometimes in water almost too
deep to admit of further advance, necessarily made my progress very slow, and prolonged the distance ; the pool
seemed of tedious extent, although I have no doubt it
was comparatively small. A rumbling murmur, as of a
stream running in a cavern, now came distinctly upon my
ear, in a momentary abatement of the storm : a few yards
of further wading confirmed my conjectures that I was at
last approaching the outlet of the dungeon lake, and the
door of my escape. Judge of my terror, when I found the
water tumbling into the mouth of a cavern, the arch of
which I could feel with my hands, as I stood in the rapid,
though fortunately shallow current. But the paroxysm of
fear was quickly over, and I boldly made my way down
among the crags and foam, let the event terminate as it
would. I was now working with the energy of a desperate
man, and felt equal to anything, and afraid of nothing. I
clambered down the subterranean rapid, which luckily was
more turbulent than deep, without the least difficulty, and

THE BEWILDERMENT.

77

landed on a smooth, rocky floor, over which the water
flowed silently. Whither into the earth, all this was going
to lead me was a matter with which the imagination was
fearfully busy ; but there was no return, and no delay. I
waded forward carefully, but boldly : the dash of my footsteps rung strangely through the hollow antre, and I felt a
wild and vivid pleasure as I advanced. I shouted—sung—
whistled for the very horror of the thing, and strode on
courageously and strong. All at once the floor perceptibly
declined, and the water deepened. I paused a moment,
returned upon my steps, and struck my head against the
limb of what proved a small dry tree, lodged in a freshet
on a projecting crag of the cavern. An instant was sufficient to conceive, and commence the execution of a plan:
I rolled 4) ff the dry fragment of the tree with a loud plunge
into the water, and pushed it on before me until the depth
was tqo great for wading, and then mounted it, and committed myself to the mercy of the current. Tedious was
the time consumed in this strange voyage : for a while it
was doubtful whether I advanced, or remained still, so
gradual was my progress down the grim and silent chamber. At length, the motion of my odd bark was evident,
and I heard the low murmur of falling water. By the
movement of the tree I became satisfied that the stream
was becoming swift and whirling, and that the crisis of my
fate was fast approaching. The murmur had now increased
into the dashing of a cascade, and the oppressive stillness
of the cavernous atmosphere was broken by gusts of misty
wind: I held myself rigidly still, and floated on smoothly
and swiftly : there was an almost instantaneous lighting up
of the darkness : my bark struck. I sprang involuntarily
into the shallow rapid. I was indeed on the verge of the
waterfall; but, to my inexpressible joy, I found myself in

78

MISCELLANY : THE BEWILDERMENT.

the open air. A few steps brought me to a sandy bank,
where I sat down in a state of mingled excitement and
gratitude, and rested till my stiff and chilly limbs warned
me to make some further efforts to find a dwelling. The
tempest had passed over; the moon, now clipping the rugged outline of a distant peak, shot her soft light through
the shattered clouds; a faint blush in the east announced
the dawn; and the barking of a dog gave delightful intelligence of a house. "Wet and weary, I once more picked my
way through the vexing brushwood, and soon fell upon a
path that conducted me to the log cabin, of which the dog
had kindly given me the signal. A rousing fire and a venison steak came in pleasing succession, with many " wonders" and "guesses" by mine host, a rough, but hospitable
woodman. Among the most remarkable, was the wonder,
how I came to get into the " pot," as he called the perilous
gulf where I had spent a part of the night so delectably.

CHAPTER

X.

Cole's Spirit in the Study of Nature.—His Pictures the Embodiment of
Simple, wild Nature.—A higher kind of Art naturally suggested, and
growing out of the Elements of his Character.

THE reader will hardly fail to perceive the main design
in introducing these earlier miscellanies of Cole: they exhibit his eye and feeling for nature, and his manner of life
in its pursuit. With what exactness, as a student of art, he
studied, and copied nature, in her manifold dispositions, in
all the infinitude of her figure and complexion, her motions
and attire, would come rather within the pale of criticism
upon his drawings and pictures. At present, it may be permitted to speak less particularly, as I am more engaged in
describing the field of his studies, than the studies themselves,—the way of his thinking, feeling and looking, in the
hour of his work, than the work itself. To know the spirit
in which he went is, at first, more important than to know
just the individual things for which he Went, and the precise
manner of his dealing with them; and for the reason, manifestly, that in the study, for instance, of forms, he always
himself first sought to penetrate their vital principle or
spirit; laying it down as a law, that knowledge of the
subtle truth of form, even in its most palpable outline, was
impossible without a knowledge of its informing power;

80

COLE'S SPIRIT IN THE STUDY OF NATURE.

which, in order to be reached, must be sought with that
earnestness that knows no abatement, and with that faith
and affection whose characteristics are docility, humility
and growth; whereby one only, at length, " sees into the
life of things;" and, it may be added, thereby reveals the
fact that there is a creative power within him, constituting
him a genuine maker or poet. "With this earnestness, this
faith and affection, I am now rather engaged; and think to
show Cole the possessor of them, in such high degree, that
he was always the poet, when he was the painter—which,
of course, is to say almost more than can be said of any
landscape painter that has appeared.
Did life bear the least proportion to art, Cole would have
walked the earth over and over, under the impulse which
was ever carrying him with devout spirit into the crypt,
and up to the pinnacles of nature's temple, as well as with
reverent footsteps towards her altar. As life is,—too short,
in his own case, if one may breathe his natural regrets—he
went far, and saw many things, and gleaned heavy sheaves.
He laid his warm hand, day by day, upon what was to him
the live, palpitating breast of the world; and where time
and man had made deep wounds, and left the great scars,
there he placed his fingers thoughtfully upon the bones.
And then he took hold lovingly of the world's raiment, the
sea, and the green turf, running waters, and forests; and
watched the changing expression of the great countenance;
and lived upon the gloom and glory in which the world
moves, and which repose upon its bosom, and give at once
majesty and awe, sweetness and beauty, to its brow and
temples,—namely, darkness, distance, sunshine and colours,
clouds and air. " Why do not the younger landscape
painters walk—walk alone, and endlessly ?" was a remark
of his to a friend, as they were footing it along the road

COLE'S SPIRIT IN THE STUDY OF NATURE.

81

from Glen's Falls to Lake George, over which wild track he
was a solitary pedestrian, some twenty years before. " How
I have walked"—and surely he might mention it without
egotism—" how I have walked, day after day, and all alone,
to see if there was not something among the old things which
was new 1" Certainly there was, and would have been forever ; and the consciousness of that made him count as little
what he had gotten, and as much that which he was yet to
acquire. Hence his eye must not be satisfied with searching, nor his hand be wearied with securing, nor his soul
cease to thirst for new beauty. Was there a lake in a
distant solitude, wondrous mirror of the sky ?—go and see:
he had seen a thousand lakes glassing the trees, the rocks
and the heavens, but not the one there: therefore, go and
see. Were there lichens on the precipice, blackness and
brightness straying among the ruins of the chasm, foam on
the lip of the pool ?—go and see : foam, lichens, light and
shadow were familiar, but yet might, nay, must be new,
under new circumstances : therefore, go and see. Such was
the law to which his footsteps were ever patiently obedient;
such was his way. A walk from dawn to mid-day might
stretch between him and the object of his seeking ; no
matter, such was his way; and he went, not as one turned
out to a task, but as a lover; not as one that had beaten
the track till he could follow it blindfold, but with the sweet
wonder of a boy's first time. If there ever was a mortal
that pressed towards the visible works of God with the
fresh enthusiasm of one who goes newly to behold the wonderful, that mortal was Cole. He went, at the hundredth
time, as one going for the first time,—not in words, not in
outward excitement, but in all gentleness and quietness, and
in spirit, for he went to seek spirit: and when he found it
under the shuck and crust of things, shuck and crust were

82

COLE'S SPIRIT IN THE STUDY OF NATURE.

all beating and throbbing with life; they were living creatures, ever beautiful, ever new: and so the last time of
looking was as the first, and nature grew to him youthful
instead of older, and covered tokens of heaven and immortality in its mouldering trunks, as ashes cover the living
coals.
In speaking of his earnest seeking after nature's excellence and truth, of his gentle fearlessness, his quiet energy,
his modest boldness, subtle, penetrating watchfulness, endless diligence, one's thoughts multiply like concentric circles
from a steady dropping on a pool. With all the industry
of a pilot's apprentice, he sounded with his eye, from many
high places of the earth, the great airy deep,—the dawn,
and the pure, dark depth before the dawn,—the coloured
west, and the north in the hour of its mysterious glow,—up
into the etherial blue, and the fleeces of heaven,—down into
the dusty atmosphere of the valley. Things which never
could be painted, creatures which never could appear in the
skies and the air of art, but which, nevertheless, must be
known in order to a true painter,—the wing of the pigeon
flashing in the sun, the thistle-down sparkling on the breath
of the lucid afternoon—were caught in the meshes of his
glance, and held till the grace of their motion, the brightness of their show, and the life and splendour of which they
were suggestive, were written on his memory, and immersed
in the spring of his feelings. This may be counted fancy :
no, it is only illustrative of fact. Neither is it less than true
that of all on the earth, upon which, from the loftiest height,
you can let fall the eye, there was literally nothing which
to him was not the object of earnest affectionate contemplation. His diligence could find out more than we have ever
found, from the aerial sweep of the mountain-line to the
curves of the sea-shore. Easy slopes from the plain, stony

DOLE'S SPIRIT IN THE STUDY OF NATURE.

83

steps into the clouds, he went up and down, even when
others were asleep. What wonder then that the sweet
company of green-sward dews and flowers, washing and
scenting his footsteps, and of mists sprinkling their purity
in his face, moving silently upward, were as household
things, and all worked into his very love a blooming, precious embroidery? From the swell of the mountain's
bosom, and the bristling crest of the bushy hill, to the
pebbly bottom of the brook, running under the velvety
bank through the meadow, was a study, rather ties of
studies: broad shadows, shadows broken by the sun, broad
sunshine, sunshine striped by shade, the wide sea of sunlight
sparkling along the shore of the deep wide shadow, were
the grandest studies: the vapoury curtain dropped in the
distance was a delicate study: airy spaces separating nearer
and remoter objects were profound studies: fissures and
chasms, tokens of the earth's primitive upheaval, the broken
bank and the snapped tree, and the rotting tree with its
jewsears, the rock in its vesture of mosses and the rock in
its lichens, the rock under its fern and the bare wet rock,
were all careful studies: the bright eye of the pond and
the black lock of night secreted from the noon-day among
the boughs of the wood and in the roof of the cave's mouth,
were rare and subtle studies : the force and not the curve
only of the waterfall, the breaking back and not the rushing
onward only of the torrent, the revolving masses and the
power and not the surface only of the billow, the ghostly
lightness, the spirit, the silent breathing and not the mass
and motion only of the cloud, were all studies, studies of
strong thought, studies of feeling, kindling often into glowing warmth : the forest-tops myriad, each moving into each
like waves on the yellow grain or the blue ocean, the solemn
depths of the forest under, all surfaces and outlines broken.

84

COLE'S SPIRIT m

THE STUDY OF NATURE.

and melting into wavy smoothness, ragged edges and points,
grappling roots, silken fibres sewing the seams of the soil,
webs timid of the softest airs, luminous dust darting into
shadow from the gleaming ray, were also studies asking
and receiving the scrutiny of the patient piercing eye:
landscape lapped in the vale, tilth and groves, crystal
winter, vernal bloom and tenderness, summer's calm and
tempest, brightness, richness and rain, ripe mellow September, crisp October morning and her funeral pomp, and man,
his works, the ruins of his pride, his living home, were
studies, beautiful, wonderful studies, calling out the affections of his inmost heart.
Prom the visible forms and spaces, qualities and forces
of nature, her motions also, and her rest, Cole went on to
the audible and invisible. With him there was no pause
inside of the bounds of the material and sensible. His
tracks were plain and manifold up to the line where sense
ends and the spiritual and the imaginative begin. He inquired after the expression of the viewless winds and
sounds. His ear, delicately attuned to the preciousness of
music, caught the far-off harping of silence and the whispery
melodies that glide under heavier voices and mightier harmonies.
The writer is aware that, in some degree, he is repeating
himself, and also anticipating something of what belongs
more strictly to the artist's works themselves. His ^excuse
is the desire to open to the reader the field of Cole's studies,
in some small measure, as it opened out to him; and also to
make manifest the enthusiasm, energy, and untiring industry, above all, the earnest, affectionate spirit with which
he laboured in it.
If there be anything more which one would fondly snatch
from the thoughts still multiplying around the subject in

HIS PICTURES THE EMBODIMENT OF SIMPLE, WILD NATURE. 8 5

hand, it is that Cole clearly saw, and heartily rejoiced in
the great and all pervading principle of the universe, unity
arising out of infinity. As in the humblest object, a pebble
or a fungus, there is a hint, an expression of the infinite, so
in the innumerable assemblage of all things there is a language eloquently expressive of unity. Infinitude in each;
a harmonious union, a oneness out of all. To realize this
was Cole's, at an early period.
Nature, pursued with such assiduity and love, would, if
such a thing were possible, be bounteous to a common mind.
To one like Cole she not only spread out the fairest folds
of her robe, but threw it around him, and clasped him to
her bosom, and told him of her mysteries. Prom one so
nurtured at such a breast, and so tenderly admonished at
such hands, (for nature gives gentle warnings, though faithful, to them that love her,) what other pictures could have
been anticipated, prior to his study of Italian scenery, than
the very ones he painted ? They are precisely what might
have been looked for—the embodiment of scenes in which
his mind delighted, and with which the reader must now
feel himself familiar. One that can picture to himself those
scenes with any degree of faithfulness, may also see the
painter's representation of them. To all who have a knowledge of th6m 'the expression of the artist, Huntington, in a
paper on the character of Cole, must commend itself: " I n
early life," says he, " the love of nature, as she exhibited
herself in the untamed loneliness of our forest scenery, was
his chief passion. He studied to embody whatever was
characteristic of the singular grandeur and wildness of
mountain, lake and forest, in the American wilderness.
He rejected, at this time, all that was conventional, all the
usual methods of the picturesque, everything that looked
like cultivation, or the hand of art softening the rudiments

86

A HIGHER KIND OF ART NATURALLY SUGGESTED, AND

of uncontaminated nature. He would scarcely admit into
his productions the hut of the adventurer, or the lonely
fisherman; but preferred the Indian canoe, or the savage
himself stealthily moving among fallen trees, or the deer
fearlessly drinking the waters of the lake. Could one
have looked over a portfolio of his sketches, at this time
of his life, it would have been found stored with those materials which are abundant in the most terrific and inaccessible fastnesses of our mountain scenery. Silent and transparent lakes shadowed by impenetrable woods, reflecting
the bold outlines of precipitous mountains; huge masses
of rock, -which had once strown the forest with ruin and
confusion, now enriched with wild vines; shattered oaks
and mighty pines, and all features of wildness and boldness
would have continually greeted the eye. His desire, at the
time, appeared to. be to seize the true character of our own
scenery, and to identify his pencil with it."
From one, whose pencil answered so well that which
could have been anticipated of him, is it not reasonable to
suppose that there might have been expected something
more ? Need we wonder that while earth and sky yielded
to him their body and their spirit, their clothing and their
marvellous life and forces, they should moreover suggest to
him things grander than themselves, themes above and beyond themselves, (in which, indeed, they would be called
to act a part, and a great one, but yet, often, only a subordinate part,) even themes, in which the mind of man and the
Maker should be expressed, as it is not possible for any
mere likeness of simple nature to express ?
It has been occasionally said of Cole that, at this earlier
period, he seemed to have few or no thoughts of painting
anything but wild nature. He painted such mainly, and
with a passion, it is true; but that he had few thoughts for

GROWING OUT OF THE ELEMENTS OF HIS CHARACTER.

87

anything further is a mistake. It is a mistake, though, very
naturally made by judging him from his works, rather than
from certain elements of character. Says the chief captain
of living poets:
" The child is father of the man."

Cole was a remarkable example of this.
manly days were

His youthful and

" Bound each to each by natural piety."

He was born with a sensibility which, as he grew, manifested itself to be most exquisite to all impressions of
beauty, to all physical delight and suffering, and also to all
moral distinctions. He could not himself bear to inflict,
nor to see others inflict pain upon the meanest animal; and
hence he could never be taught to love the sports of the
huntsman or the angler. Of moral delinquency, however
slight, his boyish judgment was so severe as frequently to
earn him the epithets of fault-finding and cynical. So intense was his passion for the beautiful, that, in his case,
* the hour
*
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,"

Seemed never to wane, and pass away. With all this fine
moral feeling there was blended, notwithstanding the lack
of a true religious training in childhood, strong religious
sentiment. He had a profound sense of the antagonisms
of life, and of the deep yearning of humanity for release
and consolation under the spiritual blight that had fallen
upon it, and of which innumerable things in the material
world were mournfully typical. This lively consciousness
of moral distinctions, this sensibility to suffering, this sense
of the bitter contrasts of life, and of the sadness and sorrow
which human life and nature both do really express,—which

88

A HIGHER KIND OF ART SUGGESTED, ETC.

sadness and sorrow are virtually a mute prayer to be set
free, and comforted—these all were Cole's in an eminent
degree. And so his was truly a religious temperament:
and one well acquainted with his youth might have foretold
that he would never r£st until both freedom and consolation
were found,—until religion should cease to be merely a
sentiment, and become a life. A temperament like his could
only bloom and fructify in the full light and warmth of
Christianity. Short of that, nothing would be able to
satisfy his spiritual longings. For him there could be no
peace, no repose, but in a redemptive faith, " the faith once
delivered to the saints."
With so keen a sense of life's contrasts, its joy and sorrow, its prosperity and adversity, its blooming and mouldering, growth and decline, perfection and ruin, in short, all
the symbols of good and evil, would it have been possible
for him not to have thought of them as essentially related to
art ? He thought of them in that light most earnestly. The
subject of profound contemplation, they must have been expressed in his works. Not at once, though, necessarily: for
while his enjoyment of creation's loveliness, loneliness and
awfulness, was in its dews and early fragrance, he would
naturally rest with the wish and the effort to reveal that
enjoyment. In the first rush of joys over physical beauty,
it would have done violence to his heart to have sunk at
once to the deeper moral meaning of that beauty. "When
those joys should have subsided into their quiet stream,
then should we look to see that profounder meaning burst
forth from his works. Now what is the truth of all this ?
Does not the theory find an exact correspondence in the
fact that his pictures, for a season, were simple reproductions of the scenery with which he was captivated, and then
began tospeak a language strong, moral and imaginative ?

CHAPTER

XI.

Cole enters upon a higher style of Art.—Its consequences.—Letters to Mr.
Gilmor: picture painted for him; remarks on pictorial composition;
pictures in the Academy; the Garden of Eden; the Expulsion.—Trip to
the White Mountains.

LET US now return with Cole to the quiet labours of the
painting-room. From pictures merely descriptive of wild
nature, he went on to paint those poetically expressive of
himself. This was at once regarded as an unfortunate step
for one whose pencil was so true to the great features of
American landscape. Even the judicious among his friends
feared that he was forsaking his only proper path. Cole,
however, had done what it was impossible for them, at the
time, to d o : in his searching of nature he had sounded his
imaginative feelings, and taken the partial measure of his
own powers of working, and the capabilities of the department of art which had been opening upon him as something
new and original. And now, so far as circumstances would
permit, his task henceforth was not indeed to abandon landscape, but so to paint it as to make it a true reflection both
of the visible creation and of himself. Ever faithful to the
scenes external to himself, ever true to the spirit and the
forms of beauty everywhere before his sight, he wished his
canvass at the same moment to speak a language eloquent

90

COLE ENTERS UPON A HIGHER STYLE OF ART.

of God, and man, and human life. To feed with a fleeting
pleasure the beholder's eyes, he felt was not half the mission
of an artist. He could only be worthy of the pencil when
he should also aim to delight, and teach the mind. Within
the pavilion of the seasons, with all its wonderful and
glorious garniture, must he toil, musing and talking in art's
pictorial language of man, a restless wanderer on earth, or
as a pilgrim and a stranger passing forward to a repose in
heaven.
He soon felt, alas! that it would have been better for his
future interest and popularity had he confined himself to the
species of painting which had made so lively an impression,
and gained him so rapidly an enviable distinction. Portraiture of mornings and evenings, storms and waters, under
circumstances of the picturesque and savage, was on a level
with the public mind, and the fancy of the connoisseurs;
and he who could so well reach that mind, and gratify that
fancy, and yet would presume to withhold the favourite
morsels, in order to furnish a refined repast, for which there
was little taste, and less real appetite, must take the consequences of his presumption. Could he have always kept
himself to that earlier kind of picture, he would have been,
all through his day,, the most pop.ular of painters. But
Cole was constituted more an artist for the future than the
present. He could not, therefore, be even nature's mere
portrait-painter, although her features were the grandest,
and her countenance and apparel the most beauteous and
winning. Fond as he then was of praise, he felt that it was
a smaller thing to sacrifice than the nobler vocation to
which he aspired: much as he really needed money, more
for others who were dear to him and dependent than for
himself, he could not dare to turn back from that ascending
and original path upon which his vision had fastened, and

ITS CONSEQUENCES.

91

content himself to walk in a lower and easier one, leading
quickly to golden success. No; the determination was
made: he pondered well his setting out, and advanced
boldly and alone.
Among his pictures, at the exhibition of the National
Academy, in the spring of 1828, appeared the Garden of
Eden and the Expulsion. For their poetic conception,
manner of composition, and other artistic merits, they had
their admirers; particularly the Eden—a picture remarkable for its flowery luxuriance.
" In this work," says Bryant, " he attempted what was
almost beyond the power of the pencil, a representation of
the bloom and brightness which poets attribute to the abode
of man in a state of innocence. In the distance were gleaming waters, and winding valleys, and bowers on the gentle
slopes of the hills ; but nearer, in the foreground, the painter
has lavished upon the garden a profusion of bloom, and
hidden the banks, and oppressed the shrubs with a weight
of ' flowers of all hues/ as Milton calls these ornaments of
his Paradise. A single flower, or a group of several, may
be very well managed by the artist; but when he attempts
to portray an expanse of bloom, a whole landscape, or any
large portion of it, overspread, and coloured by them, we
feel the imperfection of the instruments he is obliged to use,
and are disappointed by the want of vividness in the impression he strives to create. The Eden of Cole has great
merits as a scene, of tranquil beauty, but there was that in
its design to which the power of the pencil was not adequate."
The circumstance of their tardy sale, especially that of
the Expulsion, proved, however, that they marked the era
when the swell of general applause began to subside, and
that the first note was struck of that censure which too

92

A PICTURE PAINTED FOR MR. GILMOR.

often is inflicted upon original genius, when, in opposition
to some popular taste, or conventionalism, it has the daring
to think for itself, and act according to laws of its own.
Portions of his correspondence, commenced soon after his
settlement in New York, with the late Robert Gilmor, Esq.,
of Baltimore, an early friend and generous patron of the
artist, will confirm, in some degree, parts of the foregoing,
and give us something of his history up to his departure for
Europe.
To ROBERT GILMOR, ESQ.
NEW YORK, July 2d, 1825.

have received your letter of the 27th of last
month, enclosing fifty dollars. I was much gratified to learn
that the picture pleased, and am greatly indebted to you for
the criticisms. I agree with you in thinking that the general
effect is rather monotonous ; but the scene in nature was so
grand in its monotony as to induce me to paint it. Perhaps
the admiration with which I behold the wild and great features of nature diverts attention too much from interesting
accessories. I think the colour of the sky will be much improved by varnish; but whether it will have the true saffron
tint of morn I cannot say. Mornings vary much in their
tints—sometimes rosy, sometimes pale yellow, golden, and
often of a greenish tint.
I hope to profit by the excellent advice your letter contained, and shall endeavour to show, in the pictures I have
to paint for you, that I have not forgotten it. It would
give me great pleasure to see your collection of pictures : I
have never yet seen a fine picture of any foreign landscape
#
painter. *
*
I am,
with respect,
Yours, &c,
DEAR SIR,—I

THOMAS COLE.

REMARKS ON PICTORIAL COMPOSITION.

93

TO THE SAME.
N E W YORK, December 25th, 1825.
DEAR SIR,—I received your letter with pleasure, and
must thank you for your opinions respecting the introduction of figures, &c, into pictures.
#
*
*
I hope you will pardon me if I make a few remarks on
what you have kindly said on compositions. I agree with
you cordially about the introduction of water in landscapes : but I think there may be fine pictures without it.
I really do not conceive that compositions are so liable to
be failures as you suppose, and bring forward an example
in Mr.
. If I am not misinformed, the first pictures
which have been produced, both Historical and Landscape,
have been compositions. Raphael's pictures, and those of
all the great painters, are something more than imitations
#
of nature as they found it. *
* If the imagination is shackled, and nothing is described but what we
see, seldom will anything truly great be produced either in
Painting or Poetry. You say Mr.
has failed in his
compositions: perhaps the reason may be easily found—
that he has painted from himself, instead of recurring to
those scenes in nature which, formerly, he imitated with
such great success. It follows that the less he studies from
nature, the further he departs from it, and loses the beautiful impress; of which you speak with such justice and feeling.
But a departure from nature is not a necessary consequence
in the painting of compositions: on the contrary, the most
lovely and perfect parts of nature may be brought together,
and combined in a whole, that shall surpass in beauty and
effeat any picture painted from a single view. I believe
with you, that it is of the greatest importance for a painter
always to have his mind upon nature, as the star by which
he is to steer to excellence in his art. He who would paint

94

PICTURES IN THE ACADEMY.—THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

compositions, and not be false, must sit down amidst his
sketches, make selections, and combine them, and so have
nature for every object that he paints. This is what I
should endeavour to do: and I think you will agree with
me, that such a course embraces all the advantages obtained
in painting actual views, without the objections.
I am yours, with respect,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
PHILADELPHIA, May 21st,

1828.

your last letter, you kindly intimated,
that a line from me would be acceptable, whenever I should
feel an inclination to write. Having a leisure hour, I shall
indulge myself in addressing you, trusting you will not consider it an intrusion.
The Exhibition of the Academy of Design is now open.
It is perhaps the most numerous collection of the works of
American artists that has been exhibited. Most of the Pictures have been painted within the last year : and amongst
them are many of merit. Morse, Inman, Ingham, exhibit
good pictures. Fisher and Doughty have several which
are agreeable* I exhibit a number. Amongst them are
two attempts at a higher style of landscape than I have
hitherto tried. The subject of one picture is The Garden
of Eden. In this I have endeavoured to conceive a happy
spot wherein all the beautiful objects of nature were concentred. The subject of the other is The Expulsion from
the Garden. Here I have introduced the more terrible
objects of nature, and have endeavoured to heighten the
effect by giving a glimpse of the Garden of Eden in its
tranquillity.
I wish you to consider that I have been speaking of what
MY DEAR SIR,—In

TRIP TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

95

I wished to accomplish in these pictures, rather than what I
have done; for I may have failed in these efforts. I should,
nevertheless, be much gratified if you could see them, even
if it were only to point out wherein I have not succeeded.
My going to Europe this fall depends, in some measure,
on the sale of these two pictures. The price I ask for them
is a high one. The labour and study have been great. In
setting it, I have left it to my friends to judge for me, not
feeling myself a competent judge of my own works, for
every artist will have a love for his own productions, being
more in the habit of looking for their beauties than for their
defects. In your last letter you made me a kind offer of
assistance, in case I should go to Europe: I hope I shall not
find it necessary to task your generosity. But it would be
a satisfaction to my parents if, in case of accident or sickness overtaking me when abroad, I should have the power
of drawing on some friend for a small amount. If the pictures now exhibiting sell, I shall be enabled, with economy,
to study in Europe a year or eighteen months. * # *
I remain, yours respectfully,
THOMAS COLE.

The ensuing autumn, Cole, in company with a friend,
visited the mountains of New Hampshire. The following
comprises, in part, his notes penciled from day to day on
the blank leaves of his sketch-book.
TRIP TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
October 3d, 1828.

*
* We set out to climb the Chocorua peak. * *
On the path through the wood, we came to windfalls, the
track of the tornado, where every tree is laid prostrate.
We came out, at length, to a lonely and deserted clearing,

96

TRIP TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

just at the foot of the mountain. The cause of this abandonment is, they say, the poisonous effects of the water upon
the cattle; the result, according to tradition, of the curse
of Chocorua, an Indian, from whom the peak, upon which he
was killed by the whites, takes its name. The beginning
of our ascent was more difficult on account of briars and
fallen trees than from any abruptness; but we soon entered
upon a steep and terribly laborious journey. It would seem
that the wind-fiend had raged around this mountain with
unsparing power; the loftiest and the most strongly-rooted
trees are alike laid prostrate. To pass through these windfalls was both perilous and difficult; tall pine and gnarled
birch, with branches confusedly mingled, were heaped together in the wildest manner. But we gained the summit,
and were rewarded for our toils. On every side prospects
mighty and sublime opened upon the vision: lakes, mountains, streams, woodlands, dwellings and farms wove themselves into a vast and varied landscape. Of the numerous
lakes, some glistened like polished silver, others were dark
blue: clouds cast their shadows far and wide, and produced
wonderfully fine effects of light and shade. With all its
beauty the scene was one too extended and map-like for the
canvass. It was not for sketches that I ascended Chocorua,
but for thoughts; and for these this was truly the region.
We remained several hours on the granite peak, and then
took our way down its perplexing steeps towards the village, where we arrived after dark.
jfc

3fe

^p

W

•??

W

*Jv

October 6th. The morning opened in a threatening manner, but we left Crawford's prepared for the worst. We
had before us that wild mountain-pass called the Notch,
through which descends the Saco, a rapid river without
bridges, these having been washed away by late floods.

TRIP TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

97

The distance is twelve miles, and not a house except the
deserted Willey House; but with our luggage strapped on
our backs we set forward, and footed it through. The
wind blew violently down the pass as we approached, and
the gray, heavy clouds were rushing round the overhanging
crags, as if contending which should sit upon the mountain
throne.
We now entered the Notch, and felt awe-struck as we
passed between the bare and rifted mountains, rising on
either hand some two thousand feet above us. With the
exception of a few curling round the airy pinnacles, the
clouds had now dispersed, and the sun shone down brilliantly upon this scene of wild grandeur. The sight of the
Willey House, with its little patch of green in the gloomy
desolation, very naturally recalled to mind the horrors of
the night when the whole family perished beneath an avalanche of rocks and earth. *
* It is impossible to give
a true picture of this desolate and savage spot: we made
some sketches, and proceeded up the gorge. The mountains
close in upon you as you ascend towards the higher end,
and have a peculiarly grand and picturesque appearance.
The stream runs over a broken bed of rocks, and the wild
variety of views, as we crossed and recrossed, amply repaid
our toils. Up the rocky steeps, hundreds and hundreds of
feet above our heads, we saw waterfalls that shone in the
sunshine like streaks of silver. *
*
*
*
October 7th. Mr. Pratt left me on his way to L
, and
I spent the day in making drawings from trees, rocks, banks,
&c. The next day I set off, through the Breton woods on
the bank of the Ammonoosuck, for Franconia.
*
*
Through the pass, called the Franconian Notch, there is
a good road, over which passes a small coach to Plymouth.
7

98

TRIP TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

After a .hearty meal, and with a little bread and cheese in
my pocket in case of necessity, I set off with the expectation
of the coach overtaking me in the Notch. For five or six
miles the road ascends, and, as the day was mild, I found it
rather fatiguing before I reached the entrance of the pass,
where you begin to descend. This has nothing of the desolate grandeur of the other Notch. The elements do not
seem to have chosen this for a battle-ground, and the hoar
mountains do not appear wrinkled by recent convulsions.
One of the two lakes, you here meet with, is presided over
by the Old Man of the Mountains, as the people about here
call it, a singular crag some fifteen hundred feet aloft, having
the features of the human face. The perfect repose of these
waters, and the unbroken silence reigning through the whole
region, made the scene peculiarly impressive and sublime:
indeed, there was an awfulness in the deep solitude, pent
up within the great precipices, that was painful. While
there was a pleasure in the discovery, a childish fear came
over me that drove me away: the bold and horrid features,
that bent their severe expression upon me, were too dreadful to look upon in my loneliness: I could not feel happy in
their communion, nor take them to my heart as my companions. The very trees were wild and savage in their forms
and expression. This I have found a kind of law, the law
of congruity in nature. Where the region is one of savage
character, the trees in their predominant traits correspond:
in places where the aspects of nature are more gentle, there
the expression of the woods is soft and pleasing, and the
general outline of the trees graceful and beautiful. As I
walked on down the road, darkened by the forest, and rendered doubly gloomy by heavy masses of clouds breaking
round the cliffs, I listened with anxious ears for the wheels
of the coach, but always found them filled with the sound

TRIP TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

99

of waters, falling either with a whispery voice in the distance, or with an angry roar near at hand. In spite of a
timid excitement, and the prospect of a shower, I sketched
several trees by the road-side. In the course of my walk,
I came to a bark-covered hut, in the midst of burnt trees,
with a swarm of unwashed, uncombed, but healthy-looking
children, who ran out to stare with amazement at the passing
stranger. I reached, at length, a better looking abode,
where the horses of the coach were to be exchanged, and
awaited its arrival. From the door I made a sketch of the
mountains, to the surprise and admiration of the people of
the house, who put me down for a surveyor making a map.
The long looked-for coach at last came down, and gave me
a pleasant ride into Plymouth. Passing through Concord,
I arrived at Boston, October the 10th.

CHAPTER

XII.

Cole anticipates going abroad.—Letters to Mr. Gilmor: asks a favour; a
favourable reply.—A Visit to Niagara.

THE succeeding winter was one of great industry, and
singular interest to Cole. His hands and his heart were
full. He was approaching, in expectation, a long desired
event; an event which, like a great rock in a river, might
shoot the current of his visible life wide from its present
direction, and exert he knew not what influence on his
life within: I mean his visit to Europe as a student of
art.
For a long season, comparatively, his course had been
forward with steady footsteps to one point. That point
now seemed to be gained ; and he was in the enjoyment of
his first still breathing-time. The last few years had been
prosperous and pleasant, by far the most pleasant of his life.
" My brother," said his sister Sarah, " was very happy in
those days. With our music and songs we used frequently
to sit up until midnight and after, talking also a great deal,
especially about the past." Now that they were over, there
were few things upon which he conversed with more satisfaction than the many serious difficulties he had encountered.
This pleasing retrospect, however, did not alone occupy

COLE ANTICIPATES GOING ABROAD.

101

those hours of sweet, but earnest musing. The past met by
the future, with its swift-coming and mysterious tide, awakened deep and sometimes painful emotions. Too timid
and alive with sensibility not to shrink from the uncertainties of the field he was about to enter, all that was, nevertheless, little in comparison with the thought of leaving
home. It may appear trivial thus to mention what is common, in some degree, to every person of proper sense and
feeling. But not to note the child-like, intense affection
which made Cole grow to all included in the word Home,
and the pang of separating from it, would be to miss one
of the great moral forces of his character, one of the essential marks of poetic genius.
A true poet loves the very dust of his habitual walks.
The steps that wear out the grass, and indent the sod, win
his affections for the brown, crooked path so entirely,
that to wander there is to walk closest to Paradise. Of
that which is perpetually near, even the smoke of a neighbour's chimney, he takes delightful account.
Common,
simplest creatures, the yellow-bird and the thistle-seed,
the mossy fence-rails ,and wall-stones, and the wren chattering between them, are the last to be overlooked : familiarity breeds no disgust with aught but the evil and unlovely. His ways are the reverse of those who seek their
joy in novelties, and expect the wonderful only in the
remote. The golden azalea of the Apalachians, the great
scarlet rhododendron of the Catawba blaze along the
distant heights with a cold splendour to the heart that
gathers into its warmest centre the dandelion, buttercup
and ox-eye, spangling the soft, green knolls of home. Peeping up from that blessed turf the early violet, nay,
" The meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

102

ASKS A FAVOUK.

And this, think not, is the symptom of sickly sentiment,
but the breathless eloquence of a genuine poet's healthiest,
honestest feelings. Separation from these creatures of his
tenderness brings with it a real grief. He anticipates the
hour of its arrival as one of the afflictions of his earthly
lot. So felt, and so thought Cole in the prospect of parting
with things and scenes " carried far into his heart." How
much more then, in view of leaving his family. But, in his
judgment, a pilgrimage to Italy was a painter's duty; to him
not indeed without its poetry and pleasure, but still a duty
requiring precious sacrifice, which he yet felt willing to make
in order to prove fully true and faithful to a high calling.
Of his winter's works one was a New Hampshire mountain picture of great force and motion.* " Your clouds, sir,"
said a visitor, " appear to move." " That," replied the
artist, "is precisely the effect I desire." Another was a
picture of somewhat a dramatic character, entitled Hagar
in the wilderness, of which mention is made in one of the
following letters.
To ROBERT GILMOR, ESQ.
NEW YORK, January 5th, 1829.
DEAR SIR,—I hope I shall need no apology for taking the

liberty of writing to you, although, perhaps, I ought to offer
one for presuming to ask a favour.
I believe you are acquainted with the strong desire I
have long had to visit Europe for the purpose of studying
the works of the Great Masters, and know the advantages
young artists may derive from that study. For a few years
past I have laboured unceasingly, that I might obtain means
for the accomplishment of my desire: hitherto I have been
unsuccessful. Owing to the wants of my family, my.expenses have been equal to my income; and I am brought
* Chocorua, or Corway Peak.

A FAVOURABLE REPLY.

103

reluctantly to the conclusion that my purpose must be
abandoned unless I have other means of accomplishing it
than those I now possess. Your former favour and kindness have encouraged me to ask if you will assist me. My
Garden of Eden and Expulsion are not yet sold. May I
venture to propose that you take them into your hands, and
advance me a sum that shall enable me to visit Europe,
which sum should be repaid in money or pictures, when
and as you shall think best. I will not dwell on the greatness of the favour you would confer by granting my request,
but hope, if it be an improper one, you will find an excuse
for me in my earnest desire for improvement in my art. # *
I remain, yours very respectfully,
THOMAS COLE.
TO THE SAME.
NEW YORK, February 2d, 1829.

know that I intrude on your time in writing
so often; but I trust my doing so may be attributed to your
kindness which encourages me to trespass. You have made
me a kind offer, and I cannot resist the pleasure of acknowledging it, particularly as it is one that facilitates to me the
study of the art to which I am devoted, and which you so
highly appreciate. I aim at the highest excellence,'though
not confidently, by any means: and to whatever eminence I
may attain I shall always remember that you have greatly
#
assisted me in the ascent.
*
*
*
I am, with great respect, your obedient servant,
DEAR SIR,—I

THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
NEW YORK, April 20th, 1829.
DEAR SIR,—Since Tlast wrote to you, I have experienced
disappointment and mortification. I have been full of hopes
and fears.
#
*
*
*
*
*

104

A VISIT TO NIAGARA.

The rafHing of my pictures has caused me much delay and
expense ; but I do not wish you to suppose I have been idle.
I have been painting a picture to take with me, Hagar in
the Wilderness. I hope it is my best effort. It would
gratify me exceedingly to show it to you. *
*
*
I am living in anticipation: but my anticipations are not
all pleasing, for in going to study the great works of art, I
feel like one who is going to his first battle, and knows
neither his strength nor his weakness. Perhaps I betray
some vanity in what I have just said, for I am not going to
fight, but to learn to
fight.
*
*
*
* •
•
I am, yours fery respectfully,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
NEW YORK, April 26th, 1829.

* I do not think I shall be able to
sail before the 15th of May, and therefore hope to have the
gratification of seeing you in New York. I am very anxious
to be on my voyage. Next Wednesday, I intend setting off
for the Falls of Niagara. I cannot think of going to Europe
without having seen them. I wish to take a " last, lingering look" at our wild scenery. I shall endeavour to impress its features so strongly on my mind that, in the midst
of the fine scenery of other countries, their grand and beautiful peculiarities shall not be erased. *
*
*
I remain, yours respectfully,
DEAR S I R , — *

THOMAS COLE.

Cole's first sight of Niagara was not what he had anticipated. He was disappointed. Lifted by no rapture, burdened by no sense of overpowering grandeur, he gazed upon
it almost without an emotion above that of surprise at himself. The old vision of his imagination vanished on his

A VISIT TO NIAGARA.

105

first look, and left him labouring in a kind of mental void,
which the reality, in whose presence he stood, altogether
failed to fill. Cole, though, had leaned too long upon the
breast of nature not to have humility and wisdom, not to
know that it was his own infirmity, and no deficiency in
the object before him. Its failure to affect him at once lay
in its very greatness. Contemplation, though, would give
width and penetration to the faculty of seeing, and wake up
power after power to the last and loftiest of his soul,—a
consolatory reflection, the truth of which at last found its
proof when, mind and feelings wrestling together, he strove
to his utmost to give answer to the awful call, and to make
confession of the strength, purity and glory (the arms of
the universe) wrought by the finger of God on the folds of
that ever-unrolling banner of the earth.
And yet, taking it the year round, or even for the single
cycle of sunshine, shade, storm and calm, Niagara to .Cole
was, by his own declaration, far less than the mountains.
They were symbols of the eternal majesty, immutability and
repose, which no cataract could ever be. And no multitude of such symbols could ever detract from the dignity
and force of each single one. Nay, the greater the multitude, the more impressive the symbolism of each, arising
from the greater skill which the mind would naturally acquire in tracing it, and the ever-deeping insight into the
divine realities which were symbolized. Niagara was great
in its loneliness. Let its equal, though its neck be clothed
with ceaseless thunder, and its vestment be the countless
beauties of successive day and night, appear in a thousand
places, and one might look for an effect little corresponding
with that which it now produces in its solitary supremacy.
But the mountain, with a fulness of might in itself, is yet
mightier as one of an innumerable brotherhood, in each of

106

A VISIT TO NIAGARA.

which you behold an image of everlasting repose,—from its
summit can escape into the infinite, and upon the perpetual
rocks hear voices from the bosom of inwrapping clouds,
talking of the presence of the Almighty, and say, with both
a lowly sense of your own present littleness and restlessness,
and a lofty sense of your immortality and final rest, " it is
good for us to be here."
It is needless to relate that Cole made drawings of Niagara. He sketched it at various points, particularly from
below, and upon Table Rock, and from a projection on the
eastern brink, where the eye commands, at a glance, the
entire sweep of the cataract with the rugged cliffs of Goat
Island. For the study of water, especially under all i t s
circumstances connected with torrent-motion, Niagara far
exceeded, in his opinion, all other places. A favourite
study was a singularly fine swell, beautifully breaking back
upon itself, in the rapid below the bridge crossing to the
island. Well nigh twenty years afterward, he pointed it
out to a friend, the same " thing of beauty" which he had
studied with more pleasure and effect than almost any other
single object at the falls.
Footing it down the river with sketch-book in hand, the
Whirlpool afforded fine opportunities for water-studies, and
the heights of Queenston opened to his view an expanse of
forest-tops, then unbroken but by the mighty river, and
bounded by the distant Ontario, which he did not fail to
secure for future purposes.

CHAPTER

XIII.

Cole in England.—Delight at its Rural Beauties.—Studies Nature rather
than Pictures.—Disappointment at English art.—To his Parents: rural
scenery; London; Westminster Abbey ; pictures; the poet Rogers.—
Hagar in the Wilderness.—Life in London.—Disappointments.—Sir
Thomas Lawrence.—English art.—Notes on A r t : Turner; Hogarth;
Claude; Rembrant; Elzheimer; the effects of time on pictures; of detail
in pictures.—To Sarah Cole : pictures in the Exhibition; a musical gentleman.—To Mr. Gilmor : Sir Thomas Lawrence ; opinions of painters.—To
Mr. Cummings.—To Sarah Cole: The Storm.—To Mr. Gfilmor.

ON the 1st of June, 1829, Gole sailed from New York for
London. For nearly two years he applied himself there
assiduously to the study and practice of his art. His
sketches, taken at his intervals of leisure in various parts
of the city and country, show how greatly he delighted to
expatiate in the open air, and how little in the picturegalleries. The lines below, penned on the cover of a
sketch-book, are a true expression of his feelings,
Let not the ostentatious gaud of art,
That tempts the eye, but touches not the heart,
Lure me from nature's purer love divine :
But, like a pilgrim, at some holy shrine,
Bow down to her devotedly, and learn,
In her most sacred features, to discern
That truth is beauty.

108

DELIGHT AT ITS KIJKAL BEAUTIES.

Although an English sky was too often " a grief of mind/
the landscape, with the burden of its own peculiar beauties
stole upon his heart with a charm. To one, whose mind had
been reaping where nature sows grandeur broadcast, and
gathering where she straws her awful things, English scenes
opened with the soft and quiet splendour of pleasant dreams.
All abroad he saw something of the poet's vision :
" And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree :
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare."

" Embowered in groves of the densest, darkest foliage I
ever beheld, nothing can be richer than the green of an
English lawn," is a note among his first sketches at Twickenham, Hampton Court, and Richmond Hill. Of elaborate
studies in the galleries there is not in his collection a single
specimen. A few minute and hasty sketches from Turner,
and one or two others, are the amount of his drawings from
modern English pictures. In a solitary instance he reluctantly effected a copy of a postoral scene by Wilson, whose
truthfulness to nature he admired.
As already intimated, Cole looked across the Atlantic
with the hopes and fears of enthusiastic genius. While he
could not imagine less than that the realm of the true and
beautiful in art was about to open upon him in a manner to
excite his " wonder and love," and give him fresh impulses
and lofty teachings, there were times when he could not
reason himself out of the dread that he was going abroad
for revelations of sad weakness and deficiency in himself.
Forgetful, at such moments, that the Creator's own living
works bad been his great instructors, and that his own

DISAPPOINTMENT AT ENGLISH ART.—RURAL SCENERY.

109

mind, winged and warmed by love, had been the sole interpreter of their language,—facts which paralleled his case
with that of the imaginative masters of old time, most of
all, perhaps, with that of Salvator Rosa,—it is not surprising
that he was agitated. He was soon to stand in the presence
of the master-pieces of those who had been trained in the high
schools of art, and pampered with their choicest literature
and examples. Faith in his own powers, faith in nature
herself—nature as she" had lured him to her, and as he had
lived with her apart from the world—had not yet grown
to the stature when it walks without fear and trembling.
Actual sight, however, dispelled alike his hopes and alarms.
England in herself, not counting her purchased treasures
from the continent, her Claudes and Salvators, was, after
all, no Utopia of painting. He had not over-measured
himself, nor misplaced his trust. There was a new gladness in his heart, but with a mingling of sorrowful disappointment.
But Cole in England is best seen in his letters and criticisms. Of the latter it may be said, that they were penned
with no thought of their ever being published, mainly hasty
notes for his own future reference, but expressing views
which were sanctioned by the wisdom of later years.
TO HIS PARENTS.
LONDON, June 28th, 1829.

DEAR PARENTS,—I hasten to inform you of my arrival in
London, which was last evening. *
* I have nothing particular to relate respecting my voyage, except that it was
what the sailors call a lady's voyage. * * Fine as it was,
I had a great deal of sea-sickness. The weather was delightful as we coasted the south of England from Land's
End to Portsmouth; and, I can assure you, I enjoyed the

110

LONDON.—WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

scenery very much. The country was clothed in the richest
verdure, with here and there a village and its church peeping
out from among the trees. * * Nothing can be more picturesque than the variety of sails to be seen along the English
coast. Every vessel seemed rigged after a different fashion,
and many have red sails. The vessels in general were finer
than I expected; and I find that the Americans are not the
only people in the world that build beautiful ships. Of
Portsmouth I have little to say, as it rained the night I
arrived. * * From my window I had a view of numbers
of men-of-war, and among them the Victory, the ship in
which Nelson died.
*
*
*•• •
*
* Mr. C
, another gentleman and myself took a
post-chaise, and came to London. * * Nothing can exceed
the excellence of English cultivation ; all is a perfect garden.
As we passed between the hedge-rows we were gratified
with the most delightful fragrance of the wild-rose and
honey-suckle. There is a wonderful neatness in the cottages ; the very poorest of them has its little garden before
the door, and is almost buried in flowers.
I entered London by way of Fulham, and was in the midst
of it almost without knowing it, so many are the gardens
and trees on that route.
*
*. I took a walk to Westminster Abbey to-day. It far exceeds my expectations: no
prints or descriptions can give a true notion of its grandeur. As it is Sunday, I happened there at the time of
service, which was imposing. The sermon was delivered in
a fine manner by a very haughty-looking man. To-day the
Abbey is free to all, and I went over a great part of it, and
viewed the numerous monuments that decorate it. *
*
Your loving son,
THOMAS COLE.

PICTURES.—THE POET ROGERS.

Ill

TO THE SAME.
LONDON, July 10th", 1829.

DEAR PARENTS,—As an opportunity offers of writing by
the packet, which sails in a few days, I have determined
not to neglect it. I hope my last, which gave you an account of my voyage, found you all in health. I have taken
lodgings at a Mr. Upton's, No. 11, London Street, Fitzroy
Square. * # You may suppose that when I visited the
exhibition of the Royal Academy I went with great expectations : I was going to see the works of painters highly
estimated; and I almost trembled for fear I should find my
own littleness. A view of the fine pictures have not discouraged me. There were many excellent ones by Turner,
Calcot and others, of whom you have often heard me speak.
But I really think that most of them are very far from perfection in the art. They do not altogether come up to my
expectations; and I cannot but think I have done more
than any of the English painters. Many of them go beyond
me in parts; but, as a whole, I certainly have reason to be
gratified with the advances I have made. What I have just
said I should not wish repeated to any of my friends; they
might take it for vanity: and, after all, I may form a wrong
estimate of my own merits. I think I shall improve very
fast here, having the advantage of seeing so many fine pictures, both ancient and modern.
I called on Samuel Rogers, a day or two since, and he
received me with cordiality. He expressed himself highly
pleased with the picture I had sent him, and invited me to
dine with him to-mt)rrow, which I intend to do. He has
not yet seen my Hagar. He has a fine collection of pictures
of the most distinguished artists, and worth, at the least
calculation, twenty or thirty thousand pounds. I have seen
pictures, at the Royal Academy, which I should consider

112

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.—LIFE IN LONDON.

very inferior, fetch high prices. Artists seem to be doing
very well here; the exhibitions are crowded to excess from
morning till night.
*
*
*
*
I dined with Mr. Rogers yesterday, as I intended. Everything was in the finest style, and he behaved in a very
friendly manner. He has not yet seen my Hagar. * *
Prom your loving son,
THOMAS COLE.

Poor Hagar! whatever the impression she might have
made upon the accomplished poet, it is certain that her
fortunes in no way corresponded with what the artist had
at first ventured to predict. " Cole," said a friend one
day, " what has become of Hagar ?" " Ah, sir," replied
the painter, with no little sadness in his humour, " she is
in the bottom of the sea." He had painted another picture over i t : the mimic waters were actually freshening
above her.
In a correspondence with Dunlap, some time subsequent
to this, he says :
I did not find England so delightful as I anticipated.
The gloom of the climate, the coldness of the artists, together with the kind of art in fashion, threw a melancholy
over my mind that lasted for months even after I had
arrived in sunny Italy. Perhaps my vanity suffered. I
found myself a nameless, noteless individual, in the midst
of an immense, selfish multitude. I did not expect much,
scarcely anything more than to have an opportunity of
studying, and showing some of my pictures in the public
exhibitions, and to a few persons of taste, in my own room.
I did study; but the pictures I sent, two seasons, both to
the Royal Academy and to the British Gallery, were, without exception, hung in the worst places, so that my acquain-

DISAPPOINTMENTS.—SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

113

tances had a difficulty in knowing them. I was mortified,
not that they had been so disposed of, but because the vilest
daubs, caricatures, and washy imitations were placed in excellent situations.
The last time I sent pictures to be exhibited, I expected
a little different treatment; for one of the hanging committee of the Royal Academy had led me to expect something better. I was disappointed. At the British Gallery
I had hopes also : Rogers had promised to intercede for me.
But, unfortunately, he was called out of town at the very
moment he could have aided me; and my pictures had to
stand on their own merits, which, in the eyes of the hangmen, amounted to nothing. On the varnishing day I found
them in the most exalted situations.
At the Gallery of the British Artists I exhibited once, and
was better treated. My picture of a Tornado in an American forest was placed in a good situation, and was praised
exceedingly in several of the most fashionable papers.
I have said that I found the artists in London cold and
selfish: there may have been many exceptions, but I found
few. My own works, and myself most likely, had nothing
to interest them sufficiently to excite attention : the subjects
of my pictures were generally American, the very worst
that could be chosen in London. I passed weeks in my
room without a single artist entering, except Americans.
L
was friendly, although he never appeared to think
there was any merit in my works, and N
called on me
twice in two years.
*
*
*
*
To Sir Thomas Lawrence I was introduced by a letter
from Mr. Gilrnor, of Baltimore. He treated me in a very
friendly manner, was pleased with my pictures, and sent
his carriage for me to come and breakfast with him. We
Dreakfasted at eight, in a spacious apartment filled with
8

114

ENGLISH ART.—TURNER.

works of art. We conversed on the fine arts and America.
*
*
After breakfast he took me into his paintingroom, which was a picture wilderness. A short time after,
I met him at the British Gallery, and he invited me to go
with him to Sir Robert Peel's, in a few days, to see his
collection. But death, whose hand was alrea.dy upon him,
deprived me of that pleasure. I lost a valuable acquaintance, and the world a distinguished man. *
*
*
Although, in many respects, I was pleased with the
English school of painting, yet, on the whole, I was disappointed. My natural eye was disgusted with its gaud and
ostentation. To colour and chiaroscuro all else is sacrificed.
Design is forgotten. To catch the eye by some dazzling
display seems to be the grand aim. The English have a
mania for what they call generalizing, which is nothing
more nor less than the idle art of making a little study go
a great way; and their pictures are usually things " full of
sound and fury signifying nothing." The mechanical genius
of the people exhibits itself in the mechanism of the art—
the dexterous management of glazing, scumbling, &c. Frequent and crowded exhibitions of recently-painted pictures,
and the gloom of the climate, account for the gaudy and
glaring style in fashion. There are few exceptions among
the artists of England to this meretricious style. *
*
These opinions of English art, I know, may be considered heterodox; but I will venture them, because I believe them correct. The standard by which I form my
judgment is nature: and, if I am astray, it is on a path
which I have taken for that of truth.
NOTES ON ART.

December 12th, 1829. I have just returned from visiting
Turner and his pictures. I had expected to see an older

HOGARTH.—CLAUDE.—REMBRANT.—ELZHEIMER.

115

looking man, with a countenance pale with thought; but I
#
was entirely mistaken. *
He has a good gallery, in
which hang many of his finest pictures. The Building of
Carthage is a splendid composition, and full of poetry.
Magnificent piles of architecture fill the sides, while in the
middle of the picture an arm of the sea or bay comes into
the foreground, glittering in the light of the sun, which rises
directly over it. The figures, vessels, &c, are all very appropriate. The composition resembles very closely some
of Claude's. The colour is fine, and the effect of sunshine
excellent; but the sky around the sun appears to me to be
too raw and yellow.
Hannibal crossing the Alps in a snow storm is a sublime
picture, with a powerful effect of chiaroscuro. In one picture, a magnificent scene, there was a dazzling effect of sunshine in the water: it seemed to be produced,*independent
of colour, by a multitude of small, very dark spots amid the
waves.
His later pictures I admire very much. They appear to
me, however, to have an artificial look. When considered
separately from the subject, they are splendid combinations
of colour. But they are destitute of all appearance of solidity: all appears transparent and soft, and reminds one of
jellies and confections. This appearance, I imagine, is the
effect of an undue dislike to dulness or black. In light and
shade all is of the richest, brightest colour. Nature, in her
most exquisite beauty, abounds in darkness and dulness;
above all, she possesses solidity.
The first of Hogarth's pictures I saw were that series
called Love a la Mode. In colour and handling they were
far beyond my expectation. 'Objecting to the study of pictures, Hogarth says, " The most original mind, if habituated
to these exercises, becomes inoculated with the style of

116

THE EFFECT OF TIME ON PICTURES.

others, and loses the power of stamping a spirit of its own
on the canvass." There is truth in this remark. *
*
I think there is in Alison's work on taste a passage in
which he attributes the decline of the fine arts to the circumstance of painters having forsaken the main object of
art for the study of its technicalities. The same cause yet
exists to the very great deterioration of painting. The
means seem a greater object of admiration than the end,—
the language of art, rather than the thoughts which are to
be expressed. The conception, the invention, that which
affects the soul, is sacrificed to that which merely pleases
the eye. Painting now is more ingenious than true and
beautiful. Take away from painting that which affects the
imagination, and speaks to the feelings, and the remainder
is merely for sensual gratification, mere food for the gross
eye, which is as well satisfied with the flash and splendour
of jewelry. The conception and reproduction of truth and
beauty are the first object of the poet; so should it be with
the painter. He who has no such conceptions, no power of
creation, is no real painter. The language of art should
have the subserviency of a vehicle. It is not art itself.
Chiaroscuro, colour, form should always be subservient to
the subject, and never be raised to the dignity of an end.
The language and imagery of Paradise Lost are but the
instruments by which the great poetic creation is evolved.
Many old pictures have pleasing qualities, which did not
exist when fresh from the hand of the artist. We see in
them a mellowness and lustre, a kind of inward light which
is the effect of the touchings of time, and not of the pencil,
that gave them their new being on the canvass. The cause
of this highly valued quality appears to me extremely simple.
It arises, evidently, from an artificial atmosphere, formed by
particles of opaque matter gradually deposited upon the

OF DETAIL IN PICTURES.—PICTURES IN THE EXHIBITION. 1 1 7

surface. This medium through which we see the picture
is dark and negative, and the light that breaks through it
has greater value from the contrast.
In subjects of a quiet character it is proper, it appears to
me, to introduce much detail. When we view the lovely
scenes of nature, the eye runs about from one object of
beauty to another; it delights in the minute as well as in
the vast. In the terrible and grand, when the mind is
astonished, the eye does not dwell upon the minute, but
seizes the whole. In the forest, during an hour of tempest,
it is not the bough playing in the wind, but the whole mass
stooping to the blast that absorbs the attention: the detail,
however fine, is comparatively unobserved. In a picture of
such a subject detail should not attract the eye, but the whole.
It should be, in this case, the aim of the artist to impress the
spirit of the entire scene upon the mind of the beholder.
Detail, however, ought not to be neglected in the grandest
subject. A picture without detail is a mere sketch. The
finest scene in the world, one most fitted to awaken sensations of the sublime, is made up of minutest parts. These
ought all to be given, but so given as to render them subordinate, and ministrative to the one effect. In confirmation
of this doctrine I have only to appeal to Claude, Gr. Poussin,
and Salvator Rosa.
To SARAH COLE.
LONDON, February 15th, 1830.

MY DEAR SARAH,—I had the great pleasure of receiving
your letter on my birth-day. I hope it was a good omen.
You complain of my not writing more often: I am sure you
cannot complain of my letters being short; and you know
that my time is fully occupied. * * * I have not much to
tell you either of good or bad. The exhibition of the British
Institution opened a day or two since. It is managed by

118

A MUSICAL GENTLEMAN.

gentlemen who are not artists, and profess to be quite impartial : but I am informed, by all who know anything of
the matter, that they are both ignorant and illiberal. It is
#
to my sorrow that I did not know it sooner.
*
I have now told you about all the bad news, and will
try to get up something better, though I hardly know how.
But I have great hopes, and reasonably so, that my pictures
will not always hang in bad places. Leslie and Constable,
two Royal Academicians, tell me that their pictures have
often been treated in the same manner: this by way of
comfort.
*
* _
#
#
*
# •
I wish you could hear the doleful ditties which are sung
by the ballad-singers, who usually go three or four together.
Sometimes you hear a whole family—man, woman, and halfa-dozen children—squalling along the street most musically.
The man and woman jog steadily' on with the ditty, while
every now and then the young-ones give a squall in a hard
place by way of a lift. There lives next door to me a most
musical gentleman. He formerly figured in the most intellectual and dignified calling of harlequin in a company of
strollers; and it appears he danced about to some purpose.
A woman of fortune was smitten, and took him. from the
boards—the boards of a barn. No wonder he should prove
a calf. Well, this harlequin calf, or what you will, and
Mrs. Calf live, as I said, next door to me, and every morning, at ten o'clock precisely, the calf begins to bellow.
Calves, you are aware, have no great variety of tunes;
neither has this calf, for he runs over three or four notes,
steady fire, till twelve o'clock, to the very great edification
and delight of all persons living in the neighbourhood of
Grafton Street. He has been at it, I am informed, for three
years; and in summer, when the windows are open, many
imitations or oppositions may be heard: calves bellow in all

119

A MUSICAL GENTLEMAN.

directions. Several attempts have been made to put down
this nightingale. The boldest was one made by a gallant
shoemaker, who, whenever the bird struck up, used to pop
his head out of his nest, and join in. The shoemaker, however, has long since sunk-'silently down among his wax and
leather, and only twitters a little on his lapstone, finding it
a vain attempt to compete with our fowl, who, heedless of
the chirpings round, continues daily to please himself, and
plague others, and will most likely continue to do so until
he is in his coffin; and even then, when the undertaker is
twisting in the last screw, I much doubt whether he will
not be heard, so thoroughly is the habit in him. *
*
I must now conclude with the hope that I shall send you
some positively good news before long.
*
* . *
Your affectionate brother,
THOMAS COLE.

The following lines, hastily written upon a loose leaf, on
his birth-day, express somewhat passionately the sorrow of
which he speaks to his sister, Sarah, in the foregoing letter.
*

*

*

*

*

*

*

How oft the voice of praise breaks forth o'er works
More fortunate than mine; and then descants,
How skilfully the art does mimic nature,—
How tint and form are beautiful and true;
Then pass me by, as though I ne'er had drank
One draught at nature's universal spring.
Ye mountains, woods and rocks, impetuous streams,
Ye wide-spread heavens, speak out, 0 speak for me!
Have I not held communion deep with you ?
And like to one who is enamoured, gazed
Intensely on your ever-varying charms ?
•

* .

*

*

*

*

*

120

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

To MR. GILMOR.
LONDON, March 1st, 1830.

M Y DEAR SIR,—

*
* The letters you had the kindness to favour me
with have been of great value to me, particularly the one
that obtained for me the acquaintance, and, I may say,
friendship of the distinguished and lamented Sir Thomas
Lawrence. When I delivered your letter, he received me
with the greatest politeness. I breakfasted with him a few
mornings after; and in the course of conversation I said
that, considering the length of time that had elapsed since
he saw you, and the absorbing nature of his profession, his
recollection of you might possibly have been rendered indistinct : he immediately replied, " No, no ! Mr. Gilmor is not
a man to be forgotten." He had seen a picture of mine
which is in the possession of Rogers, the poet, and commended it in terms that were very gratifying to me. He
always treated me with more attention than I had any
reason to expect, considering how fully occupied his time
must have been. I can assure you his death was as painful
to me as it was unexpected: only a few mornings previous
to that event I met him at the British Gallery, when he invited me to call on him.
I have seen much since I have been in England, and hope
I have profited much by what I have seen. The works of
the Old Masters have been my greatest-study and admiration. In Landscape my favourites are Claude and Gaspar
Poussin; but not to the exclusion of others. I could particularize the pictures I most admire, and the qualities for
which I admire them; but as it is most probable that you
have seen the same, I am afraid it would give you more
trouble than pleasure.
I have not neglected to study the works of modern artists:

OPINIONS OF PAINTERS.—LIFE IN LONDON.

121

out with the exception of two or three, the living English
Landscape Painters are either below mediocrity, or going
widely astray in pursuit of effects that have not their foundation in truth and nature. I should consider Turner as
one of the greatest Landscape painters that ever lived, and
his Temple of Jupiter as fine as anything the world has
produced: but in him there is a great falling off. His
present pictures are the strangest things imaginable: and
as far as respects colour, (colour independent of truth of
representation,) they are splendid: but as the Greeks have
said, The most brilliant composition of colours is nothing
better than a gaudy show, dazzling the eye for a moment,
but passing afterward disregarded. To this colouring let
the painter add the solid beauties of design and sentiment,
and he will convert an empty amusement of the eye into an
elegant entertainment of the Fancy.
With the exception of a few weeks that I spent at the
Lakes of Cumberland, I have been painting ever since I
have been in England. You will be surprised when I tell
you that I have not copied a single picture. I never copied
a landscape in oil in my life, and am almost afraid I shall
not be able to bring my mind to it. When the weather
becomes a little warmer I intend to make the attempt. I
am of the opinion too that it is more profitable for me to
paint pictures in the style, keeping their peculiarities always in view, than to copy them.
*
*
*
*
Yours, truly,
THOMAS COLE.

To THOMAS S. CUMMINGS, ESQ.
LONDON, October 19th, 1830.

*
*
*
* More than
a year is now gone since I last saw you; and as time
never passes without effecting some change, it must have
MY DEAR S I R , —

122

THE STORM OR TORNADO IN THE FOREST.

wrought change with us—in our persons, our acquirements,
our anticipations. I trust that, ere this time, you begin to
meet with that success in your profession which, I am confident, you deserve. For my own part, since I wrote to you
last, I have been painting unremittingly. But you will
perhaps be surprised when I inform you that I have not yet
copied a single picture: I intend to commence very soon, if
I can have a fair opportunity. You must not imagine that,
because I have not copied, I have not studied fine pictures.
Though I have not copies on canvass, I hope I have the
-recollection of many pictures in my head.
*
*
J. L. Morton gave me a very encouraging account of our
exhibition; and I hope the same harmony and good-will
prevail among the artists of New York which existed when
I left you. #
* You may tell Mr. Hatch that his engraving of Chocorua has been very much admired. * *
I have not heard a word from Morse for a great length of
time. I hope to be able to send a picture or two for your
next exhibition: one, I think, will be a view of Newstead
Abbey, which I visited lately.
I must now desire you to remember me to Inman, Ingham,
Morton, Dunlap, Durand, Weir, and all others, for whom,
you know, I have a friendship, and tell them that to be with
them I " pant like the hart after the water-brooks." * *
Your sincere friend,
THOMAS COLE.
To SARAH COLE.
LONDON, March 17th, 1831.
M Y DEAR SARAH,— *

* My last gave you an account
of the manner in which my pictures had been treated in the
British Gallery. I have scarcely been there since. I have
sent two pictures to the exhibition of the British Society of
Artists, Suffolk Street; one of them a Storm—the grandest

THE STORM OR TORNADO IN THE FOREST.

123

picture, perhaps, I have painted. I do not yet know how
they have been hung; but I am determined not to expect
much. *
* The few who have seen the Storm think it
very fine, and I have some hopes of it. I shall soon know
its situation in the gallery; when I do, I will write and let
you know.
I am now engaged in copying a picture or two to bring
home with me; and I am seriously thinking of making a
move that way before long. If my means will permit, I
think of making a hasty trip to the continent: but I intend
to be with you before next winter; I shall determine in a
few weeks. *
* I should like to see Switzerland and
Italy; but there is a great deal of commotion on the continent at present, and I shall not run into trouble, if I can
avoid it.
*
*
*
.. * . ,
*
*
You do not say a word about music, or anything of the
#
sort. I suppose you have hung up your harp.
*
Your loving brother,
THOMAS COLE.
To MR. GILMOR.
LONDON, May 1st, 1831.
MY DEAR S I R , —

* * I am now on the eve of visiting the Continent,
where I intend remaining several months. Returning by
the way of England, I hope to arrive in America November
next. With me I shall bring several pictures, and most
likely the Falls of Niagara, of which I spoke: from them,
if it is agreeable, you shall have your choice. I hope such
an arrangement will suit your wishes; and I feel that your
kindness demands from me more than I shall ever be able
to perform.
I have sold several pictures since I have been here, and
some of them have been spoken of in terms of high com-

124

THE STORM OR TORNADO IN THE FOREST.

mendation, in several of the most respectable periodicals.
But public criticism is seldom worth much. Though I may
think lightly of the remarks made on my pictures, I know
that my friends are gratified in hearing that they are noticed. I have found no facilities for copying pictures in
England: I hope to find more on the Continent. I have
only copied a Wilson, but have been painting incessantly;
I hope improving somewhat.
#
#
#
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

CHAPTER

XIV.

Cole in Paris.—Notes on A r t : the Louvre; French a r t ; Ary Scheffer;
Luxembourg.—Journal: the Rhone.—To his Parents : from Paris to
Marseilles.—Journal: Genoa.—To his Parents : from Marseilles to Florence.
EARLY in May, Cole left London for Paris. The contrast between the two cities had the finest effect upon his
feelings. Here in the French capital he could once more
look up into something like an American sky. Everything around was light and cheerful. Clear skies and fine
weather were ever essential to the happiness of Cole. In
their absence his natural spirits ceased to flow, and he sank,
without some effort to the contrary, into melancholy. This
cheerfulness, though, was scarcely sufficient to balance the
disappointment he felt on going into the picture-galleries.
NOTES ON ART.

I visited the Louvre, but was painfully disappointed on
finding that the works of the Old Masters were covered
with the productions of modern painters. Although I had
been informed that the present French artists were low in
merit, I did not expect to find them, with little exception,
so totally devoid of it. I was disgusted in the beginning
with their subjects. Battle, murder and death, Yenuses

126

FRENCH ART.—ARY SCHEFFER.—THE LUXEMBOURG,

and Psyches, the bloody and the voluptuous, are the things
in which they seem to delight: and these are portrayed in
a cold, hard, and often tawdry style, with an almost universal deficiency of chiaroscuro; the whole artificial, laboured and theatrical. This is alike applicable to portrait
and landscape. In landscape they are poor, in portrait
much inferior to the English, and in history cold and affected. In design they are much superior to the English,
but in expression false.
Seheffer's pictures are an exception. He has real feeling.
A Tempest by him is admirable. In several others he approaches fine colour; and in expression and composition he
is truly fine.
The gallery of the Louvre itself is magnificent.
A
pleasing circumstance in connexion with this great exhibition is that it is free to all. The distinctions which obtain
in England are unperceived in Paris. In the Luxembourg,
I was again disappointed in not finding the pictures of the
Old Masters on the walls, but in their place those same
wretched French productions. A picture of Scheffer's there
possessed the merit of good Golour, but was hung in a bad
The room of Mary de Medici I do not admire, with all
its splendour of glass and gilding. The pictures of Rubens
which decorate it are fine specimens of colour. *
*
On the 14th of May, Cole left Paris for Florence, noting
in a journal whatever was most interesting.
JOURNAL.

May 22d, 1831.
*
•
• *
*
*
The scenery on the Rhone is exceedingly fine, resembling
very much that of the Hudson. Crowning the abrupt precipices, which sometimes rise into very grand forms, are

JOURNAL : THE RHONE.—FROM PARIS TO MARSEILLES. 12Y

numerous castles in ruins. Occasionally a village clusters
below. These castle-views carry the mind back to feudal
times. Through the crumbling gate-ways fancy easily calls
forth the steel-clad warriors, and sounds the trumpet, or
sees the dark-eyed ladies looking through the narrow windows of the mouldering towers for the return of their beloved knights from the wars.
The Rhone is indeed the " Rapid Rhone." We glided
down with great speed: villages, vineyards, castles, towers,
crags and mountains all passed like a dream. I often
wished it was in my power to linger in those scenes. An
artist would be amply repaid for the labour of a pedestrian
tour on the banks of the Rhone.
*
*
*
Approaching Avignon, the wild scenery of the banks
gives place to views of extent and varied beauty. In the
distance the Lower Alps rise sublimely on the sight. * *
Avignon is surrounded by ancient walls; and crowned as
it is with immense turreted towers overlooking the surrounding country, it has a grand effect. When I remembered it was once the residence of those kings of the Romish
church, the popes, and of Petrarch and Laura, feeling and
imagination waked into busy play.
*
*
*
TO HIS PARENTS.
MARSEILLES, May 26th, 1831.
MY DEAR PARENTS,—I have not yet reached Italy, as you
will see by the place from which I date, having been delayed
here, and at Lyons, on account of steamboats. To-morrow
I go for Leghorn, from whence I shall proceed by land to
Florence. I sail for Leghorn in a fine steam-vessel called
the Francisco Primo, and hope to have a pleasant voyage,
though, I can assure you, I am completely tired of voyaging.

128

JOURNAL : GENOA.

Had I time, I could give you a long account of what I have
seen.
*
*
The people of Marseilles are finer looking than
those of Lyons: their complexions are olive, but their features good. The views from the surrounding heights are
delightful, and the blue Mediterranean a fine object. You
may think from my slight knowledge of French that I have
some difficulty in getting on; but I make my way tolerably
well. The people are as civil, or more so than in England.
I hope to reach Florence in four or five days; from there I
will write to you again. * * The ship by which .1 send
this letter sails to-morrow, and I write rather in haste. * *
Your loving son,
THOMAS COLE.
JOURNAL.

From Marseilles to Genoa and Leghorn the voyage in
the steamer would have been pleasant but for sea-sickness.
The weather was delightful, and the coast is truly beautiful
and grand, rising into lofty mountains frequently clothed
with verdure, the vine, the olive and the fig. Once or
twice the glistening Alps showed a summit in the distant
sky. Along the sides of the adjacent mountains castles,
villages and convents, often most romantically situated,
give a pleasing variety to the scenery. The approach to
Genoa by sea is magnificent. It looks indeed like, as it has
been called, a city of palaces. The porters and beggars of
Genoa are, without exception, the wildest, the most savagelooking creatures I ever saw.
#
*
#
I had always understood that Italy was the land of music ;
I did not, however, imagine that I should be roused, at four
o'clock in the morning, by a chorus of fifty asses, as I was,
thanks to the market people. After breakfast, I went to a

FROM MARSEILLES TO FLORENCE.

129

church built after the model of St. Peter's, Rome. From
the dome we had a fine view of the city and the sea.
*
*
* , *
*
*
*
•%
Some of the palaces of Genoa are superb, built in great
measure of white marble. It seems to me I never saw more
people walking the streets without any apparent object than
in this city. # * Last night I went to the theatre, a grand
and capacious building of white marble, larger, I think, than
any theatre in London. The piece performing purported
to be a tragedy—to me the strangest of all tragedies—a
sort of opera. There they were, actors and actresses,
singing and squalling at each other, through marvellously
exciting scenes of the most burning love, most furious rage,
the deepest despair, and here in the box was I, like a Goth,
laughing when I should have wept. The most awful scene
was one, in which a tall fellow with a pig-tail pinched the
fingers of a little fat man in his snuff-box, upon offering him
snuff. A fearful revenge truly for some tremendous wrong!
In fact, the tragedy was so deep and harrowing in its nature,
that it was necessary to resort to some pleasant expedient
to prevent the house from becoming too terribly affected.
The expedient was a pantomime between acts, of sufficient
length to allow the feelings and interest of the people to
cool. After all there was some tolerable singing; but as
the audience kept up a continual talking all the while, as is
usually the case in an Italian theatre, I could only catch a
strain now and then. •
*
*
*
TO HIS PARENTS,
FLORENCE, June 7th, 1831.
MY DEAR PARENTS,—I have at length arrived at Flo-

rence, where I intend to remain a short time. I wrote you
from Marseilles t from thence I came to this place by way
9

130

FROM MARSEILLES TO FLORENCE.

of Genoa, and have seen much that is charming in nature
and art. * * * Genoa is the finest place I v have ever seen.
It is situated at the foot of a range of mountains which rise
grandly from the Mediterranean, * and are clothed with
verdure to their very summits. * * # The churches are
numerous and magnificent in the interior, and the palaces
splendid, and decorated with fine works of art.
Whilst I was there, I lodged at a hotel in the principal
square with a kind of market-place. Looking into it,
could be seen soldiers, priests, monks, beggars and country
folks, asses, mules, goats, and things too numerous to mention.: and although there is little noise from carriages in
Genoa, yet, from the jabbering and squalling of the people,
and the everlasting clang of bells of every size and tone,
there is little peace. What annoyed me more than anything else was being disturbed, at four o'clock in the morning, by the braying of asses, which the country people
bring with them to market. Just under my window there
were at least fifty asses braying at one time, to my great
delight.
From Genoa I came to Leghorn, and then set off in what
is called a vettura for this city. * * * * I have taken
rooms in a house in which Mr. Greenough had apartments.
* * My painting-room is delightfully situated. From my
window I have a fine view of Fiesole, a hill that Milton
mentions in his Paradise Lost. My bedroom is neat; and
over my bed is a small picture, covered with an embroidered curtain: it is " The true image of the Madonna of
comfort."
I have seen fine collections of pictures here of the Old
Masters, and hope to profit by them, as they are open to
the public, and artists are at liberty to copy any of them.
The weather is the most delightful that can be imagined—

FROM MARSEILLES TO FLORENCE.

131

lovely skies and fresh breezes. About Florence there are
some enchanting views which I must paint.
*
*
You cannot think how much I wish to be with you again ;
but I must go through with this ordeal in order that I may
have no further necessity of travelling. I assure you, I have
never been so happy as I was before I left home; and that
circumstance will insure my return as quick as is judicious.
* * I have sent Emma a pink leaf or two: could I send
anything in a letter more valuable, I would. * * My love
to all again and again.
I remain, in good health and spirits,
Your affectionate son, •
THOMAS COLE.

CHAPTER

XV.

Cole in Florence.—Journal: Visit to Volterra.—To Mr. Morton: Life in
Florence.—Bryant's Sonnet to Cole.—Life in Florence.—To Mr. Gilmor :
a picture for him.—Sunset on the Arno.—Love of Florence.
AFTER a lapse of nearly three months, spent with his
usual industry in painting, sketching, and studying the
pictures with which Florence abounds. Cole made several
delightful excursions. The following is, in part, his Journal.
VISIT TO VOLTERRA.
JOURNAL : August 24th, 1831.—I am afraid that the days
of romantic feeling are passing quite away. Converse with
the world is daily deadening that sense of the beautiful in
nature which has been through all my early life such a
source of delight. Intercourse with men, I conceive, has
induced this apathy, especially since my sojourn in Europe;
and yet I cannot see how it should have so benumbing an
effect upon the soul. I have now been in Italy three
months, and really how little I have felt. Italy!—where
all beside me seem wrought to transport!—I am grieved:
still I hope to feel again; the dull cloud surely will pass
over.
I am writing this in P
, a village about twenty-three

JOURNAL : VOLTERRA.

133

miles from Florence, after supper, sleepy and tired, and in a
room where there is a bed which will require a ladder, it
appears to me, to climb into. At one o'clock, P. M., I left
Florence in company with H
, G
and 0
; we
travel by vettura. Little that we have passed to-day is
worthy of notice.
August 25th. I slept, or rather tried to sleep, last night,
for about three hours; the musketoes were terrible. At
three o'clock this morning we set off, and came at sunrise
in sight of Colle, a village on the summit of a hill in the
midst of some very fine groves. On this part of the road
the scenery is very agreeable, many pleasant woods, some
trees, generally oaks, by the wayside, which would have
made admirable studies. As we approached Volterra, the
country changed from fertile to the most sterile I ever saw.
The hills, rounded in form and destitute of verdure, promised
little for the painter. Ascending a hill long and steep, we
came upon the town on a side from which it presents no
very imposing appearance. The walls and fortifications
near the gate are in good style. After dinner we sallied
forth in search of the picturesque. I cannot bring myself
to the drudgery of writing a regular Journal: but I know
from experience that the freshness of one's feelings, and
even the memory .of scenes and circumstances, will fade
with the lapse of time. I must, therefore, make a memorandum at least of the interesting scenes of Volterra.
More ancient than Rome itself, Volterra was a colony of
Lydians. The tombs of several of its kings, and many of
those elegant vases called Etruscan, have been from time
to time discovered in its ruins, and attest the genius and
refinement of its people. At one time it is said to have
contained as many as four hundred thousand inhabitants.
This, I imagine, must be a marvellous exaggeration, although

134

JOURNAL : VOLTEREA.

its remains prove that it must have been once much more
populous and extensive than at present. It numbers now
only a few thousands. In ancient times it was a stronghold,
and experienced the varied fortunes of war—victory and
defeat. Its streets have been often deludged with blood,
and the scenes of terrible carnage. Once it capitulated to
one of the Medici upon honourable terms, and then was
treacherously given up to indiscriminate massacre, when
the monster had marched his army within the gates.
Volterra is encompassed by one wall, and the fragments
of several more, of different ages and constructions. Its
streets are narrow, and many of its buildings of massive and
peculiar architecture, having small windows and projecting
blocks of stone at intervals along the walls. These edifices
are the erections of an iron age, strong and rude like their
builders, but remarkably striking and expressive, many of
them, even in their dilapidation. The principal square of
the city presents an aspect entirely new to me. Its buildings
around it, with their fissure-like loopholes and windows, and
craggy projections, look more like natural precipices than
the dwellings of a city. Around this square are several
towers; two huge ones in particular, surmounted each by
four smaller ones, are the dominant peaks of the range.
There are the remains of several Pagan temples, which have
been converted into Christian churches; the loose Venus
and the chaste Diana have long since abandoned their altars
to the more potent Madonna. I was induced though to pay
a visit to Volterra less for itself than for its views and scenery. It is situated on an eminence of very great height,
and commands a vast prospect over mountains and plains
to the distant Mediterranean. The geological structure of
the country is remarkable—a mass of loam without a framewox^k of rock. Even the stupendous pile upon which Vol-

JOURNAL : VOLTERRA.

135

terra itself stands is of the same soft consistence, and washes
away rapidly in the rain.
Nothing is more singular than the appearance which is
presented below; all looks as if it had recently emerged
from a deluge. It is scored with innumerable ravines, and
exposes a light coloured and shining surface of baked earth
to the sun. In some directions are seen tracts of verdure,
and in the distance, spreading out its dark shade, the forest
of Brignione, where the wild boar is hunted to this day.
The mountain of Volterra is extremely fertile on one of its
slopes, and embosoms some rich romantic valleys with fine
woods, and here and there a cottage of striking form and
colour nestling in their shades. The western side of the
mountain is a broad contrast to this: here all is bare and
savage. The Balzi or cliffs afford a spectacle of desolate
grandeur. Standing on the brink of a precipice, you throw
your eye down a gulf fearfully deep, the sides of which are
almost perpendicular walls of earth. This gulf gradually
widens from where you stand, and opens, with ridgy sides,
into a vast and dreary plain, ribbed with countless ravines.
Afar off, you catch a scanty stream that struggles with many
windings and turnings through the thirsty desert, and finally
loses itself in the dark and more kindly distance. In another direction, and on the very bound of vision, ranges of
grand mountains mingle with the heavens. What a study
for a picture of Elijah in the desert! I shuddered as I stood
upon the edge of this abyss, and feared for a moment that
the crumbling earth would slide from beneath me. I have
often mused upon the brink of a rocky precipice, without a
thought of its destructibility; but here the great mass, bearing marks of rapid and continual decay, awakened the instantaneous thought that it was perishable as a cloud. I
sat under the ruin of an old Etruscan wall, and gazed long

136

JOURNAL : VOLTEBRA.

and silently on the great scene of desolate sublimity. The
sun was high, and the herbless ravines gave back his rays
with a fierce splendour. To me the scene was more awful
and impressive than at any other hour. Profound stillness
reigned through the whole dreary expanse. At the moment
when my heart was drinking in the fearful silence most
deeply, I was startled by the convent bell. High above the
depths of the abyss, it swung in its venerable tower, and
poured its solemn wail into the immeasurable air without
an echo. Brief, thought I, are the limits of mortal life:
man measures time by hours and minutes, but nature by the
changes of the universe. Here, before me, is one of her
hour-glasses, in which the sands have seen untold ages, and
yet the mind cannot reckon their exhaustion.
We have now been several days at Volterra, and are delighted. The principal fortress, called the Maschio, is a
fine specimen of castle architecture. Having permission
from the commander to visit it, we were conducted through
it by an old soldier with a huge bunch of keys and a lantern. We first entered the central and loftiest tower by
means of a drawbridge which spanned the encircling moat.
Following our guide down a flight of worn and narrow
steps, we were introduced into a small vaulted dungeon.
It was destitute of light, with the exception of a few faint
rays which came through a grated aperture, opening against
a blank wall. In' this narrow and gloomy prison the Count
Felicini was confined by one of the Medici for twenty long
and miserable years. In the wall there still remains a part
of the bolt to which his chains were attached, and the solid
stone floor bears deep impressions of his footsteps. It is
scarcely possible to conceive that a man could survive long
in such a dreadful abode—that he could bear to live. It
shows the marvellous power of adaptation which the human.

JOURNAL : VOLTERRA.

137

mind possesses; hope makes him live, when reason bids him
die. At the end of those dreadful years, an order came for
his liberation; his chains were stricken off, and the Count
Felicini was conducted up once more into the open air: for
a moment he looked aloft upon the sky, and then sank back,
and expired. Himself a cruel character, his fate was most
cruel. From this fearful dungeon we descended to another
still lower and smaller. In this and several similar ones
we were told that many had perished. They were the
prisons of the Medici: there they used to incarcerate secretly those whom it was not policy to put publicly to
death. These walls, I whispered to myself, have resounded to the moans of suffering and hunger, and the
curses of despair. As I retreated through the gloomy
passages, the sense of human cruelty bore with a crushing
weight upon my heart, and I was glad when we recrossed
the drawbridge, and stood again beneath the pure blue sky.
How falsely the lofty and powerful among men are estimated ! how the world is imposed upon ! T H E MEDICI !—It
is a great name—a noble, a magnificent name, in the tomes
of Roscoe: but why are we offered such a picture of lights
without shadows ? Why not at least a few touches of the
tyranny and " damned deeds " of these great men ?
I have laboured hard since I have been in Volterra,
sallying forth with my sketch-book every morning at five,
and, with the exception of an hour at dinner, continuing out
until evening. I have had many delightful walks, and the
more I see, the more I am pleased. A vast horizon is perpetually before you, and the grandest effects of sun, clouds,
and storms are ever succeeding each other. Blue shadows
are continually moving from mountain to mountain, from
plain to precipice, ever and anon wrapping in their gloom
distant villages and towers, which a few minutes before

138

JOURNAL : VOLTERRA.

were glittering in the sun-light. Then thunder-storms sweep
with their tumultuous clouds over the great expanse : as we
see them advancing, a power almost supernatural seems to
move the soul: it cannot direct -their course, but the eye
measures their extent, and marks the village that will soon
be enveloped in their troubled darkness. I have witnessed
some truly glorious sunsets, and lovely twilights: one in
particular from the western declivity of the mountain, I
watched with feelings of singular delight as it faded away.
The tone of the landscape was most heavenly ; all the great
plain was in deep shadow, reposing in an atmosphere whose
hues can never be expressed in language; the ordinary
terms, " silvery " and " golden," give but a dim notion of it.
It was such an atmosphere as one could imagine angelic
beings would delight to breathe, and in which they would
joy to move. Here and there dark hills, softly emerging
with their white turrets, glittered like stars on the breast
of the lower gloom. One lone cloud still lingered in the
amber sky. I am not surprised that the Italian masters
have painted so admirably as they have : nature in celestial
attire was their teacher.
I am now writing in a dirty locanda of Colle, a town
about half-way from Volterra to Florence. Prom the
beauty of its environs we were induced to spend a few days
here: had we known at first, as we now know to our vexation, what myriads of fleas infest this prime locanda, I think
we should have discarded the picturesque for the comfortable, and proceeded at once to Florence. Last night I slept,
it appeared to me, five minutes: the fleas kept me well
awake the early part of the night, and the braying of asses,
that lodged in the stable beneath us, the latter, to make no
mention of the pleasing odours that stole up through sundry
noles in the floor.

LIFE IN FLORENCE.

139

After a sojourn at Yolterra of ten days, we left it with
regret. Our ride to Colle was agreeable. At sunset we
walked out and took a view of the town, the greater part
of which is situated on a hill whose abrupt sides are clothed
with rich woods that bury in their charming shades the
remainder. Through the valley, in which we were loitering,
a stream flowed handsomely along under high banks of rich
coloured earth and luxuriant herbage. While we were
gazing, a balloon ascended from among the trees at the foot
of the hill, and floated away across the purple evening sky.
To-morrow we set off for Florence.
To J. L. MORTON, ESQ.
FLORENCE, January 31st,

1832.

DEAR S I R , — *
* * There is much that I could write
from this land of poetry and beauty, which might interest
you. I really find it more difficult to write, from the abundance of matter than from any paucity: it is sometimes
easier to invent than to select. You will perceive that I
am still in Florence, in which place I have spent several
agreeable and, I hope, profitable months. I have been
painting, painting incessantly. You will be a little surprised, perhaps, when I tell you I have not made a single
copy here. I trust though the original pictures I intend to
send you for the next exhibition will show that I have not
neglected to study.
I have several pictures on the easel. One is a large picture representing a romantic country, or .perfect state of
nature, with appropriate savage figures. It is a scene of
no particular land, but a general idea of a wild: and, when
you see it, I think you will give me credit for not having
forgotten those sublime scenes of the wilderness in which
you know I so much delight; scenes whose peculiar grandeur has no counterpart in this section of Europe. I am

140

SONNET TO COLE.—LIFE IN FLORENCE.

also painting a scripture subject, The Angels appearing to
the Shepherds.
*
*
*
*
*
In August we had an exhibition in the Academy here,—
one of the worst I ever saw. With a few exceptions, it was
made up of cold, affected, academical things.
*
*
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

Amid all the varied scenes of European art and nature,
Cole, as the foregoing letter serves to show, could not forget
the natural scenery of America. He fulfilled the prediction,
and heeded the counsel of the poet, breathed in the following sonnet:
Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies :
Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
A living image of thy native land,
Such as on thy own glorious canvass lies.
Lone lakes—savannas where the bison roves—
Rocks rich with summer garlands—solemn streams—
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams—
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest—fair,
But different—everywhere the trace of men,
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air.
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.—Bryant.

Previous to going to Rome, he says in a letter to Dunlap, I passed nine months in Florence, which I spent in
studying the magnificent collections there, and in painting
several pictures, among which was a small Sunset on the
Arno, and a wild scene for Mr. Gilmor, of Baltimore. The
Arno was exhibited in the Academy of St. Luke, and seemed
to attract attention. The Grand Duke is said to have been
much pleased with it, but he did not buy it. I studied the

PICTURE FOR MR. GILMOR.

141

figure part of my time, and drew from the life at the Academy, and painted my dead Abel, which was intended as a
study for a large picture to represent Adam and Eve finding
the body of Abel.
Nothing more than the "study " was ever executed. The
primary intention of the " wild scene " is given in the succeeding letter.
To MR. GILMOR.
FLORENCE, January 29th, 1832.

SIR,—Although I have seldom written to you since
I have been in Europe, I have not been forgetful how much
I am indebted to your kindness. I now write to offer something in return for the pecuniary obligation under which
you have placed me. A variety of circumstances has concurred to render this return so tardy: but I hope the lateness of it will not render it the less acceptable. I have
sent to the National Academy of Design, New York, a
picture, the painting of which has occupied the greater part
of seven months that I have been in Florence, and is by far
the most laboured, if not the best of my works. I offer it
for the three hundred dollars you advanced me, and your
acceptance will be considered a favour.
*
*
*
This picture was intended for the first of a series which I
have long contemplated. In order that you may understand
the subject it is necessary that I give you the plan of the
series.* * * But while I think it my best picture, I have
the plan of another, which, perhaps, would be finer for the
subject.
*
*
*
You will probably smile at my castles in air, for probably
they are nothing more: it is likely I shall never have the
means of executing this subject. And should I ever be
fortunate enough, I may disappoint myself, as is frequently
DEAR

* See letter to Mr. Reed, p. 176, chap. six.

142

SUNSET ON THE ARNO.

the case, and discover that the living pictures of the mind,
in the attempt to embody them, are transmuted into lifeless clay.
*
*
*
I am delighted with what I have seen of Italy,—its scenery,
and its works of art. The galleries of Florence are a paradise to a painter. I have found, though, no natural scenery
yet which has affected me so powerfully as that which I
have seen in the wilderness places of America: and although
there are a peculiar softness and beauty in Italian skies,
ours are far more gorgeous. * * I intend to set off for
Eome and Naples in a few days, hoping to fill my sketchbooks with abundant material for future pictures. * *
I have had the happiness of residing in the same house
with Mr. Greenough, almost ever since I have been in Florence, and I shall regret leaving him very much. The
Medora, that he is executing for you, I have had the pleasure
of seeing in the clay model: it is very original, and full of
pathos.
I have sent, with the large picture to New York, a small
one—a Sunset on the Arno : it is a simple effect. I should
wish you to see it.
*
*
*
Yours, truly,
THOMAS COLE.

In speaking of his own works, Cole was an example of
modesty. The conclusion of the above letter is a good
specimen of his manner on such occasions. It is the merest
hint of a picture full of evidence that the painter was one
of the few who could truly say:
" And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns."

AN AFFAIR.

143

Genius, unless seduced by pride to hold a falsehood, regards
its own creations with humility. Where there is a right
heart, a healthy moral feeling, it will ever be conscious of
imperfection in its best efforts. It will know, of a truth,
that they " come short of the glory" of the perfect, and
speak of them with unaffected modesty. The view down
the Arno, at the close of day, was one to which Cole gave
long and frequent contemplation. It took his spirit captive ; and his picture of it (though attractive to the Florentines themselves, and really, as Bryant calls it, " a fine
painting, with the river gleaming in the middle-ground,
the dark woods of the Cascine on the right, and above, in
the distance, the mountain summits half dissolved in the
vapoury splendour which belongs to an Italian sunset")
was, he felt, but a dim reflection of the living beauty, which,
as time ripened his powers, and gave him greater mastery
of the pencil, he might hope more nearly to approach.
Twice was the attempt made afterwards on a larger scale,
and with the same lowly sense of distance from the glorious
original. One of these later sunsets on the Arno—unfinished in the foreground, yet very beautiful even in its
incompleteness—is still in the possession of his family.
The picture for Mr. Gilmor,—a landscape of the highest
order—although originally intended, as he says, for the first
of a long contemplated series, was presently given up for
the finer conception of which he speaks, and which, in fact,
was the one ultimately embodied in the first picture of the
Course of Empire.
A short time previous to the date of the foregoing letter,
a small affair transpired, which came near terminating the
connexion of Cole with Florence in a very sudden and disagreeable manner. It is worth relating as an illustration of
a point in the painter's character that was seldom visible.

144

LOVE OF FLORENCE.

He was walking in company with a friend on the Cascine,
when a mounted dragoon, dashing down one of the paths,
came very near riding upon them. To punish either his
insolence or carelessness, Cole instantly broke his cane
over the horse's flank; and received, next morning, an order
from the authorities to quit Tuscany. From fulfilling this
peremptory command he was only relieved by the intervention of friends.
Next to home itself, Florence was to Cole the happiest
place in which he ever lived. Its sweet-tempered, shining
climate, its calm seclusion, its works of art, reflecting the
truth and splendour of nature, made it, to use his own oftrepeated expression, the painter's paradise. There, remote
from the spirit of politics and money-making,—an evil
spirit from which he always shrunk—he enjoyed a freedom
from care and disquiet, for which he ever yearned intensely,
and rose consciously both in the science and practice of his
art. Although at first, from the gloom which his stay in
England had thrown upon his mind, nothing could
" Bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,"

yet it gradually returned, and filled his heart with a gladness he never could forget, and made his residence in Florence one of his choicest remembrances.

CHAPTER

XVI.

Gole at Rome.—In his Studio, and in Society.—Among the works of Art.—
In Nature.

ON the 3d of the following February, Cole left for Rome,
where; after a journey of five days, much of the time on
foot, he arrived, and took rooms in the Yia del Tritone.
These he presently exchanged for more eligible lodgings
on the Pincian Hill, and painted in an apartment which
tradition has consecrated as the' studio of Claude. The
building, sometimes called the Temple, which contains this
noted room, commands from its balconies a grand and impressive view: all Rome is spread out below. Here he
worked with his usual assiduity until the ensuing May.
COLE IN HIS STUDIO, AND IN SOCIETY.

His constant sense of the value of time called him to his
easel at an early hour. With the exception of short intervals given to reading, to the sunrise, to breakfast, always
slight and simple, to watching from his windows the varying
effects of the day upon the wonderful landscape, he painted
till dinner, usually late, with an industry quite surprising
to the easy Italians. " Ah, madam," said the quiet old
Roman with whom he took lodgings, in conversation with
an American lady about him, " he works like a crazy man."
10

146

HIS HABITS.—PURITY AND DELICACY OF CHARACTER.

In his dress he was perfectly neat, but plain, and without
the least appearance of singularity. In nothing did he
affect the artist and the genius. He was in Rome what he
was at home, simply Cole. In society, which he frequented
but little, he was cheerful, though quiet and retiring, with
an air of gravity, except when stirred by wit and humour,
or overcome by the ridiculous, for which he had the keenest
sense; then he resigned himself, for a moment, to the heartiest laughter.
His habits were of religious purity. Profanity and irreverence shocked him, indelicacy of language or manner
'offended him. He felt it degrading to speak of the licentiousness too often indulged in by foreigners in Rome.
Passion, appetite never led him astray. The light* wines
of the country he used sparingly, but rejected all ardent
spirits, and tobacco in every form. The luxury of tables
never brought a cloud over his mind or feelings. Clearness
of intellectual perception and serenity of mind, to which
simple healthy tastes so wonderfully contribute,-were as
much his here as among the brooks of the Catskills. "He
would dine frequently on fruits, bread and cheese, as well
in the city as in wildest parts of the country. Perfect
temperance was his rule, and that not from any mere pecuniary or physical necessity, but from the dictates of choice
and propriety.
Habits and manners so redolent with virtue, while they
breathed the loftiness and purity of his character, seldom
failed to win the love and admiration of his associates.
Women are proverbially the nicest judges of moral qualities.
I t was the remark of an American lady, who, with that delicacy peculiar to her country-women, shrunk, at first, from
some of the most celebrated pieces of art, that with Cole
she experienced no feelings of embarrassment. Such was

COLE AMONG THE WORKS OF ART.

her involuntary
propriety of his
galleries as she
great treasuries
student.

147

trust in the purity of his mind, and the
taste, that she followed him through the
would have followed a child. In -these
of art let us now contemplate him as a

COLE AMONG THE WORKS OF ART.

Here again his way, in a measure, was peculiar to himself. At first sight, he did not see the superlative excellence
of the master-pieces. He was already too wise, though, not
to know that in that fact lay one of the first evidences of
their real greatness. This lesson he had learned over and
over again in the galleries of nature.
What does not in some degree " dwarf itself in the distance " to the mind, in its first act of contemplation, is not
truly great. Extremes here certainly meet. There is a
brief season when the ictus of an imperfect work may come
down among the thoughts with the same force as that of a
perfect one. During that season, but for that only, both
may be said to tremble on the point of decision. With the
first strong onward thought, though, a space is discerned
between the two, which to traverse will surely give, at each
progressive step, the ability to see the one always lessening,
and the other growing grander.
It was no matter of surprise, therefore, to Cole, that his
first impressions in the Vatican were not remarkable.
Faith that he was in the presence of consummate art held
him quiet, hopeful and confident of an hour when he should
reach it, and realize the fulness of its power and beauty.
That hour was not long in coming. It brought, however,
no expressions of rapture, no bounding ecstacy. Raphael,
Michael Angelo waked little visible, and less audible evidence of delight. Their effect,"like that of nature in her

148

COLE AMONG THE WORKS OF ART.

grander, more glorious aspects, was to carry him away into
shadows of the most solemn repose. They hushed him into
their own impressive silence, and fixed him in the serenity
of adoration. But then were the moments when electric
thought flashed like the northern light through his mental
skies. From the midst of feelings veiled and mantled, " his
eyes made up of wonder and love," his whole spirit went
forth, and winged a breathless flight through the deeps,
piercing alike intensest light and shadowy mystery, and
wrestling with the subtlest life of their creations.
Purer, profounder pleasure perhaps no man ever felt than
Cole in these searchings—in this living, call it rather, of
his in and through a great work of a r t : certainly no one
ever expressed it, when he did so at all, with a chaster,
sweeter brevity. An artist of distinction has observed—
intimate friends confirm the remark for other times and
countries—that Cole, when travelling in Italy, never used
the common language of admiration with respect to the
striking objects of nature. " Fine "—" beautiful"—" very
beautiful," spoken in a voice subdued and low, served to
express his liveliest feelings. Such were his words and
manner of speaking in the presence of highest art. The
utterance of a breath only told, and eloquently, the whole
story of his emotions.
It was usually the signal too that he felt himself competent, at that moment, to witness to the truth and greatness
of the work before him. It was less a principle with him,
than an instinct to keep still till he felt that he comprehended
his artist, holding himself " ignorant of his understanding,
until he understood his ignorance." Then, if required, he
would render, in a single sentence, frequently, a verdict of
such justice as seldom failed to convince, or asked for any
reversing.

COLE AMONG THE WORKS OF ART.

149

In thus speaking of the student in the galleries, I have
given virtually his method of study. It was criticism, and
that in its nature reproductive, involving the employment
of the entire inward and spiritual, and but little of the
outward and physical man. He never copied, seldom or
never seriously drew; A few hasty sketches are the only
remaining evidences that he ever did anything more than
exercise his mind and heart upon the pictures and sculptures of the masters.
But that, as I have already intimated, was something else
than elegant-extract-making for the purpose of future quotation, or more pitiful plagiarism : something more than
mere idle surface-excursion to pilfer his bundle of beauties,
rooted up here and there for transplanting in his own parterre at his leisure : even far more than a spending of
energies to climb the steeps of a single grandeur, or the
refreshment of fancy in the shade of some one bewitching
effect, enjoying a festival of shadows, but tasting no substance, and leaving the solid fact for the empty husk of a
general and indistinct impression: it was a telescopic look
that resolved the nebulae of common eyes into separate orbs
of light. To drop the figure, it was analysis, quick, searching, effectual; seizing things manifold as they unfolded each
out of the other down to the last; snapping a fibre never,
never dissipating relations, never cutting off- from the general communion one of the great assembly of parts; never
sinking a member below its level into dusky nothing, nor
raising one out of its due place into glowing prominence,
but leaving to each its own proper position and individuality : above all, never killing with the frost of an unfeeling
spirit that fragrant, live beauty, which only blooms in virtue
of drawing its ambrosial juices through infinite and all pervading fibres.

150

COLE AMONG THE WORKS OF ART.

Thus, while it was analysis, it was also synthesis. Albeit
the life-holding vase cracked under the force of the mental
stroke, and fell to pieces, revealing thereby its earthy
qualities and textures, its hidden inside surfaces, and the
method of its making, yet a kindlier power wrought the
miracle of restoration, and recalled the departing soul.
Again to drop the figure, so deeply was the dissecting
faculty immersed in his imagination that the idea of an
organic whole was simultaneous with the act of resolving
a given work of art into its elemental parts. In other
words, space and matter, motion and rest, colour, light and
shade, were all known by his higher, imaginative power as
so many members composing one body,—a body or creation
full of life, thought, feeling, through the potent energies of
one indwelling spirit, informing and disposing all things
according to its own good pleasure or law.
Men of genius, when they hold their gifts with a right
heart, love to be viewed, when viewed at all, in their
integrity, wishing to be counted neither less nor more than
they really are. Could the same be said of their works—
works of art like the greatest of Raphael—they would of
all things have loved the presence of a man like Cole. His
intellectual eye was of a perfect clarity. He never looked
into the atmosphere of art through the rosy breath of his
own fancy, but with a vision simple arid single to the objective fact. Hence all things rose up, and came to him in
their own native simplicity and purity without disguise,
distortion or false colour. Hence there were no horses
or chariots of fire merely of his own seeing, nor spirits
of beauty of his own conjuring: clear waters did not reflect
images, shores did not resound with voices, of which the
painter never dreamed. With a sight clean from stain or
mist, he saw only what was, and how or the way by which it

COLE AMONG THE WORKS OF ART.

151

was. In brief, lighting on the place where the painter left
with his pigments, he sped* away through to the point where
he entered with his imagination. By thus taking position
with the artist, he advanced with him, and, in a sense, reproduced his work. This was perfect study, and the ideal of
criticism. It was mind, imagination, fancy, passion, all of
them painting—painting as they did of old in the persons
of the masters. And while a fair memory, and a power of
recalling processes of thought to a high degree, enabled him
to repeat these reproductions at will, for lengths of time, so
as to paint them, (which he never did,) yet was not his style
rendered thereby less original, less peculiarly his own.
To deny him, though, a benefit from his study of the
masters would be to deny him all genius, whose very
nature and privilege it is to feed on excellence wherever
it can find it, and whose offspring are healthy, beautiful
and perfect in proportion to the richness of the pastures in
which it expatiates. But as art in its perfection is but a
defective continuation of God's marvellous nature, how could
Cole stay long to glean, though golden handfuls, in its
scanty patch, while hard by were the great fields into
which he could go forth, and " doubtless come again with
joy, and bring his sheaves with him ?" Wonderful, divine
almost as are some of the creations in the bowers of art,
more wonderful and quite divine were the creations beyond
their precincts: and to prophecy of these, to claim them
as the source from whence they themselves were derived,
to point to them, as the many waters from which every
called and consecrated artist should drink, and fill his
vessel, he felt was the silent, yet eloquent word, the voiceless yet expressive, counsel of the rarest beauties of canvass,
fresco and marble. The time, therefore, spent in the contemplation of art was short in comparison with that devoted

152

COLE IN NATURE.

to things of the veritable earth and heaven. It is but a
step aside from the fact to say that Cole went even to Rome
purposely to study nature. To nature then let us follow
him.
COLE IN NATURE.

If we were not already acquainted with his manner there,
it would be enough to say that he went out into the open,
Roman air with the same eye, mind and heart which he
tasked in the galleries and churches, except that they were
ordered with a loftier reverence, and shaped to greater
issues, and attended with the most diligent manual exercise. And this is only saying that he was but the same
man walking from one department of fine creations to
another—from the less to the greater—from the doings of
the mortal to those of the Immortal, adding work to study.
Roman nature then was to him as another Vatican or St.
Peter's, infinitely expanded, into which he now went forth
with palette and portfolio. When we come to see how this
nature of Italy differed to him from all other nature, as
Italian art differed from all other art, we shall see Cole^ at
that point of his life, in a right light.
While the main features of the landscapes of Italy waked
no feeling of grandeur with which he was not already familiar, yet they were more picturesque and better disposed
than any he had ever yet beheld. As painters would say, the
composition was finer. And while spring in America touched
in her hues with all tenderness and delicacy, and autumn
there was the most gorgeous of all colourists, and every
season decked the scenery of the skies with a magnificence
quite unrivalled, there was a richness in the aerial draperies
of Italian landscape that gave to its complexion, countenance and form a beauty peculiar to themselves, and to him
hitherto unknown.

COLE IN NATUEE.

153

Nature rose up before him with a glory round her head,
caught from some diviner realm of sunshine: the threads
of her hair were golden; her eyes swam in a soft and
dreamy fire ; her bosom palpitated with delicious passion;
her very breath was tinctured with the hues as well as
fragrance of all flowers ; she walked in airy splendours,
and reposed with all the beauties of atmosphere, of light
and climate at once dissolving around her.
About the earth there was a tender, blissful warmth, in
the unfathomable heavens a blush, and in all a mellow, ripe
effect that perfumed the mind, and dropped upon it a fruitlike flavour, and charmed the soul with the sweetness of
entrancing melodies. Never sunshine fell into the arms of
a lovelier, softer air; never air embraced a lovelier sunshine; and both, in embraces blissful, never sank on the
bosom of a land more beauteous.
To speak of Cole's thoughts and emotions, in the presence
of a world so glowing with passionate life, in such perfection of sweetness, grace and beauty, is, at this moment, needless. And to tell how he wandered with the streams, and immersed himself in the softness of distances, and in the living
fires of aerial depths, and grasped at heights and breadths,
and met the day, in its virginity, tossing its roses, and parted
with it pensive and garlanded for its passage; to tell how
he walked, for days, to and fro, over the solitary Campagna,
watching and touching objects manifold that catch the light,
and fling shadows, would be but to repeat what has already
been said of him, in the region of the Catskills.
The great difference between Italian scenery, and all
other, with which he was acquainted, lay, with Cole, less
in its material, than in its moral and historic elements.
Hitherto he had walked with nature in her maidenhood,
her fair proportions veiled in virgin robes, affianced indeed

154

COLE IN NATURE.

to human associations, but unpolluted, unwasted by human
passion. But now he was in converse with her, after long
centuries of marriage with man. As the word and worship
of God carry faith into the events of the great future, so
the very verdure of solitudes and the solemnity of voiceless
evening skies swept his spirit back to mingle with the
doings of past ages. Everywhere was the repetition of
one awful, grand expression :—mortal triumph and defeat—
mortal strength and weakness—mortal pride and degradation—man's rise and fall—man's wrestling with his fellow—
his feeble strife with time, and childish struggles on the
bosom of his mother earth. He saw himself on the seashore of history, and the wrecks of human passion, pride,
ambition, joy and sorrow, pricking through its sands.
" There were giants in those days" who clove the mountains, and thrust back the very waves: they fell along the
earth; and lo ! the white remnant of their frames. In the
red breath of sunset he beheld both the memorial of the
glory of kings, and of the flames of their funeral pyre. In
the crumbling ruins, beneath the mantle of the seasons, lay
the bones of empire.
What to Cole was nature in her fresh, lone sublimities,
in her divinest beauties, to nature thus married to mortal
deeds and generations ? As a creature perpetually rejuvenated, she peopled his vision with the old imagery of life,
blooming, joyous, energetic life; but as sown with relics,
and haunted by story and tradition, she spake to his inner
heart, touching his deeper sympathies, and teaching him
lessons of his own fallen nature. Hitherto the external
world had been to him a creation speaking mainly of itself;
now, speaking mainly of humanity, in tones pathetic and
impressive.
It was here that he began to feel his strength for the

COLE IN NATURE.

155

grander issues of his art. He had now reached an elevation in the great ascent, one of the shoulders of the heavencleaving summit, from which he could survey both man and
the visible world in vast, moral perspective. It was no
mere feeling, but the conscious want of freedom and assurance that, made him abandon, in Florence, the thought of
having the admirable picture painted there the first of a
contemplated series. He had something more to learn both
of his subject, and of himself; one view more, at least, to
take of his noble theme, and of his capabilities to seize and
master it. Here, at Rome, a grander book had opened : he
read its profounder lessons, and felt assured and free to
enter upon his task, when fortune should favour him with
an hour.
Returning, once, from a long walk with a few friends, he
seated himself on the fragments of a column to enjoy the
sunset. As its splendours faded into the twilight, all lapsed
into a stillness suited to the solemn repose peculiar, at that
time, to a scene of ruin. There came through the deepening
shadows few sounds louder than the beating of their hearts.
After some minutes of silent, mournful pleasure, seated a
little apart by a lady, Cole, a thing rather unusual with
him, was the first to speak. This he did in his own low,
quiet voice, but with such earnestness as told the depth of
his emotions, and the greatness of his thoughts. The subject was that of the future Course of Empire. In his own
brief and simple way, he passed from point to point in the
series, making, by many a clear and vivid outline, the liveliest impression upon the mind of his listener, until he closed
with a picture that found its parallel in the melancholy
desolation by which, at that moment, they were surrounded.
Such was Cole, the poet artist, at Rome.

CHAPTER

XVII.

To his Parents: from Florence to Rome; Roman labourers; the Carnival.—
Notes at Naples: the Colosseum; Pantheon; St. Peter's; the Vatican;
Apollo; Venus; Transfiguration ; St. Jerome; Moses.—Panorama of
Naples.—Paestum.
TO HIS PARENTS.
ROME, March 4th, 1832.

MY DEAR PARENTS,—My last was from Florence, and
written to the Doctor, containing the information that 1
was about to set off for Rome. The journey was performed
safely, and with some pleasure, in the vettura. My companions were Mr. A
, and Mr. L
, from Boston, an
Irish Roman Catholic lady and an Italian priest; and what
with Irish and Italian arguments and disputes, we contrived
to get over the ground between Florence and Rome, in five
days, a distance of a hundred and seventy miles only.
I should not forget to note the fine weather, and the
flowers by the wayside, in February too, and the wretched
inns, where you sleep over the stable always with an entertaining company of fleas, if the beds are not too wet to
drown them. Of the two evils, I always choose the fleas,
and got into bed with my old baize-lined cloak, of American memory, whose services have been great, and deserve
commendation, especially in this land of milk and honey,
where you have to pass day after day without being able to

K0ME.—ROMAN LABOURERS.

157

get either of them, and to travel through countries where
coffee is known only in name, and tea utterly unknown ;
where the shepherds of the hills wear skins, and are no
more civilized than Indians, and somewhat more stupid and
superstitious. To relate these things will make you think
that I am indeed in a foreign country: but you must not
believe in the exaggerated stories of bandits, and all that;
they are all nonsense. There is quite as much safety in
travelling here, as in America or England, and the peasants
are infinitely more civil and obliging.
I could say much about Rome; but I cannot venture into
the subject far, it is such an infinite one. I have seen St.
Peter's; but am not so much affected by it as some. It is a
stupendous building: to me, however, it is much inferior in
effect to St. Paul's, London. Its interior is encrusted with
precious marbles of every hue, and adorned with gold, sculpture and painting : it is quite a wilderness of riches. The
Vatican, which adjoins St. Peter's, is to me a paradise.
There are the finest statues of the antique that exist; there
are the pictures of Raphael, and of others, whose works are
among the highest efforts of human genius.
But the things that most affect me, in Rome, are the antiquities. None but those who can see the remains can
form an idea of what Ancient Rome was. * * * All
these things fill the mind with wonder, and we cannot but
contrast the energy of the ancient Romans with the effeminacy of the modern. A great part of ancient Rome lies
buried, in an unaccountable manner, under an accumulation
of rubbish, in places, to the depth of twenty and thirty feet.
Here and there, excavations have been made, and we can
now step on the pavement upon which Caesar trod. These
excavations are small; although, to watch the Roman workmen constantly employed in them, you would be astonished

158

THE CARNIVAL.

that so much has been done. What a difference between
the builders of these great works, and the beings engaged
in their excavation!
You would laugh heartily to see modern Roman labourers
at work. In the first place, they have wheelbarrows that
hold about a good shovel-full; these they load about half
full, with small spades having long handles, that the poor
fellows may not break their backs in stooping. You will
see them, on a fine, warm, sunny morning, as thick as flies
on a lump of sugar, some with their cloaks on, leaning upon
their spades either with gloves on or with their hands in
their pockets, others sitting on the sides of their wheelbarrows, or perhaps, which is a rare occurrence, lifting
slowly about a spoonful of earth at a time, resting some
five minutes between each effort: if they find a piece of
earth as big as the fist they break it before lifting it.
Sometimes you will see groups of them going along at the
slowest possible pace with their loads, conversing and
smoking to make their labours light, or, overcome by the
toil of wheeling ten yards, sitting on their barrows, reposing from the dreadful fatigue. It is certainly a most laughable sight. You may think this an exaggeration, but, I
assure you, it is almost impossible to exaggerate.
It is now the Carnival in Rome, when it is usual for the
people to abandon' themselves to all sorts of gayety. But
this season the Carnival is dull, be'cause the Pope has interdicted masking, which takes away much of the interest.
However, it is extremely amusing, for many persons appear
dressed in character; and the Corso, the fashionable street,
is filled, every afternoon, with a motley assemblage of harlequins, Turks, Greeks and jesters, and from every window
is hung a gay piece of drapery. There are showers of
sugar-plums and flowers, with which the people pelt each

THE COLOSSEUM.

159

other. I have stood the fire, and returned it with interest,
as I ride, every afternoon, in the carriage of some American
friend. * * * I have just received your letter, written
#
as long ago as November 17th.
*
*
*
Your loving son,
THOMAS COLE.
NOTES AT NAPLES.

Naples, May 14th, 1832.—I left Rome almost without
making a memorandum of the many objects of interest I
there saw. In the midst of Naples, as I am, with all its
enchantments around me, I must devote an hour to the
" City of the soul," and save from oblivion the already
#
fading records of memory.
•*
*
From the great multitude of wondrous things, I would
select the Colosseum as the object that affected me the
most. It is stupendous, yet beautiful in its destruction.
From the broad arena within, it rises around you, arch
above arch, broken and desolate, and mantled in many
parts with the laurustinus, the acanthus, and numerous
other plants and flowers, exquisite both for their colour and
fragrance. It looks more like a work of nature than of
man; for the regularity of art is lost, in a great measure,
in dilapidation, and the luxuriant herbage, clinging to its
ruins as if to " mouth its distress," completes the illusion.
Crag rises over crag, green and breezy summits mount into
the sky. To walk beneath its crumbling walls, to climb its
shattered steps, to wander through its long, arched passages,
to tread in the footsteps of Rome's ancient kings, to muse
upon its broken height, is to lapse into sad, though not
unpleasing meditation.
But he who would see and feel the grandeur of the Colosseum must spend his hour there, at night, when the moon

160

THE PANTHEON.

is shedding over it its magic splendour. Let him ascend
to its higher terraces, at that pensive time, and gaze down
into the abyss, or hang his eye upon the ruinous ridge,
where it gleams in the moon-rays, and charges boldly
against the deep blue heaven. The mighty spectacle, mysterious- and dark, opens beneath the eye more like some
awful dream than an earthly reality,—a vision of the valley
and shadow of death, rather than the substantial work of
man. Could man, indeed, have ministered either to its
erection or its ruin? As I mused upon its great circumference, I seemed to be sounding the depths of some volcanic crater, whose fires, long extinguished, had left the
ribbed and blasted rocks to the wild-flower and the ivy.
In a sense, the fancy is a truth: it was once the crater of
human passions; there their terrible fires blazed forth with
desolating power, and the thunder of the eruption shook
the skies. But now all is still desolation. In the morning
the warbling of birds makes the quiet air melodious; in the
hushed and holy twilight, the low chanting of monkish solemnities soothes the startled ear.
At the Pantheon all is simple and grand. What a portico ! what masses of light and shadow! But enter within—
the dome opens like an eternity: the impression is simple
and overwhelming: there are no bounds: the eye wanders
over it incessantly: if it fixes upon any one point, that point
seems always retiring. So skilfully is it contrived that its
dimensions cannot be measured by the eye: the perspective
lines of its quadrangular compartments make it appear
larger than it really is. The light falls through a circular
opening at the top of the dome; and looking up at the sky
and the passing clouds of the zenith, one might easily
imagine himself in the centre of a globe that was rolling
through the infinite depths of heaven.

ST. PETER'S.—THE VATICAN.

161

How different is that greatest modern temple, magnificent and immense as it is. It affects but by its richness.
Columns piled upon columns support that most beautiful
dome: while I wonder, I can scarce admire; the effect is so
inadequate to its size, and to the world of material employed.
One point destroys another, and the vast dome sinks amid a
crowd of huge statues that encumber the portico. The long
colonnades on each wing, built sloping with the hill in front,
by counteracting the natural perspective lines, destroy the
effect which would otherwise be produced by the mere size
of the edifice. Enter, and you are astonished at the richness of the materials, and the beauty of its parts. Marble,
porphyry and precious stones, bronze and gold, are all
around you as profusely as if the earth had yielded up her
riches to adorn the stupendous fane. The lavishness of
precious materials, applied without regard to the effect of
the whole, is barbaric: it may please by its costliness and
variety: but costliness pleases only the vulgar, and variety
without order is not beauty. Standing beneath the dome,
which we know to be larger than that of the Pantheon, we
are surprised at the smallness of its appearance; it seems
but a few feet in diameter. This effect is owing to the
bright and staring colours with which it is bedizened ;
colours which cannot be made to appear distant without
making others of corresponding intensity * appear near to
the beholder, which is not the case. The chequered contrasts of colour greatly injure the effect of St. Peter's. Had
the colours been arranged simply in broad masses, with
attention to their peculiar qualities—the hue, the light and
shade, whether soft or violent—with well-arranged gradations, how majestic, I can imagine, the interior of this noble
pile would have appeared.
To speak fully of the treasures of the Vatican would
11

162

THE APOLLO.—THE VENUS DI MEDICI.

require volumes; and to criticise with judgment is a still
more arduous task. But I cannot, on account of my incapacity to retain impressions, allow them to fade away for
the want of a written record, although it must be brief and
imperfect.
I go to the Apollo first, which, if not the most, is one of
the most, perfect of human productions. I can conceive of
no description finer than Byron's in his Childe Harold : but
description can never convey an adequate idea of that embodiment of majesty and motion. Critics have found fault,
and artists, learned in the clay, rather than in the spirit of
art, have declared that the neck is not set aright on the
shoulders. Shallow observers! Do they imagine that he
who modeled those symmetrical limbs placed that neck as
it is through ignorance or inadvertence ? No ! it was intentional : and by breaking a rule the sculptor has " snatched
a grace beyond the reach of art." Expression, grace, motion, were the objects of the artist. Those objects he has
gained. It is not in this statue alone that we find among
the antiques a deviation from what is now called good
drawing. It is perceptible in most of the finest Greek
statues. The head of the Venus di Medici is not alike on
both sides. This irregularity is in order to keep up that
flowing line of beauty, which the artist considered as absolutely essential to the perfection of the statue; and all the
unmeaning and mechanical rules of measurement were sacrificed to obtain something far more valuable.
We see also in that grand colossal head of The dying
Alexander a great deviation from exact measurement.
Render both sides of the head precisely the same, and you
deprive it of a great part of its expression.
How my admiration of the Greeks increases as I become
more conversant with their works! With what sagacity

THE TRANSFIGURATION.—DOMEXICHINO'S ST. JEROME.

163

they explored nature, discovered her secret influences, and
found the essence of beauty !
From the Apollo I turn to the Transfiguration of Raphael. I approached it with fear lest I should be disappointed ; but it far transcends my expectation. Its chiaroscuro, though not disagreeable, is not as a whole complete,
compared with many pictures of inferior merit in other
respects. The upper part, where Christ is lifted from the
earth like a bright exhalation, and the two apostles are
suspended near like etherial beings, is beautiful in colour
and chiaroscuro. The lower part of the picture, where are
the Maniac and the Doctors, is not so pleasing in effect and
colour as the higher. The shadows are rather black. But
here we see a wonderful exhibition of expression in perfect
gradation from the distressed parent, the unbelieving Saducee, to the confident believer who points up to the Saviour
as the Great Healer. These have their intermediate grades
of expression in the surrounding figures, and come down to
the perplexed Doctors who have sought in vain for a remedy
for the maniac. Expression is the soul of this picture: in
this it surpasses all others. This great work has also been
subjected to criticism. It is said that Raphael has taken
too great a liberty in bringing the Transfiguration of Christ
into the same scene with the maniac boy. I should be extremely sorry if it were otherwise, even though it might be
an impropriety, which, to me, it certainly is not. Raphael
has sacrificed perhaps a little in order to a great gain. It
is said to be two pictures on one canvass: but what would
the lower part mean if broken from the upper ? The picture might possibly have been better connected in its light
and shadow, but the pointing figures are quite sufficient to
give a unity to the composition.
Standing opposite the Transfiguration is Domenichino's

164

PANORAMA OF NAPLES.—PAESTUM.

celebrated picture of the Communion of St. Jerome. It is
supposed by some to equal the Transfiguration. It is certainly a noble picture. Everything is finely executed in
chiaroscuro, composition and colour: but nothing is carried
to the perfection that may be seen in many other pictures.
The colouring of Domenichino is often fine, but inferior to
Titian. His shadows, in flesh even, are often black, and
the texture of his substances not so well understood as by
the Venetians.
In the Vatican is an Entombment, by Caravaggio, which,
for chiaroscuro, is grand. A picture by Andrea Sacchi, of
some monks dressed in white, is wonderfully fine in tone
and chiaroscuro. The landscape is in a fine style. That
grand statue, the Moses of Michael Angelo, is one of the
things never to be forgotten. In character it is not surpassed by the works of any age. It is less pure in style
than the fine Greek, and perhaps there is a tinge of barba#
rism about it.
*
*
*
*
While at Naples, Cole entertained the then novel thought
of painting, on his return to America, a large panorama
of the bay and city, and actually advanced in a* series of
sketches for the purpose. But to make drawings from the
castle that commands the town and its finest scenery he
found was not permitted by the authorities, and he gave up
the undertaking in disgust.
After a fortnight among the wonders of that enchanting
region, he set off with a small party, in defiance of all
guides, note-books and physicians, for the solitudes of Paestum. A night spent at one of those wretched shelters for
the marsh labourers, where, among the musquitoes, no ordinary fatigue can minister draughts of sleep strong enough
to dull the sharp incentives to keep awake, became the

PAESTUM.

165

subject of long and amusing recollection. Grim, robber-like
visages faintly lighted by the single candle—black bread
and sour wine, served on a broken chair—vermine on the
chilly couch, and darkness as the only covering of the holes
and fissures of the old plaster floor, all composed a picture
too grotesque to lose a particle of its character and freshness in the lapse of years. A washing though, at daybreak,
in a rivulet close by, cooled the fever of the night's vexations,
and began one of those impressive days which rather grew,
than lessened in his remembrance. " ' Why do you go to
Paestum?'* said an Englishman, who had just returned
from it to Naples. l You will see nothing there but a few
old buildings/ He went, however, saw the old buildings,
the grandest and most perfect remains of the architecture
of Greece, standing
Between the mountains and the sea,

in a spot where, in the beautiful words of the same poet,
The air is sweet with yiolets running wild,

but which the pestilential climate has made a desert; he
saw, and painted a view of them for an American lady."
* Bryant's Oration.

CHAPTER

XVIII.

Journal: from Rome to Florence.—To Mr. Gilmor : in Florence again.—In
the Spirit of Painting.—Unexpected call Homewards.—His Florentine pictures.—-Their reception at Home.—Cole's opinion of modern Italian pictures.—His opinion of the Old Masters.—Opinion of Landscape Painting.—
Florentine pictures, neither copies of the Old Masters, nor false to Nature.
—The grounds of these charges considered.

COLE determined to spend the ensuing summer and autumn
in Florence. The following is, in part, his diary on his way
thither from the south of Italy.
FROM ROME TO FLORENCE.

June 5th, 1832.—Getting off is always a disagreeable
piece of business. The loading the luggage, the fixing, the
altercation with the vetturino faction, &c, are matters that
put a man into ill-humour; and he may bless his stars if he
can leave any city in Italy without being in a rage. Experience though wears off the keenness of vexation, and he
learns to bear with patience those ills that cannot be removed by opposition.
We, Master L
and myself, had taken the cabrioli
to ourselves, and, after seeing our baggage loaded, prepared
to mount: a tall gentleman with green spectacles prepared

FROM ROME TO FLORENCE.

167

to do the same thing. The vetturino told him, however,
ne would have to go in the carrozza: against this he protested, saying he had taken a place in the cabrioli, and was
determined to have it. The altercation grew fierce; and
whilst the war of words was raging we got quietly into the
cabrioli. As possession is nine points of the law, we retained
our places in spite of the tall gentleman.
Snugly seated ourselves, we now looked out calmly on
the troubles of others. The tall gentleman refusing to ride
in the inside was left, and the vetturino proceeded to another
hotel to take in other passengers. The next two that got in
were a Frenchman and a young man with a claret-coloured
coat: these had a quarrel about front and back seat. Now
came up the man of spectacles, a little calmed down, and
wisely concluded it was better to go inside than not at all.
Then came a lady with a gray face, a JBalena: she saw the
back seat was taken by the gentlemen, and protested that
she was a woman, and they not men, but brutes. She conquered, as women generally do in such cases, and gained
the back seat, and from thenceforward was the sweetest
creature in the world. Now the claret-coat had to get out;
he had forgotten something. Then came another lady, an
elderly person; she found the back seat, the seat of preference, occupied by a lady and gentleman: back she flew
from the carriage, and whisked round nimbly in a rage:
these whiskings produced their effect, for she effectually
whisked the man from his place. Now the claret-coat
came back—found the back seat filled—fretted and fumed,
but all to no purpose: he had to drop in tightly between
the two women.
We reached the gate of Rome, and while our passports
were getting ready, up came a little priest with thread-bare
coat, new hat and large crucifix. He had engaged a place

168

COLE IN FLORENCE AGAIN.

on the inside, and insisted upon getting in: but the Balena,
the old lady, the Frenchman and claret-coat and spectacles,
all resisted. Poor priest, he was compelled to take a hard
seat by the vetturino, where, without great-coat as he was,
he would -be exposed to the vicissitudes of the weather.
I now came in for a portion of vexation, for the priest
sat directly before me, and his cocked-hat obstructed my
view.
With fine horses we proceeded at a good pace for several
miles, until we came to a part of the road undergoing repairs: here we found, in the temporary road, a waggon stuck
fast in the mud, and it was impossible for us to pass. It
was curious to see what efforts were made to extricate it,
and what a variety of animals was attached—horses, mules,
asses, oxen, cows; all these were in requisition, but all in
vain. With half the means in England or America the
waggon would have gone through: but there is a surprising
want of energy and promptness in the Italians in any emergency. We had to make a new road for ourselves, and so
got safely along.
*
*
*
*
*
To MR. GILMOR.
FLORENCE, July 7th, 1832.

MY DEAR SIR,—I am induced to remain in Italy a few
months longer: and not having heard anything from you
of the large picture that I sent, last winter, I now write
with the desire that you will say if it was acceptable. * *
Since I last wrote I have seen the wonders of Rome, and
the beauties of Naples. I have been much gratified, and I
hope benefitted. I have now returned to Florence with
the intention of painting several pictures. Indeed, the
facilities here are so great, and there is so much of beauty
in the atmosphere, and also the means of living are so

IN THE SPIRIT OF PAINTING.-—UNEXPECTED CALL HOME. 1 6 9

inexpensive, that I concluded it would be well to remain a
little longer.
Mr. Greenough is hard at work, producing things full of
beauty. The Medora is far advanced, and will touch every
heart that is capable of feeling.
*
*
*
I am now engaged in a picture that is a view of the Campagna of Rome,—broken aqueducts, &c. But I long for the
#
wild mountains of the West.
*
*
Anxious to hear from you, I remain,
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

Fresh from those "wonders" and "beauties/ 7 Cole fulfilled his "intention of painting" to an extent that afterwards surprised himself. Reviewing his sketches and
studies, especially those of the Campagna, he went to his
canvass with redoubled enthusiasm, and worked from day
to day under that kind of afflatus which sweeps one forward
to success almost unconsciously. " I was in the spirit of
it," he afterwards said; u and 0 that I was there again,
and in the same spirit!" Picture after picture descended
from his easel, and of an excellence surpassing, in some
qualities, anything that he had hitherto done. A large
view of the Claudian aqueduct, A vi^w in the Apennines—
II arco di Nerone, A small view near Tivoli, The Cascatelles of Tivoli, The Fountain of Egeria, with several more,
large and small, chiefly Italian scenery, all succeeded each
other in the short space of three months.
In the luxury of this enthusiastic and successful toil, his
longing " for the wild mountains of the west" had scarcely
subsided when he was unexpectedly called to turn his eyes
towards them, an unwelcome prospect for the first time
almost during his absence. News of the cholera in New

170

HIS FLORENTINE PICTURES.—RECEPTION IN AMERICA.

York, and of the illness of his parents, suddenly brought
his delightful labours in Florence to a close, and hastened
his departure for America.
Before we attend him thither, a few words are ventured
upon the judgment which was passed upon what may be
called his Florentine pictures, when they first made their
appearance at home.
While a judicious eye could not fail, at a glance, to see
that they were full of Cole's feeling and imagination, they
differed enough from his earlier works to make them appear,
in the opinion of some, the productions of another and inferior hand. Perceiving a marked change in his manner,
they took no proper account of the reasonableness or true
causes of the change, and either grieved over the artist's
loss of his first wild freshness and originality, or, in a less
charitable spirit, pronounced his Florentine paintings overcharged copies of the old masters, and no longer faithful to
nature. Let us see.
" What shall I say of Modern Italian a r t ? " as he writes
some time subsequently to Dunlap. " I am afraid you will
think I looked at all with a jaundiced eye. I have been
told that I did at the ancient also : if so, I have lost much
enjoyment. I can only speak as I have felt. Italian painting is perhaps worse than the French, which it resembles in
its frigidity. In landscape it is dry, and in fact wretched.
There are a few German and English aj-tists in Rome who
paint with more soul than the Italians* It would scarcely
be credited that, surrounded by the richest works of the
old schools, there should be a total ignorance of the
means of producing brilliancy and transparency, and that
among the greater part of the Italians glazing is unknown:
and the few who, from seeing the English at work, have
acquired some knowledge of it, use magilps and var-

OPINION OP LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

171

nishes as though they were deadly poisons. Indeed, of
all meagre, starved things, an Italian's palette is the perfection.
, " The pictures of the Italian masters gave me the greatest
delight, and I laboured to make their principles my own:
for these, which have stood the criticism of ages, are produced on principles of truth, and upon no abstract notion
of the sublime and beautiful. The artists were gifted with
a keen perception of the beautiful of nature, and imitated
it in -simplicity and single-heartedness. They did not sit
down, as the modern artist too often does, with a preconceived notion of what is, or ought to be, beautiful: their
beau ideal i^as the choicest of nature. They often introduced absurdities and things of bad taste into their pictures,
but they were honest, there was no affectation. I do not
believe that they theorized as we do : they loved the beauty
which they saw around them, and painted.
" Many of the Old Masters have been praised for their
defects; and the blackness of age has been called tone;
and there are some whose merits appear to me to be but
small. Salvator Rosa's is a great name: his pictures disappointed me. He is peculiar, energetic, but of limited
capacity comparatively. Claude, to me, is the greatest of
all landscape painters: and, indeed, I should rank him
with Raphael or Michaol Angelo. Poussin I delighted in,
and Rysdael for his truth, which is equal to Claude, but
not so choice.
" Will you allow me here to say a word or two on landscape ? It is usual to rank it as a lower branch of the art,
below the historical. Why so ? Is there a better reason
than that the vanity of man makes him delight most in his
own image ? In its difficulty * * it is equal at least to the
historical. There are certainly'fewer good landscape pic-

172

HIS FLORENTINE PICTURES NEITHER COPIES OP

tures, in proportion to their number, than historical. In
landscapes there is a greater variety of objects, textures,
phenomena to imitate. It has expression also, not of passion, to be sure, but of sentiment, whether it be tranquil or
spirit-stirring:—has its seasons, sunrise, sunset, the storm,
the calm, various kinds of trees, herbage, waters, mountains,
skies. And whatever scene is chosen, one spirit pervades
the whole: light and darkness tremble in the atmosphere,
and each change transmutes."
One with such an opinion of the dignity and capabilities
of his own branch of the art; one who so well understood,
and rejoiced over the secret of the great artists' success—
their devotion to nature; and also knew so well where the
rock lay upon which such numbers of cotemporaries were
splitting—an "abstract," "preconceived notion" of beauty, induced by studying works of art to the neglect of nature, would
never have run upon that rock with open eyes, where we
are bound to insist that he must have run, if we would give
any reasonable account how he lost his early excellence,
and became unnatural and a copyist. Every hour of his
study and practice, within doors and without, is proof not
only against the existence of the cause to produce the
faults with which he was charged, but in favour of the fact
that he grew in knowledge and skill to manifest his power,
and express truth.
Indeed, in this very growth lay the secret of the misconconception. Works which had satisfied the public with the
artist were the offspring of his youth in a r t ; and lively
expressions too of the feeling, grace and freshness, wild
bloom and luxuriance of that youth; of its immaturity,
doubt and timidity, its gentleness and delicacy also. But
when he came back from a pilgrimage into the still land
of thought and labour, as well as into the land of art, every

THE OLD MASTERS, NOR FALSE TO NATURE.

173

step of which had been taken with an acceleration of which
little or no thought was had at home, he was too far in
advance to be looked at by the eyes of the old criticism.
" Distance lent," not " enchantment/ 7 but obscurity " to the
view,"—a littleness and deformity. He was not where he
had been, he was not what he had been: it was now uncertain just where or what he was, and therefore he was just
that which they were pleased to call him—lost to this excellency—changed in that—while in reality he was only well
beginning to move with the freedom, to strike with the
assurance, and to glow with the fire of one who sees both
his own force, and the means of wrestling with difficulties,
and of attaining ends, and knows how to use them with
fear, trembling and uncertainty, no more. The case was
simply: The critic had not kept pace with the painter.
His own notion of excellence in landscape (to which he
had not unfrequently been helped by the very pictures
Cole'had left behind) was therefore no longer an adequate
measure of that which had gotten beyond and above him.
Besides, the artist was now presenting subjects with which
the public was no longer familiar. He re-appeared with a
disadvantage similar to that with which he first appeared
abroad, especially in England. When his American autumnal, and forest views, Corway Peak, and the Tornado
in the Forest, for instance, were first seen in London, they
wera condemned as false to nature, particularly in colour.
We do know, and time will inevitably place it beyond all
dispute, that none, in that quality, were ever more true.
More taking to the eye that is tickled by the tricks of art
there were doubtless thousands, but none more true. To
the thorough consciousness of this, and of the injustice of
the verdict of the English critic, and not to bad feeling at the real merit of any one, should every word of

174

THE GROUNDS OP THESE CHARGES CONSIDERED.

that be set down which Cole felt and said disparagingly
of English art. An Italian would have vindicated the
truthfulness to nature of those pictures which were considered false to it here. True, it was not nature in America, but it was in Italy, that inspired the warmth and
splendour, beaming and panting on this new canvass.

CHAPTER

XIX.

Cole in New York.—Luman Reed.—Letter to Mr. Reed: plan of the Course
of Empire.—Cole's gratitude.—To Mr. Adams.—Rebuked for Ingratitude.
—To Mr. Adams: vindicates himself.—To the same: renewal of friendship.—To the same: II Arco di Nerone.—Cole's generosity.—To Mr. Alexander : painting in Catskill.—To the same.—Angels appearing to the
Shepherds.—Picture for Mr. Alexander.

COLE embarked, at Leghorn, on the 8th of October, 1832,
for New York, where he arrived on the 25th of the following November. For several ensuing months he occupied,
for painting and exhibition, rooms on the corner of Wall
Street and Broadway. With these apartments was afterwards associated one of the most fortunate incidents of his
life; an incident which may be called the harbinger of a
friendship which influenced his success, as a painter, far
more than any other. There came in, one day, a person
in the decline of life,—took rather a hasty turn round the
room, serving for a gallery, and went out without a word.
There was that, however, in the appearance of this silent
visitor, as he looked quietly, but intelligently from picture
to picture, which could not be readily forgotten. Cole had
a rare power of judging character correctly at once. The
favourable opinion, instantly formed of the person whose
look and manner struck him, was soon happily confirmed
by an introduction and acquaintance. It was Luman Reed.

176

PLAN OF THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

In the course of the winter^Cole received from him a
commission for a large Italian landscape, and conversed
with him about pictures for a private gallery he was then
contemplating. The somewhat lengthy letter below, written
from Catskill, to which place he retired in the succeeding
spring, will unfold the character of those conversations.
To LUMAN REED.
CATSKILL, September 18th, 1833.

desire you expressed, that I should
paint pictures to fill one of your rooms, has given me much
pleasure; and I have made some rough drawings (which I
send you) of the arrangement that appears to me most suitable, and in accordance with the subjects I should wish to
paint. I mentioned to you a favourite subject that I, had
been cherishing for several years with ike faint hope that,
some day or other, I might be able to embody it. Your
liberality has presented an opportunity; and I trust that
nothing will now prevent me from completing what I have
so long desired. In the drawings you will perceive that I
have taken one side of the room for this subject; and, as
my description to you of my plan was very imperfect, I will
now take the liberty of making an extract from my memorandum book of what I have conceived about it.
A series of pictures might be painted that should illustrate the history of a natural scene, as well as be an epitome
of Man,—showing the natural changes of landscape, and
those effected by man in his progress from barbarism to
civilization—to luxury—to the vicious state, or state of
destruction—and to the state of ruin and desolation.
The philosophy of my subject is drawn from the history
of the past, wherein we see how nations have risen from the
savage state to that of power and glory, and then fallen,
and become extinct. Natural scenery has also its changes,
M Y BEAR SIR,—The

PLAN OF THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

l^T

—the hours of the day and the seasons of the year—sunshine
and storm : these justly applied will give expression to each
picture of the series I would paint. It will be well to have
the same location in each picture: this location may be
identified by the introduction of some striking object in
each scene—a mountain of peculiar form, for instance. This
will not in the least preclude variety. The scene must be
composed so as to be picturesque in its wild state, appropriate for cultivation, and the site of a sea-port. There
must be the sea, a bay, rocks, waterfalls and woods.
T H E FIRST PICTURE, representing the savage state, must
be a view of a wilderness,—the sun rising from the sea, and
the clouds of night retiring over the mountains. The figures
must be savage, clothed in skins, and occupied i n the chase.
There must be a flashing chiaroscuro, and the spirit of motion
pervading the scene, as though nature were just springing
from chaos.
T H E SECOND PICTURE must be the pastoral state,—the day
further advanced—light clouds playing about the mountains—the scene partly cultivated—a rude village near the
bay—small vessels in the harbour—groups of peasants either
pursuing their labours in the field, watching their flocks, or
engaged in some simple amusement. The chiaroscuro must
be of a milder character than in the previous scene, but yet
have a fresh and breezy effect.
T H E THIRD must be a noonday,—a great city girding the
bay, gorgeous piles of architecture, bridges, aqueducts,
temples—the port crowded with vessels—splendid processions, &c.—all that can be combined to show the fulness
of prosperity: the chiaroscuro broad.
T H E FOURTH should be a tempest,—a battle, and the
burning of the city—towers falling, arches broken, vessels
wrecking in the harbour. In this scene there should be a
12

176

REQUISITE LABOUR AND PRICE.

fierce chiaroscuro, masses and groups swaying about like
stormy waves. This is the scene of destruction or vicious
state.
T H E FIFTH must be a sunset,—the mountains riven—the
city a desolate ruin—columns standing isolated amid the
encroaching waters—ruined temples, broken bridges, fountains, sarcophagi, &c.—no human figure—a solitary bird
perhaps: a calm and silent effect. This picture must be as
the funeral knell of departed greatness, and may be called
the state of desolation.
You will perceive what an arduous task I have set myself ; but your approbation will stimulate me to conquer
difficulties. These five pictures, with three smaller ones
above, and two others by the fire-place, will occupy all that
side of the room. The three high pictures will be something
in character with those over which they hang. # * *
To fill the other side of the room and the ends will require
eighteen or twenty pictures, five of which will be larger
than the Italian Scene. * # For the completion of all
these pictures I cannot reckon upon less than two years'
labour; and they may require more time: at all events,
nothing should prevent me from using every means and
exertion to make the work satisfactory to you, and creditable to myself.
You will wish me to say something about the price: it is
the subject I am least willing to encounter. My desire to
undertake a work on which I may hope to establish a lasting reputation, and the fear that such an opportunity may
never offer again, may make me forget, in a measure, my
pecuniary interests: on the other hand, the profitable commissions I already have, the consideration that a painter's
wants are like those of other men, and the necessity, in
undertaking a work like yours, of neglecting for a time my

COLE'S GRATITtJDE.

179

general reputation, may cause me to make a demand greater
than you have calculated upon. I trust I shall not be unreasonable nor extravagant. For the ten pictures occupying
the side with the fire-place I must ask $2,500. Five of the
pictures will be much larger than your Italian Scene, and
will require greater study, as the figures, though small, will
in some of them be numerous, and I should desire to paint
them carefully. For the other side and the ends—five of
which will be large pictures—I cannot ask less than the
same, making $5,000 for the completion of the whole room.
This may appear a large sum; but I assure you that if I
calculated according to the prices I have received for my
pictures lately, the amount of the last mentioned side alone
would be double the sum I ask: but I shall be happy to do
them, so that I may have an opportunity of executing the
others.
*
*
*
• I am, yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

In a letter to Mr. Gilmor, speaking of the Wild Scene,
painted for him in Italy, and which had gone on its way
no further than New York, he says: " there are no interested motives in wishing you to take this picture, for I
have received the same sum for those that did not occupy
me more than one third of the time in painting that this has
done. But, at the same time, I shall always feel deeply
your debtor, even had the work been one of much more
labour than it really was. Pecuniary debts are much more
easily paid than those of gratitude."
*
*
*
To be lastingly grateful for favours was a distinguishing
trait in the character of Cole. The following correspondence illustrates the truth of this perhaps more signally
than the 'above, and carries us back to the trying, but
romantic period of bis outset in his profession.

180

REFERRING TO HIS INDEBTEDNESS.

To WILLIAM A. ADAMS, ESQ.
CATSKILL, November 4th, 1833.

My DEAR SIR,—I am afraid that if you still remember me
it is with the recollection also of what must have appeared
ingratitude for favours that you and several other gentlemen of Zanesville conferred on a stranger. I contracted a
debt with a hard man, and was unable to pay i t : the liberality of yourself and friends relieved me from its burden.
Years have passed away since the transaction, and I have
not yet cleared myself from the appearance of dishonesty
or ingratitude. But circumstances, the detail of which
would be useless, have hitherto prevented me from doing
what I have ardently desired to do for years. I now wish
to clear myself from the pecuniary obligation: but being
uncertain whether this will find you, I will wait your
answer.
#
#
#
Please write to me, and say something of yourself and
the few friends I did possess in Zanesville: for although the
season of my life, at which I became acquainted with you,
was one of misery, I look back to your kindness with pleasure. I have been more successful in my profession than
my highest anticipations reached when I was with you. I
shall be happy to hear that success has attended your
usually more profitable profession. Direct to me at 20
Greene Street, New York.
*
*
* •
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

By a singular coincidence, Mr. Adams, hearing of Cole's
prosperity, and thinking both himself and his little claim
forgotten, wrote, at the same date nearly as the above,
rebuking him for ingratitude, and demanding payment.
The regret of Adams on receiving the communication of
his old friend was keen: what were the feelings of Cole

VINDICATES HIMSELF.

181

upon reading the epistle addressed to him, which, for some
reason, he fancied might have been written after the receipt
of his own, may be learned from his instant reply.
TO THE SAME.
NEW YORK, April 7th, 1834.

SIR,—Yours was an agonizing letter. But were I as culpable as you consider me, and less unfortunate, I should not
have felt what I did feel at its perusal. If, sir, you had
known all the truth, you would not have rebuked me so
severely. I have suffered keenly from the unfortunate predicament in which I have been placed; but ingratitude I
will not acknowledge. It was pain enough to feel the incapability of saving my character from the stigma of ingratitude : but when I had found means of freeing myself from
the imputation of dishonesty, to be so rebuked by you was
to have poison poured into the wound. I know you have
every reason to think as you do: but, in justice to myself,
I cannot allow you to remain entirely ignorant of the circumstances- which have made me seem so base: and if, in
the facts I shall state, you do not find a full excuse for my
conduct, you will admit there is something in extenuation.
It is indeed ten years since my former friends, actuated
by the most disinterested motives, relieved me from my distress. Of those ten years, the first three were spent amid
the deepest deprivations and poverty. For some weeks I
lived on bread and water, until a painful sickness came upon
me: this was, in part, in Philadelphia. After my recovery
my prospects improved a little. But our large family,
which at this time was in a great measure dependent upon
me, an only son, came on to me from the West,, .and with it
debt, contracted by my father, for which I was bound.
Since that time I have been the support of the family. My

182

VINDICATES HIMSELF.

father's health has been bad for many years. Nearly four
years I spent in Europe, not in the pursuit of pleasure, but in
the earnest endeavour to acquire the means of supporting
an affectionate family, and of paying those debts that crushed
my very soul to think of. A little more than a year since I
returned. I have been rather successful, and the first money
which was not required by the necessities of myself and
family I have offered you. The continuance of adversity
has not been the result of idleness, for I have laboured
incessantly. And if economy and temperate habits could
ensure prosperity, it would be mine.
*
*
I assure you, sir, that at no time have I been able to pay
the debt without immediate danger of depriving my family
of what was needful. I have at times—although not so
frequently as might have been well—endeavored to let it
be known that I had not forgotten my obligation. I saw
Mr. D
in Philadelphia when I was almost destitute; I
have since written to him. I could enter into further
details of my adverse circumstances: but if in what I have
written you can find no excuse for my conduct, then I have
already said too much. I enclose the amount in cash. * *
I was perhaps unfortunate in my letter in speaking of the
amount of the debt; I should have calculated the interest
myself, and forwarded the full sum.
As to my promise of painting a picture in place of paying
the money, it had escaped my memory. I can say this—if
I had remembered that you had acceded to such a proposition, the debt should have been paid long ago, joyfully.
No, sir, I will pay the money: I cannot do anything less
than fulfill my original engagement. If, after this, I should
be so happy as to be regarded more favourably by you, and
you would accept a picture as a token of my unchanged
regard for you, and an evidence that I am not ungrateful,

RENEWAL OF FRIENDSHIP.

183

you will confer an infinite favour. I trust this will be the
case. I enclose a fifty-dollar United States bill. * * *
I am sorry that in your letter you did not acknowledge the
receipt of mine.
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

Prom the letters which succeed, it will be seen that the
friends were placed upon their former footing. The friendship continued undisturbed ever afterwards.
TO THE SAME.
NEW YORK, April 23d,

1834.

MY DEAR SIR,—Your letters of the 4th, and 14th instant
have been received, and have relieved my mind from what
it could ill bear. I am rejoiced that you again think of me
as you once thought, and I look forward to a renewal of
our acquaintance with great pleasure. You had more
reason for writing harshly, as you did, than I supposed; I
do not remember receiving a single letter from you; if I
did, I am sure that I answered it. But we will forget the
unpleasant circumstances that have occurred.
Your desire to possess a picture of mine is gratifying, and
I shall let you have one, although in returning the twentyfive dollars you have deprived me of an opportunity of
making a small return for your former kindness. I have
not, at present, a picture that I should like you to have, but
in a few weeks I shall be ready for you. I have several
pictures on hand, but their size and subjects prevent me
from offering them. I wish to paint something expressly
for you. I hope you will come yourself, as you have intimated. I shall be extremely glad to see you, as also your
picture, which, if I may judge from what I saw when in
Zanesville, has great merit. I assure you that when I was

184

IL ARC0 DI NERONE.

there, I really felt you were my superior in the art, but
necessity perhaps made me presume to be superior.
It is my custom to spend the summer at Catskill, on the
Hudson, and I intend to go there about the second week in
May. If it should happen that I am there when you come
to New York, either come up, or send me a note letting me
know of your arrival; it will reach me in a few hours, and
I will be with you. If you will come to me, I will show
you some glorious scenery, and my workshop. * * *
Yours truly, THOMAS COLE.
TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, August 5th,

1834.

M Y DEAR SIR,—For fear that you should think me forgetful of my promise, I will once more trouble you. I have
not been able, from a variety of circumstances, to paint any
picture expressly for you: and as, at present, I see no opportunity of doing so, except at a sacrifice which I know you
would not wish me to make, I offer you a picture that I
painted in Italy. If you will let me know how it shall be
forwarded to you, it shall be done as soon as can be conveniently—as I am at present at Catskill, and the picture
in New York. The picture is a view near Tivoli, representing a bridge, and part of an ancient aqueduct, called
" II Arco di Nerone :"• a road passes under the remaining
arch: it is a morning scene, with the mists rising from the
mountains. For pictures of the same size, and painted to
commission, I have a hundred dollars. This I mention, not
with the intention of making a display, but to show you
that I feel the debt I owe cannot be paid by a thousand
pictures. This picture was mentioned favourably in several
of the journals, at the last year's exhibition. * * *
I remain, yours sincerely, THOMAS COLE.

GENEROSITY.—ANTICIPATIONS AND REMEMBRANCES.

18&

It was not only under circumstances like those with
which the reader has just been made acquainted that the
fine, generous nature of Cole showed itself: the most
tender and delicate feelings were continually made manifest
in little things. A trifling incident, occurring about this
period of his life, is an example of this. A sawyer, one
day, after having finished his load of wood, applied, at the
door, for his pay. Cole came in while his sister was expostulating with him for an extortionate charge. " 0, Sarah,"
said he, " pay him his price: never economize out of the
poor."
To FRANCIS ALEXANDER, ESQ.
CATSKILL, September 1st, 1834.

M Y DEAR FRIEND,— * * I trust you do not think that I
have forgotten you, my old companion in travel; and I
write this in order to prove to you that I neither forget,
nor intend to be forgotten.
What have you been doing since your return ? I have
heard that you were going to lay aside your single blessedness ; and perhaps the thing may have been done before
now: if so, I wish you all happiness and prosperity. For
my own part, in spite of the rumours you get hold of, I am
still single, and, alas ! am likely to remain so. I am not so
fortunate as you: I find no congenial spirit to mingle soul
with soul. But, thank heaven, I have sisters, and am not
one of those wretches who find none to love.
Do you know I have been thinking of Italy of late ? I
do not .know what has come over me; I feel as if I should
go there again. Thus it is to be a bachelor—restless. I am
not determined on bachelorship by any means—the contrary: but the fact is, I find that when I fall in love it is
with an ideal character, which I have attributed to some
earthly fair: and as the ideal does not wear very well in

186

PAINTING IN CATSKILL.—CONGRATULATIONS.

this world, I too soon behold that the object of my adoration is no goddess. And, indeed, I have no wish for a
goddess. What I want is one who is good-looking, has a
pleasing expression of countenance, amiable, of good sense,
and some sensibility: one who would make one's feelings
her own, and love one heart and soul. Are such to be
found ? Have you found such ? I trust you have. What
nonsense I have been writing! You will think I am no
wiser than when I used to put on the kettle for tea in
never-to-be-forgotten Via del Tritone. Those were queer
times. How Master L
used to giggle before tea, but
after, the tears used to trickle down his cheeks, as he sat
by the fire-side, thinking of his brothers and sisters far
away.
Do not think I have forgotten your picture: no, it
haunts me; it ought to have been done. * * * I am spending my summer in Catskill—painting—painting.
What
have you been doing ? painting too, I suppose, and making
money, which is what I cannot do much of. I hope you
will go and see my big picture of the "Angels: but be indulgent. It was painted in about two months, I could not
afford more. * * *
I am yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.
TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, September 23d, 1834.

MY DEAR SIR,—Your letter did me good. It really does
one good to hear from an old companion, and to find that
he has attained a happiness that he himself scarcely anticipated. • I am obliged also for the description of the treasure
you have found: it encourages me to believe that our
brightest hopes are sometimes realized, and that amid the
earthly rubbish of the world a jewel may sometimes be

ANGELS APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERDS.

187

found. You are fortunate, and I believe deservingly so.
For my part, I dare not look for what I so much desire:
to find it would be to feel more keenly mf peculiar situation. You know something of my circumstances—what
depends upon me. Your branch of the profession is more
lucrative than mine. Yours is one of great profit with
some disagreeable concomitants; mine of much labour,
much pleasure in the pursuit, but of small pecuniary results ; and in this world, where to be poor is to be considered criminal, there is much to be suffered by those
whose purses are usually empty. You will think I am
turning melancholy; it *is not so : and even if I were inclined to be so, your letter would dissipate such inclination.
If I come to Boston, (which I may do before winter,) I shall
have to steel my heart, or it may suffer from the eyes of
La arnica della sua amatrice. This may appear ungrateful
to you, but it must be so; and yet I do not pretend to be
invulnerable, for the arrows of love are keen and searching.
You say you have not seen my picture now exhibiting
in Boston. Do go and see it. I want to know what you
think of it, although I am conscious of its great imperfection. I am still at Catskill, and in the neighbourhood of
the mountains, and shall probably remain here till winter
drives me away. * * My dear sir, I am battling for the
existence of myself and family.
*.
*
*
Your sincere friend,
THOMAS COLE.

The large picture of the Angels appearing to the Shepherds, spoken of in the foregoing, was painted, during the
preceding winter, in the city, in less than eight weeks,—too
short a time for the character of the work, and the extent
of surface upon which he chose to delineate it. The con-

188

PICTURE FOR MR. ALEXANDER.

ception of the subject is grand, and the general effect of its
representation striking. Time would have enabled him to
make it one of his finest imaginative landscapes.
The picture of which he speaks, in the first letter to Mr.
Alexander, as haunting him, was intended as a return for
a small pecuniary favour, twenty-five dollars, for some cork
models of the temples of Paestum, rendered while they were
travelling-companions in the south of Italy, and affords
another instance of Cole's generosity and gratitude. Finding, though, no convenient time to paint it, he subsequently
sent, in its stead, one painted the summer" before: A Tornado passing over an American Forest—in part a duplicate
of the one executed in England—a large landscape of great
spirit and beauty. It was upon his great series for Mr.
Reed that he was at work, when he says, in the same letter,
that he was " painting—painting."

CHAPTER

XX.

Thoughts and Occurrences: a dream; a walk; regret on leaving the country ; dislike of the city ; the music of colours; recollections of return from
Europe; musings; poem.—To Mr. Alexander.—Thoughts, &c.: sad recollections ; lecture on American scenery; sympathy with nature; after the
storm; a walk to the river; Scott and Irving.—Anecdote of Cole's tenderness.

THE Journal, which is now reached, is mainly what it
proposes to be in its opening paragraph, and is carried
forward nearly to the painter's death. As it was a private
diary, and composed with no thought of its ever being read
by others, much less given to the public, it would naturally
abound in matter rapidly written, and of little interest to
general readers. Such portions of it, however, will be
selected as may best serve the purpose of the work in
hand. The present writer would add, that if he has
taken an occasional liberty with the language, it is less
than the artist himself would have wished, and not in a
way to change its sense.
THOUGHTS AND. OCCURRENCES.

November 5th, 1834.—Memory is but a leaky vessel.
The purest spirit is most likely to escape, and leave nothing
but dregs behind. I have often regretted that interesting

190

THOUGHTS, ETC. : A DREAM.—A WALK.

things of daily occurrence, and thoughts suggested by them,
fade away, or are buried under subsequent accumulations,
thus rendering my experience very narrow. * * * It is
desirable to have it as wide as possible. With this view I
intend to record some of the passing incidents and thoughts
of my life, that I may look back to the experience of the
past, and be amused, if not instructed.
November 6th.—Last night I dreamed that I was descending a precipitous mountain, and had to cling to roots
and shrubs to aid me in the descent. One shrub, towards
which I had stretched my hand, attracted my admiration
by its beauty. I paused to gaze at it. As I gazed, I perceived, to my horror, that it was a serpent coiled in an
attitude to spring upon me. How this dream is like
many of the realities of life! Objects the most beautiful, and which we desire to clasp, are often fraught with
poison.
This afternoon, in company with Miss B
,* I took a
walk through a favourite dell, which we call the Vale of
Tempe. A little stream winds between two wooded hills,
having a meadow-like margin. * * * Here and there
is a little pool of pure water, in which are numbers of small
fishes, that lead, one may suppose, a quiet and contented
life. A spirit of tranquility seems to dwell in this little
valley. We gathered mosses, noticed the beautiful effects
of sunlight and shadow on the now almost leafless woods,
and conversed on days past, when the woods were in their
glory, and of a distant and dear friend, my sister, who was
with us the first time we visited this sweet place. While
we were there, we heard the shouts of a company of men,
rejoicing at the defeat of their political enemies. Their
party was victorious!
* His wife subsequently.

REGRETS THE COUNTRY.—DISLIKE OF THE CITY.

.191

November 8th.—To-day I commenced packing for my
return to New York. It is rather a melancholy business.
After my summer in the country, I always go to the city
with a presentiment of evil. I am happiest in the country.
In the city, although I enjoy the society of my family, and
of artists, and other persons of taste and refinement, yet my
feelings are frequently harrowed by the heartlessness and
bad taste of the community, the ignorant criticisms on art,
and the fulsome eulogiums, that so often issue from the
press, upon the vilest productions. I also dislike fashionable parties. I have either not confidence enough or small
talk to shine. I escape from them with as much delight as
if just liberated from a jail.
I made a small circular diagram of colours to-day. It
reminded me of an experiment I have long wished to try,
and have thought a good deal about. The idea was suggested by something I read, when a boy, I do not know
where. It is what may be called the music of colours. I
believe that colours are capable of affecting the mind, by
combination, degree, and arrangement, like sound. * *
It is evident that there is an analogy between colour and
sound; and with study and experiment it might be traced
through all its ramifications. I am not aiming to prove the
analogy, but to show that there is plausibility in the theory
that an instrument might be constructed by which colour
could be played, and which would give to those, who had
cultivated their taste in the art, a pleasure like that given
by music.
If I attempted to make an instrument, I should try the
experiment with six colours and their semitints. * *
The instrument might be played by means of keys, like
those of a piano, except, that instead of their moving hammers to strike strings, they might lift, when struck, dark or

192

KECOLLECTIONS OF RETURN FROM EUROPE.

black screens from before coloured compartments. Transparent compartments, with either sunlight or artificial light
behind, would perhaps produce the most brilliant effect.
November 25th.—A fortnight has now elapsed since I left
Catskill. And so much has my time been occupied that I
have had no leisure to write a line, although some things of
interest have occurred. How I regret the country with its
delightful tranquility. Here is nothing but turmoil: my
mind is distracted with a thousand cares: and although I
have commenced painting, yet it is not with love.
This day, two years ago, I returned from Europe. The
day was delightful: and after a tedious voyage of seven
weeks from Leghorn, it is not surprising that almost everything I saw gave me pleasure. Well nigh a four-years7
absence made the shores of the bay, its white buildings and
the approaching city, very welcome to my eyes. As its
roar came across the waters upon my ears, accustomed for
so long a time to the sounds and solitudes of the ocean, it
was deeply impressive. We had come from the pathless
deserts of the sea: this was our first hearing of the mingled
voices of the multitude, and the din of wheels and footsteps
in the stony streets.
*
*
*
*
January 24th, 1835.—The wings of time are heavier and
heavier laden as he flies. Each hour brings its own trouble
without dissipating that of the past. This reconciles one
to death: rest is welcome to the weary soul.
" 0 that I had wings like a dove!
For then would I flee away, and be at rest."

Although pain and trouble may accumulate, as we pass
along, hope sheds a light upon our path, and brightens like
a star, as the darkness deepens. In the depth of night we
see not the earth around us, while there are visible splen-

193

MUSINGS.—POEM.

dours in the fields of heaven: so divine joys shine from
eternity when trouble flings a gloomy obscurity around the
things of time.
This afternoon I walked down to the Battery to'see the
sun pet for the first time since I left the country, where I
daily watch him. It was glorious; the water perfectly
calm; not a cloud in the sky. Like a golden dome the
sun lingered a moment on the horizon, and then sunk, as
if by the wand of an enchanter, from the sight.
I count the winter-days, for they are slow-footed: but the
summer-days, which I enjoy in the country, fly too quickly
to be counted.
February 25th.—My soul dwells in a mortal tenement,
and feels the influence of the elements. Still I would not
live where tempests never come; for they bring beauty in
their train.
I sigh not for a stormless clime,
Where drowsy quiet ever dwells;
Where crystal brooks, with endless chime,
Flow winding through perennial dells.
For storms bring beauty in their train:
The hills below the howling blast,
The woods, all weeping in their rain,
How glorious, when the storm is past.

*

*

*

*

*

*

So storms of ill, when pass'd away,
Leave in the soul serene delight:
The gloom of the tempestuous day
But makes the following calm more bright.
To MR. ALEXANDER.
N E W YORE, March 26th, 1835.

MY DEAR SIR,— * * About the picture;—you must not
be surprised if a large one, about seven feet long, makes its
13

194

SAD RECOLLECTIONS.

appearance on your coast, not as a sea-serpent, but as a
Tornado. If you do not see this in a week or two, you
may expect me in Boston, next summer, when I will do
something for your Paestum favour. The Tornado I speak
of was painted the summer before last: it is sketchy, but I
believe you are fond of such.
*
*
*
Can you yet be called "happy?" I hope so; and that you
will long continue so. We will speak about the ladies when
I come: you will perhaps find my heart more adamantine
than you suppose. I am in the midst of thinking about
moving; I intend to spend my summer in Catskill. * *
Your friend,
THOMAS COLE.
April 17th, 1835.—I am once more in the midst of preparation for the country. "Within a few days I shall leave for
Catskill, my favourite haunt. My anticipations in coming
to the city, last autumn, were not very pleasing; the realities
have been sad. The sickness of my father and mother has
loaded me with care and anxiety: interruptions of various
kinds have frequently occurred: many things have conspired to destroy the tone of mind necessary for the successful pursuit of my profession. * * * I have scarcely
done anything ; not finished a single picture. I have made
an outline of the third in the Series, but it is unsatisfactory,
and I shall commence another. Choice days are passing
away without my being able to apply myself so entirely to
my art as I should wish. * * * But I will not repine nor
anticipate evil. He who has made me, and given me the
capacity to rejoice in the beauty of His works, will, I humbly
trust, continue to me His bounteous goodness. * * And
0 , may I pursue the art I love with an undivided mind!
may my works be worthy the scenes and subjects I would
choose tQ depict!
*
*
*
*
*

LECTURE ON AMERICAN SCENERY.

195

Arrived in Catskill, April 23d. Snow on the mountains,
and everything bearing a wintry aspect.
On the 16th of May I went down to New York to the
annual meeting of the National Academy of Design. I also
read my lecture on American Scenery before the New York
Lyceum. In consequence of embarrassment I read very
badly. On the 13th I returned with my sister Sarah. The
country still has a wintry appearance: the snow yet lingers
on the mountain tops. When will the summer come!
May 24th.—The spring has come at last. We have had
a few days truly delightful: the softest temperature, the
purest air, sunshine without burning, and breezes without
chilliness; soft and cloudless skies. The mountains have
taken their pearly hue, and the streams leap and glitter as
though some crystal mountain was thawing beneath the
sun: the swelling hills with their white and rosy blossoms
blush in the light of day: the air is full of fragrance and of
music. 0 that this could endure, and no poison of the mind
fall into the cup!
May 28th.~To-day my feelings have been cruelly wounded.
*
*
* He whose affections extend to many is like a
wide-spreading vine in the forest. It is exposed to peril in
proportion to the number of trees upon which it depends.
One by one are they liable to fall, either by the axe or the
tempest, or by the rot silently eating at the core, and leave,
at last, the poor vine, with all its fruit and foliage, prostrate
on the earth.
Cast off the bands that bind thee now.;
Each strand is steep'd in pain:
Thus spake a voice; I made a vow
To break them all: 't was vain.

#

#

#

#

#

May 31st.—I did not go to church to-day.

*

*

I should have

196

SYMPATHY WITH NATURE.—AFTER THE STORM.

spent my time more profitably if I had. I read a little,
wrote, and walked, and looked at the landscape. In the
evening I took a walk on the road to the Tillage of Athens,
which, for a half a mile from Mr. Alexander Thompson's,*
is my favourite morning and evening walk. The south
wind blew strongly, and dark masses of cloud moved across
the twilight sky, the heralds of approaching storm. A
leaden hue overspread the vale, the woods, and the distant
mountains. How contagious is gloom! A flow of melancholy thoughts and feelings overwhelmed me for a time. I
thought of the uncertainty of life; its bootless toil and
brevity. The south wind, I thought, would still continue
to blow, and bring up its dark clouds for ages after my
works, and all the reputation I might gain had faded away,
and become as though they had never been,—swept by the
wing of time into oblivion's gulf. And shall it be? Shall
the spirit, that mysterious principle, unknown even to itself,
that vivifies this earth, and generates these thoughts, sink
also into the gloomy gulf of non-existence, nor feel again
created Beauty, nor see the Nature that it loved so much ?
I t cannot be. The Great Originator, the Mighty One, the
Unspeakable, hath not created for purposes vain and useless
this power of conceiving,—this wish and "longing after
immortality,"—this hope,—this faith which gives an energy
to virtue, and raises in the breast these lofty aspirations,—
this fear of sinning, of deception and delusion. No! There
are no fallacies with God. To prove that, if not to disprove
all existence, would be to render all things doubtful.
June 1st.—Monday morning. The storm has passed; the
day breaks over the earth in freshness and in beauty. In
the east, sullen and dark is the retiring storm: in the west,
the deep-green mountains rise into the pure blue: around
* Ultimately Cole's permanent residence.

A WALK TO THE BIVEK.—SCOTT AND IEVING.

197

their summits float the light, white clouds, like hope upon
the bosom of reality.
*
*
*
*
*
x
*
#
#
#
#
A sad remembrance of departed love
Stole softly o'er my mind:
It came like moonlight on the grove,
Or music on the wind.
It had a sweet regretful power,
Like fragrance from a withered flower.

June 4th.—I now give myself forty days for completing
my large picture of the Series. How near shall I come
to it?
June 24th.—I have been reading Irving's Abbotsford. I t
gave me real pleasure. What a healthy genius was that of
Scott. No mawkishness, no morbid sensitiveness, no feverish
fancies; but a sound heart, a grasping, a creative, powerful
mind, and an herculean body knit wonderfully together. I
love both Scott and Irving for their decided fondness for
domestic animals. Such love is indicative of a truly benevolent heart. Irving was rather disappointed in the scenes
in which Scott was so much delighted. After all, beauty is
in the mind. A scene is rather an index to feelings and
associations. History and poetry made the barren hills of
Scotland glorious to Scott: Irving remembered the majestic forests and the rich luxuriance of his own country.
What a beautiful exemplification of the power of poetry
was that remark of the old carpenter who had been a companion of Burns: " and it seemed to him that the country
had grown more beautiful since Burns had written his
bonnie little sangs about it."
A lovely trait in Cole's character was an extreme tenderness of heart, manifested often in that same fondness for

198

ANECDOTE OF COLE'S TENDEKNESS.

domestic animals which he speaks of in Scott and Irving.
An illustration of this amiable quality is furnished by the
following,—an amusing incident, happening while he was
engaged upon one of his last pictures.
A fine, large stag-hound, a present to one of the ladies of
the family, yet no great favourite with Cole himself, was
to be shot. His crime, for which he had been repeatedly
spared at the cost of both money and trouble, was that of
sheep-killing. Tiger, though, was now a doomed dog, and
the very pistol loaded which was to put the bloody sentence
into execution. " Martin," said Cole, one morning after
breakfast, to his man, a simple-hearted Hibernian, " Martin,
you must kill Tiger. Here—take this pistol—call him to
the gravel-pit, at the end of the grove, and shoot him."
With evident signs of timidity and reluctance, Martin
took the deadly piece, and whistled for the dog, the painter
going at the same moment into his studio. A full half-hour
having elapsed, and still no report, for which he had been
anxiously listening, Cole with considerable impatience sallied forth to learn the cause of the delay. A short walk
into the grove brought him in view of the gravel-pit, around
the brink of which were seen Martin, slowly moving here
and there, taking dreadful aim, and Tiger just before him,
apparently in great glee, jumping first to one side and then
to the other, as if determined to dodge the shot, and turn
the whole affair into mere sport.
"Martin," said the painter, quite sharply, "what is the
matter ? "What are you twisting about here for ? why have
you not shot the dog, as I bid you?"
" Ah, sir," said Martin, with the brogue peculiar to his
countrymen, " I am discouraged, sir—I am discouraged, sir."
" Discouraged, sir /"—repeated the half-vexed, half-amused
artist. " Here, sir,—hand me that pistol."

ANECDOTE OP COLE'S TENDEBNESS.

199

Poor Tiger, his last moment seemed to have come. Not
so thought Tiger, who began again his jumping and skipping,
the instant that the pistol was pointed at him, leading now
both master and man, here to the right—there to the left,
though frequently pausing long enough to have been shot
ten times. At last, as if either sick of his frolic or surrendering to his fate, the dog sat down, and with his full fine
eyes looked his master steadily in the face. Now came the
long, still, last aim. " Martin," said Cole, suddenly turning
round, " here—take the pistol—I am discouraged too !"
So far as we know, Tiger yet flourishes, though in a distant neighbourhood.

CHAPTER X X I .
Thoughts and Occurrences: holidays on the mountains; a walk; Rip Van
Winkle's dell; the Mountain House; the lakes; a voyage; mountain
landscape; title of the series of pictures; musings.—To Mr. Reed: painting the third picture of the Course of Empire.—Thoughts, &c.: Schroon
scenery; musings on nature; monument to Washington; want of a congenial spirit; true lovers of nature few.—Spirits of the Wilderness, a
poem.

JULY 6th, 1835.—I have just returned from the mountain,
where I spent two of the happiest days I remember. Upon
the evening of the third, after close application to my work
all day, in passing through the village, I met the stage enveloped in a cloud of dust. As it went rattling along by
me, who should I see within but
. I followed him
immediately to the tavern. We soon came to the determination of spending our " fourth " among the mountains. In
the expectation that a stage would, of course, be going up
to the Mountain House within an hour or so, after packing
up a few articles of dress, we loitered about the village.
Continuing this until nine o'clock in the evening, and no
stage appearing, we set out to walk. The night was fine,
and the moon, though small, gave a pleasant light. We
passed over the first seven miles right merrily. Then the
moon sunk behind the piny ridge of the North Mountain,
and we began to be thirsty. Not finding a spring at Law-

EIP VAN WINKLE^ DELL.—THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

201

rence's, and the people being soundly asleep, we thought it
better to pursue our way a three miles further, to Rip Yan
Winkle's hollow. The long mile from the foot of the mountain to Rip's is exceedingly steep. Thirst, however, gave
wings to our feet, and we sped upward with a swiftness not
quite agreeable to our comfort. We arrived, at last, with
parched mouths and wet skins. It was midnight when we
sat down by the stream that comes leaping from the grand
amphitheatre of wooded mountains. There was a tin vessel
glittering by the rill, placed there for the use of travellers,
by some generous soul, or perhaps fairy, that expected us
at that silent hour. Be that as it may, we drank from it
the cool, pure water again and again, and the draughts were
even more delicious than those of Rip's from the famous keg.
It was a solemn scene. Dark forests, rugged rocks, towering mountains were around us, and the breeze brought to
our ears the sound of waving trees, falling waters, and the
clear chant of the whip-poor-will. # * We did not sleep
twenty years after our potations, but prepared to scale the
remaining part of the mountain. We conquered. After a
little difficulty in getting into the house,—it being one
o'clock—we got into a comfortable bed.
We did not rise remarkably early, but were ready for
breakfast. * * •* We strolled down to the small lake
which lies a few hundred yards from the house. It is diminutive, but has beautiful, as well as grand features—rich
forests and mountains. # * # We pursued our way to
the lower one, which is much larger and more beautiful. I
pointed out a view that I once painted; which picture, I
believe, was the first ever painted of the lake that will be
hereafter the subject of a thousand pencils. * * * Several
years ago I explored its shores for some distance; but thick
woods and swampy grounds impeded me in those attempts.

202

THE LAKES.—A VOYAGE.—MOUNTAIN LANDSCAPE.

I enriched my sketch-book with studies of the fine dead
trees, which stand like spectres on the shores. * * As
we made our way to an opening through the woods, which
disclosed the lake in a charming manner, we perceived a
rude boat among the bushes: this was exactly what we
wanted. We pushed it off, and leaped into it, as if the
genius of the deep had placed it there for our special
purpose. * * Before us spread the virgin waters which
the prow of the sketcher had never yet curled, enfolded by
the green woods, whose venerable masses had never figured
in annuals, and overlooked by the stern mountain peaks,
never beheld by Claude or Salvator, nor subjected to the
canvass by the innumerable dabblers in paint of all past
time. The painter of American scenery has, indeed, privileges superior to any other. All nature here is new to art.
No Tivolis, Ternis, Mont Blancs, Plinlimmons, hackneyed
and worn by the daily pencils of hundreds; but primeval
forests, virgin lakes and waterfalls, feasting his eye with
new delights, and filling his portfolio with their features
of beauty and magnificence, hallowed to his soul by their
freshness from the creation, for his own favoured pencil.
A little promontory, forming a fine foreground to a
charming view down the lake, invited us. Looking down,
we had some fine perspective lines of forest, on our right,
with many dead trees standing near the shore, as if stripped
for the element. These dead trees are a striking feature in
the scenery of this lake, and exceedingly picturesque. Their
pale forms rise from the margin of the deep, stretching out
their contorted branches, and looking like so many genii
set to protect the sacred waters. On the left was another
reach of forest, of various hues, and in the centre of the picture rose the distant Roud Top, blue and well defined, and
cast its reflection on the lake out to the point where our

TITLE OF THE SERIES OP PICTURES.

203

boat swung like a thing in air. This headland was picturesque in the extreme. Apart from the dense wood, a few
birches and pines were grouped together in a rich mass;
and one giant pine rose far above the rest. On the extreme
cape a few bushes of light green grew directly from the
water: in the midst of their sparkling foliage stood two of
the bare, spectral trees, with limbs decorated with moss of
silvery hue, and waving like grey locks in the wind. We
remained here long enough to finish a sketch, and then
returned to our harbour in order to refit. *
*
*
After dinner, * * * we again launched our vessel for a
longer voyage of discovery. We now crossed the lake,
paddling in the manner of Indians. Our boat glided beautifully over the tranquil water, and swept aside the yellow
water-lilies. We got into a strait between the main-land
and a low islet, where the water was very still, and the
woods were reflected beautifully. I never saw such depth
and brilliancy in the reflections. * * The dead trees on
the margin added, by their silvery tints, to the harmony of
colour, and their images in the water, which had a gentle
undulation, appeared like immense glittering serpents playing in the deep. * * At every stroke of the oar some
fresh object of beauty would break upon us. We made
several sketches; and about sunset turned our prow. * *
As we returned, we struck up the Canadian boat-song; and
though our music was rude, the woods answered in melodious echoes. What a place for music by moonlight! it
would be romance itself. This may be, and I may enjoy it.
x
#
*
•
&
*
*
*
July 28th.—I have had some little trouble in finding at
once a comprehensive and appropriate title for the Series
of pictures I am now painting for Luman Reed. The one
which I have at last adopted, although some may consider

204

EELIGIOUS MUSINGS.

it lofty and ostentatious, appears very well to me. I call it
' The Course of Empire."
August 16th.—Night.
Mine eyes bedimm'd with tears aloft I raised;
Call'd by some spirit of a higher sphere;
And through the universal ether gazed
Up to the golden orbs that did appear
Trembling amid the dark abyss profound:
But yet they falter'd not, nor sank, nor swerved;
Keeping their gloriously appointed round,
In everlasting harmony preserved.
" 0 , is there cause for tears," the spirit said,
•' When all these wondrous worlds are thus sustain'd
By an Almighty hand, and gently led
Through the wide fields of heaven, like sheep restrained
From wandering by the shepherd's kindly voice ?
Within His care are held thy heart, thine a l l :
List! thou wilt hear that shepherd's loving call:
Then wipe those tears, and bid thy soul rejoice."

August 18th.—It has been a glorious day. A cool and
crystal atmosphere is upon the mountains. After work, I
walked up the valley of the Catskill. The sun was down,
and the woods, fields and mountains never looked lovelier.
All is fresh as June. What a blessed season. Would that
it might pass slowly.
*
*
*
*
August 23d.
When evening in the sky sits calm and pure,
And every fleecy cloud is still and bright,
And earth beneath the silent air obscure
Waits for the stars, first on the verge of night,
Then is the spirit melted as with love;
And tears spring forth upon the brink of j o y :

THIRD PICTURE OF THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

205

0, whence that shade of sorrow o'er us thrown
When thoughts are purest in the twilight hour ?
From sense of sin arises that sad tone ?—
From the deep consciousness of passion's power,
Which touches not the woods, nor mountains lone ?
Or is it that the fading light reminds
That we are mortal, and the fearful daySteals onward, swiftly, like the viewless winds,
And years like vapour vanish quick away I

August 25th.—A gloomy day. Windy and dark. The
country yet looks green,—green almost as June. *
*
I am fearful that the many interruptions, to which I seem
more and more liable, has an evil effect upon my temper. I
am most happy when I can escape most from the world.
The longer I live in it, the more its common cares and
troubles seem to claim me. Nothing makes me so melancholy as that which prevents me from the pursuit of my art.
Though time has sadden'd every thought,
And kill'd the fresh and floweu-like joy;
Sweet hope and memory have brought
A bliss that lives without alloy.
To MR. REED.
CATSKILL, September 7th, 1835.

MY DEAR SIR,—When you open this letter, you will expect
to hear that the large picture is finished: but I am not yet
so happy, and write to ask your patience yet a little while.
I have been engaged upon this picture solely since you w^re
here. I really think it will not occupy me more than three
weeks or a month longer. The figures,take more time than
I expected. Another reason for the length of time is, I have
had to tear down some of the buildings that were nearly
finished, in order to make improvements, a la mode New
York. I sincerely hope that when it is completed you will
not be sorry I have spent so much time on the work. I

206

SCHR00N SCENERY.—MUSINGS ON NATURE.

know that I cannot satisfy myself in all particulars, and can
only hope that you will be pleased.
*
*
*
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

October 7th.—I have just returned from an excursion in
search of the picturesque towards the head-waters of the
Hudson. *
* In the neighbourhood of Schroon the
country is more finely broken. The lake I found to be a
beautiful sheet of water, shadowed by sloping hills clothed
with heavy forests. Rowing north for a half an hour or
so, you will see the lake expanded to the breadth of two or
three miles. Here the view is exceedingly fine. On both
hands, from shores of sand and pebbles, gently rise the
thickly-wooded hills: before you miles of blue water stretch
away: in the distance mountains of remarkable beauty
bound the vision. Two summits in particular attracted
my attention: one of a serrated outline, and the other like
a lofty pyramid. At the time I saw them, they stood in
the midst of the wilderness like peaks of sapphire. It is
my intention to visit this region at a more favourable
season. I set off on my return, next morning, and had a
cold and rainy day.
A LOOSE LEAF.

At this season, when nature puts on a garb of splendour, when the days are brilliant, and the sunsets are full
of glory, there are moods of mind when I feel that things
are ill-timed, and out of harmony. It is the saddest season
of the year: blight is on all the vegetable world. The
woods are glowing with strange beauty; but it is the hectic
flush, that sure precursor of death. There are days though
when I feel no incongruity, those days of clouds without

MONUMENT TO WASHINGTON.—NATURE.

207

rain, when shadow subdues the pomp of the earth, and the
air is crystalline; when the woods repose in sombre stillness, and the waters take the hills upon their bosom, and
veil them with transparent loveliness.
October 10th.—There is an article in the "American/ 7
addressed to the American people, on the subject of erecting
a monument to Washington. *
* As to the design of
such a monument, I would say, let it not be a statue; for
however great its size, its many parts and projections would
render it less durable than something more simple: time
would destroy the original beauty of the sculpture of a
statue. I would not have a column; for that is only an
architectural member, and not a complete whole. Although
it were crowned with a statue, it would not appear to me
either consistent or in good taste. A pyramid would answer
in durability of structure; but that is unmeaning. To my
mind a colossal altar would be the most appropriate, and
the most capable of uniting beauty of form with durability.
Let it be hundreds of feet in height; let a fire burn upon it
perpetually; let it never expire while the nation recognized
"Washington as the Father of his country. Morning, noon,
evening and midnight, let its flame rise in the heavens a
symbol of his glory, and a Pharos to light the children of
freedom to deeds of virtue and greatness, for ages to come.
October 30th.—The weather for a month has been truly
delightful; but this day above all. A pure crystal-like
atmosphere has floated round the landscape; and the brown
of the leafless woods has been tinged with the purest ultramarine. The sky is clear and cloudless, the air is still, but
fresh. 0 Nature, to the loving eye thou art seldom without
smiles.
November 21st.—In consequence of having a number of

208

LOVERS OF NATURE FEW.

sketches to paint, my afternoons are so fully occupied that
I have little opportunity of writing. Gloomy days have
come at last, and brought with them to my mind a shad« of
their own sadness. Want of sunlight and exercise is to me
a great cause of mental depression.
I cannot but consider myself unfortunate in not having
found here a companion of congenial soul; one whose spirit
would mingle with mine in unreserved communion. I feel
an enduring want, a lasting and unsatisfied desire to have
intercourse with one to whom I could reveal thoughts which
can never be spoken to the world. I feel that I stand alone*
Those around me only know me in part. The foot of the
mountain may be bare, and the summit lost in clouds. Not
that I feel myself superior or exalted above my fellows, but
that my thoughts and feelings run, for the most part, in a
different channel: if revealed, they would be little understood or appreciated. How few really love, and live upon
the beautiful! How few cast off worldliness, and clear
away from their eyes the film which prevents them from
beholding the truth and the glory of nature! But am I
better or wiser for this sense and perception of the beautiful, which I imagine myself to possess in a greater degree
than the many ? That is a hard question. I can only say,
I believe that I ought to be. But I know that, at times, my
admiration for the beautiful is a source of irritability and
uncharitableness towards those who do not seem to feel, and
see as I do. Instead of pitying them for their obtuseness
and want of taste, I speak of, and to them, as if they were
vile and criminal.
The intensity of Cole's love for the beautiful in nature
frequently carried him into a species of solitude, both of the
intellect and feelings, quite away from the walks of ordinary

THE SPIRITS OF THE WILDERNESS, A POEM,

209

minds. That few or none would follow him there, would
very naturally irritate, and beget a spirit of misanthropy.
He possessed, though, too loving and sound a heart to approve of such a temper. He knew and felt, in calm and
thoughtful moments, that his path was not aside from, "but
among men, and that true philosophy was in loving " not
nature less, but man the more."
It was in the midst of such convictions that he found
leisure, during the year of 1835, to compose a kind of dramatic poem, in twelve parts, called The Spirits of the "Wilderness, a work of singular originality, and much poetic
power and beauty. In the spring of 1837 it was rewritten,
and prepared in a measure for publication. The scene of
the poem is among the Crystal, or White Mountains.

CHAPTER

XXII.

Thoughts and Occurrences: a new year.—First winter in Catskill.—An
Attachment.—To Mr. Reed: ornamental designs for doors.—To the
Same: the fourth of the Course of Empire begun.—To the Same: how
far advanced.—To the Same: difficulties of the third picture.—To Ihe
Same: the fifth picture proposed for the approaching exhibition of the
Academy of Design.—To the Same: the third picture finished.—To the
Same : motives to labour; maledictions on tree-destroyers.—To the Same :
nature of the malediction.—To Mr. Durand: sickness of Mr. Reed.—To
the Same: effect upon Cole's spirits.—Thoughts, &c.: cares of life.—To
Mr. Durand.—Thoughts, &c. : death of Mr. Reed.—Thoughts, &c. : beauty
of the season; a walk up the Catskill river.—To Mr. Durand : the fourth
picture.—To the Same: country air for a painter.—Thoughts, &c.: completion of the Course of Empire.

JANUARY 1st, 1836.—Another year is gone. Who shall
redeem it ? The gates of a new year are opening, and I
enter; but darkness is before me. A year is a palace of
many chambers, all dimly lighted. We know not what they
contain until we explore them. I proceed with faltering
footsteps: but the mind rushes forward in spite of the
gloom; but it is only to inquire what may be, and not
what is. I carry the lamp of experience in my hand; but
it throws a feeble, flickering light on the mysterious darkness around.

From anything in his journal or correspondence there is
no intimation of an under-current of thoughts and feelings,

FIRST WINTER IN CATSKILL.—AN ATTACHMENT.

211

which, at this time, was flowing in the breast of Cole. The
inconvenience, if not loss of returning, as usual, to the city,
absorbed as he was in the Course of Empire, would naturally suggest the expediency of remaining, during the winter, quietly in the country. Whether that under-current,
spoken of, did not lend some influence to make also what
was expedient a pleasing choice, an incident related by a
friend perhaps will show.
The painter, with a large softening brush, was giving the
last touches to the sky of the central picture—the Empire
in its glory. All the rest from the horizon to the foreground was dead canvass,—such being his process of painting. At this moment, the friend alluded to, who had come on
a visit from a distant city, was announced. After the artist's
usual simple hearty welcome, and a moment's conversation,
they ascended to his painting roomfwhere, upon a centretable, lay a splendid bouquet of roses and other flowers,—
the same that he had seen, a few minutes before, in the
hands of a youthful lady, as he came in by the shrubbery.
Upon returning to the hotel in the village, he told a companion that he had seen the lady that Cole would certainly
marry. Time fulfilled the prediction.
To LUMAN REED.
MY DEAR SIR,—I received your kind and encouraging
letter, and am much gratified to learn that your visit
proved agreeable. It certainly was so to me; and was
well-timed, for the weather has been wintry ever since.
I also received the plates, &c, for which I am much indebted to Mr. Durand. The drawings for the doors are
very complete, indeed more so than was necessary for the
purpose.

212

ORNAMENTAL DESIGNS FOR DOORS.

I have made great alterations in the architecture on
both sides of the picture,—something in the manner I
contemplated when you were here. The golden dome is
yet standing, but has taken a different appearance.
The subject of the doors has not been entirely absent
from my mind; but whether my thoughts have been at all
profitable is yet to be determined. I shall offer them as
first thoughts, and am quite prepared for their being
considered as inappropriate, or of little worth. I give
them more in the hope that they will suggest something
better, than that they themselves are good.- *
*
*
Yours, &c,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, Jan. 13th,

1836.

MY DEAR SIR,—Your letters always bring pleasure with
them, for they are always full of kindness. #
#
* j
really am happy in having so generous a friend. Had I
painted this series of pictures for some who call themselves
patrons, I should have been completely ruined. *
*
* * I have been waiting this day or two for the large
picture to get sufficiently dry for glazing, and have occupied myself on the fourth picture. If I succeed as well
as I anticipated, I am in hopes you will consider it the
finest. I believe I am best in the stormy and wild. The
design, as far as I have, imagined it, (for there is yet very
little on the canvass,) pleases me ; but these unembodied
designs often do.
•*
*
*
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS

COLE,

P . S.—I forgot to say that we have had a snow-storm,
such as I have not seen for a long time. The weather*is

THIRD PICTURE.—HOW FAR ADVANCED.

213

now pleasant, and the mountains have on their winter
beauty. I saw a scene the other evening, which I should
delight to paint; but for the present my hands are full.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, Feb.

6,

1836.

DEAR SIR,— * * I did expect to be with you before
this time; but I did not expect that great and seemingly
unconquerable difficulties would yet be in the way. The
big picture is not yet finished. *
*
* i w m tell
you how much appears to be about finished. All the
distance and sky, the temple on the left, the water and
all the vessels, the bridges with the figures. The conqueror, I think, looks magnificently—that is as I can make
him. The right side of the picture, the fountain, figures,
etc., is not yet completed ; and the general effect of the
whole depends on this part. I am yet uncertain whether
my general effect will be good ; there is great danger of
its being spotty.
*
*
*
*
*
I am glad that Durand and Flagg are getting on so
rapidly with the doors. There will be something for me to
see when I come down. I hope you are pleased. If you do
leave any panels for me, let them be all together, and not
every other, for that would entirely break up any series
that I might wish to paint. But this for your consideration. The statuary might look extremely well, if judiciously selected. I think, though, Mr. Durand would execute
it better than myself; he is a more correct draughtsman of
the human figure than I. I shall be sorry, though, not to
have a little share in the door painting. *
*
*•
*

Yours, &c,
THOMAS COLE.

214

DIFFICULTIES OF THE THIRD PICTURE.
TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, Feb. 18th,

1836.

M Y DEAR SIR,—I would give a great deal if you were here,

for I know you would encourage me, and perhaps suggest
something. I took the picture down stairs to-day, to see it
at a greater distance, and in another light, and I am disappointed. It does not look as well as I expected, and my
hope now is that I am no judge. I hardly know what the
faults a r e ; it may be all fault. I intend to leave it for a
few days : perhaps some good genius will work at it in
the meaif time, and when I see it again it will be improved.
I have been looking at a canvass of the same size, that is
in my room, with a longing eye, and even made some chalkmarks upon it. If my circumstances permitted, I certainly
would, after finishing this picture, make another attempt,
and when done, give you your choice. In another picture
I would paint the objects larger and fewer, with the horizon lower. It would be grander and easier. In this I
had to encounter a difficult and complicated composition;
and to obtain breadth of light and shade, with such a multitude of parts, is next to impossible. *
* To-morrow
I shall work on the fourth picture.
I remain, &c,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, Feb.

19th,

1836.

MY BEAR SIR,—I have been thinking of your obliging

advice to paint some picture for exhibition, and leave yours
for a short time, but I dislike to do so. * * One thing I
have thought that I might do, if it meets your approbation,
paint the last picture in the series. * * I might paint

PROPOSES JO PAINT THE FIFTH PICTURE.

215

this picture, and even find time to paint one for Mr. Charles
King before exhibition.
You will ask, perhaps, why I choose to paint the last of
the series now : it is because it will take less time, and—
I don't know why, except that I am tired of the gaud and
glitter of the large picture, and not quite in the humor for
the tumult of the fourth. I want to work awhile on
something quiet and sombre. The large picture is yet
down stairs : but I have looked at it. It appeared to have
improved a little: but I see where I shall have to work
yet. I am much pleased with Durand's subjects, and shall
undoubtedly have a treat when I come down. It is gratifying to learn that Flagg's picture is so fine. I will not
forget cheese-basket and ladder. Durand is determined to
have a good likeness of you : you know I have a promise
that you will sit to me sometime. I am afraid, though, my
portrait-hand is out.
*
*
*
*
Believe me, &c,
THOMAS COLE.
TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, March 2d, 183§.
MY DEAR SIR,— *

* I shall take advantage of your
kind advice and Mr. Durand's, and paint a picture expressly for the exhibition, and for sale. The only thing
I doubt in the matter is, that I shall be able to sell it. I
think I never sold but two pictures on exhibition in my life.
* * * Fancy pictures seldom sell, and they generally
take more time than views, so I have determined to paint
one of the latter. I have already commenced a view from
Mount Holyoke ; * * * but you must not be surprised
if you find it hanging in my room next year. I have written to
to make me a frame like your large ones ; * *
you know " a frame is the very heart of a picture," and I

216

THIRD PICTURE FINISHED.—MOTIVES TO LABOUR.

have never yet had in the exhibition a picture with a good
heart.
*
*
*
*
*
Yesterday I was at the big picture again. I t was the
first rainy day we had had since the fall, and t thought it
would be a good time to paint the water in the fountain.
It looks some better, and I think a good day's work would
complete it. I feel like a man who has had a long fatiguing
journey, and is just taking off his knapsack. * * *
Yours &c,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, March 26th, 1836.
DEAR SIR,—* * * I trust you do not fear that exaggerated praise can affect me with pleasure, and lead me to
see nothing but beauty in my productions. On this subject
I will open my mind to you as my best friend, and hope
that by so doing, although I may run the risk of being
egotistical, I shall dissipate any lingering doubt that may
remain in your mind.
Formerly my love of approbation rendered me very sensitive to newspaper praise; but I always turned away from
fulsomeness and exaggeration with disgust. My love of
approbation still exists, perhaps, as strongly as ever ; but
the sources from which it is fed are changed. Newspaper
paragraphs in praise or blame affect me with no more than
a momentary feeling. I have ceased to labour to please the
multitude of critics, and it may be said of me, as the Italian
epitaph has it, " H e implores peace." My stimulus to exertion is now the approbation of the few, in whose taste and
judgment I have confidence, the desire to obtain a lasting
reputation, and love for the beauty and excellence of my
art, which of itself brings enjoyment, and is entirely inde-

MALEDICTION ON TREE-DESTROYERS.

217

pendent of the approbation of the world.
Newspaper
praise is often injudicious, and much of it can be purchased by meanness, even for mediocrity : but the praise of
the few, who possess true feeling, knowledge, and taste,
is a sure, and what gives zest to it, a quiet reward. These,
with my necessary pecuniary wants, and an inclination to
contribute my mite towards the refinement and well-being
of society, are the causes that stimulate me to exertion.
Will you excuse me if I say, I am afraid that you will be
disappointed in the reception and notice my pictures will
receive from the public, let them be exhibited to ever so
good advantage ?
* * Very few will understand the
scheme of them,—the philosophy there may be in them. I
hope I am prepared for all this. My leading hope is that
when they have passed through the ordeal I shall find your
esteem for them and myself undiminished. I have wrought
with a strong desire to make them worthy of note hereafter,
and that your name shall never be mentioned as of one
whose generosity and taste were misapplied.
*
*
* They are cutting down all the trees in
the beautiful valley on which I have looked so often with a
loving eye. This throws quite a gloom over my spring
anticipations. Tell this to Durand—not that I wish to give
him pain, but that I want him to join with me in maledictions on all dollar-godded utilitarians.
I remain, &c,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, March 28th, 1836.

* * After I had sealed my last
letter, I was afraid that what I had said about the treedestroyers might be- understood in a more serious light
MY DEAR SIR,—*

218

SICKNESS OF ME. REED.

than I intended. My " maledictions " are gentle ones, and
I do not know that I could wish them any thing worse than
that barrenness of mind, that sterile desolation of the soul,
in which sensibility to the beauty of nature cannot take
root. One reason, though, why I am in so gentle a mood
is, that I am informed some of the trees will be saved yet.
Thank them for that. If I live to be old enough, I may
sit down under some bush, the last left in the utilitarian
world, and feel thankful that intellect in its march has
spared one vestige of the ancient forest for me to die
Vv'TT

^

^

*

^F

qp

4P

I remain yours, very sincerely,
THOMAS COLE.

To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, May 13th,

1836.

My DEAR SIR,—I am indeed disappointed : but my sorrow for the cause is far greater than my disappointment. I
need not say how your intelligence affects me, for you feel
as I do. But as Mr. Reed was better when you wrote, I
hope that there is no danger, and that our kindest, best
friend will soon be restored to health. Do write immediately, for you know how anxious I shall be to hear of Mr.
R.'s recovery. I am not in tone for working ; yet I should
like to have canvass up soon.
*
*
.*
*
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, May 21st,

1836.

MY DEAR SIR,—I have been exceedingly anxious to hear
from you, and your letter has brought me a great deal of
comfort. Now the disease is conquered, I trust our friend
will be restored to us in good health. I have scarcely

THOUGHTS AND OCCURRENCES.—CARES OF LIFE.

219

done anything since I came up ; I have been restless and
anxious: I have laboured day after day, and produced
nothing : I have done more since I received your letter
this morning, than I did in three days previous. I have
been putting several figures into the second picture.
*
* The country is charming, delightful, and the
green grass as Mr. R. loves to see it. I regret that so
much beauty should be lost to him, and to you also; for
you might as well be sick as pent up in the city. I shall
hardly venture to commence another large picture until you
have seen this.
I remain yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

May 22d.—The season of beauty is here once more, and I
enjoy it. Since I last wrote in this book, there has been a
fierce and terrible winter. As I now look upon the fields
and the groves, I am astonished at the wonderful power of
nature. Fresh grass and golden flowers are stirring in the
sweet breeze, where, not much more than a month ago, the
cold snow drifts were lying. A spirit of peace and gentleness breathes over the landscape. I feel that I ought to
enjoy it more deeply than I do. But cares occupy the
heart, and draw me away from nature. A few years ago, I
suffered no opportunity to pass of holding with her the
most intimate communion, nor permitted the common affairs
of life to interfere with my studies. Now the multitudinous affairs of the world dash more and more heavily
upon the shores of my little kingdom of the mind. It is a
hard battle I have to fight. How material, how unspiritual is that fuel which general society affords for the fire
which burns in the soul!
*
*
*
My large picture is completed ; but not to my satisfaction.
*

220

MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE.

To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, June 7th,

1836.

nephew brought me a letter from you.
I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken
about the horse, and I do not know when I shall be out of
your debt—particularly as I am about to trouble you again.
I am indeed much in want of a horse. " A horse, a horse,
my kingdom for a horse!" I do not want a tame pony,
holding up one foot to shake hands with you, but a horse
rampant, rearing. I have seen such somewhere. Is there
not a good horse in the Academy which might be lent to
me ? If there is, could it be boxed up, and sent without
breaking its neck ? I should esteem it. Has not the Italian
plaster man, in William street, (I think,) something of the
kind ? I must have a hobby of some kind, plaster, bronze, or
wood. If you cannot obtain a horse for me, will you get a
man ?—the little fighting gladiator—him or the horse I
must have. I might be satisfied, though, for the present,
with a rampant lion, or a roaring one. If you can obtain
one of these animals for me, and can send it by the sloop—
the sooner the better—I should certainly be benefitted
MY DEAR SIR,—My

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I am pleased that you have attacked a landscape, and
have no doubt you will succeed to the satisfaction of all except yourself. In the hope that this will find you in good
health and spirits, and that our friend is recovering rapidly, and that you have not forgotten you are to come here
again shortly, to gather up the flesh you dropped from your
bones when last here, I remain,
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

June 13th.—On the 11th inst., I returned from the city, to
which I had been called upon the melancholy occasion of

DEATH OF MR. REED.—BEAUTY OF THE SEASON.

221

the death of Mr. Reed, my best and kindest friend. He
died on the morning of the 7th inst., after a sickness of five
weeks. His mind was clear and calm to the last. In
Mr. Eeed, I have lost a true, a generous, and noble friend.
I could expatiate upon the grief I feel at his departure.
But words are poor things : I will simply say, he was
admired and beloved, and cannot be forgotten.
* *
August 1.—The last of the summer months !' *
* *
This morning is as beautiful to me as ever fell upon the
earth : the air cool and transparent; the mountains clear
and blue ; the woods dense with a juicy foliage ; every
leaf seems glittering with the gem-like dew. I hear a
robin in the grove singing his never-closed song, and a
little wren in the cedar near the window warbling with
all his might.
I took a walk, last evening, up the valley of the Catskill,
where they are now constructing the railroad. This was
once my favourite walk ; but now the charm of solitude
and quietness is gone. It is, however, still lovely : man
cannot remove its craggy hills, nor well destroy all its
rock-rooted trees : the rapid stream will also have its
course.
*
*
*
*
*
August 18th.— *
* I often think that the dark
view of things is perhaps the true one. If such a view
were always presented, I doubt whether we could long
survive. But Heaven has granted us a sunshine of the
heart, that warms these barren cold realities of existence,
and dazzles and deceives, perhaps, that we may live.
To MR. DURAND,
CATSKILL, August 30th, 1836.
M Y DEAR

SIR,—Though I have not heard from you, I

have heard of you, through the "Mirror," where your

222

THE FOURTH PICTURE.—COUNTRY AIR FOR A PAINTER.

landscape has been handsomely reflected. I t pleased me
to see the notice, but still more to see the picture. For my
part, I have been engaged in sacking and burning a city
ever since I saw you, and I am well tired of such horrible
work. I have about finished the city and a picture at the
same time, and only want you and Mr. Allen up here to say
what sort of a hand I am at destruction. I did believe it
was my best picture, but I took it down stairs and got rid
of the notion.
*
*
*
*
I remain, yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.
TO T H E SAME.
CATSKILL, Sept. 11th, 1836.

MY DEAR SIR,—If I

had consulted my inclination,

I

should have answered your letter sooner ; but I have been
so very much occupied that I could not. I am sorry that
you are at times so much depressed in spirits ; you must
come and live in the country. Nature is a sovereign remedy. Your depression is the result of debility, and you
require the pure air of heaven. You sit, I know you do,
day after day, in a close, air-tight room, toiling and stagnating, and breeding dissatisfaction at all you do, when, if
you had the untainted breeze to breathe, your body would
be invigorated, your spirits buoyant, and your pictures
would charm even you. This is not all exaggeration,
there is much sober truth in it.
I am at work on the last picture of the series, although
another day or two must be bestowed upon the fourth.
This picture I intend to express silence and solitude, * *
I wrote some time ago a short poem as a tribute to the
memory of our lost friend. When you come up, I must
show it to you; and though the composition may be

COURSE OF EMPIRE CONCLUDED.

223

wretched, I know the subject will give it favour in your
PYpn

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Yours very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

October 29th, 1836.—I have just returned from the city,
where I have been with the series of pictures painted for
Mr. Reed. When I took them, I was fearful that they
would disappoint the expectations of my friends. I have
been greatly surprised, for they seem to give universal
pleasure.
We are now at the conclusion of Cole's first great work.
It was completed early in October, and shortly after exhibited to the public by permission of the family of his lamented
patron.

CHAPTER

XXIII.

Cooper's opinion of Cole and his pictures.—Remarks on the Course of
Empire.—Cole's marriage.

WITH these paintings of Cole, " Which/ 7 as Bryant says,
" are among the most remarkable and characteristic of his
works," I would detain the reader by some remarks, prefaced
by the following letter from one greatly familiar with art
in Europe, Cooper, the novelist; in which also will be
found, among other things, language corroborating what
was said in speaking about the Florentine pictures.
OTSEGO HALL, COOPERSTOWN, Jan.
#

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1849.
"ST

As an artist, I consider Cole one of the very first geniuses
of the age. This has long been my opinion. The Course of
Empire ought to make the reputation of any man.
Cole improved vastly by his visit to Italy. This^ however, was, as an artist, rather than as a man of genius. The
thought of the Course of Empire came from within. So far
as my knowledge extends, he might have searched all the
galleries of Europe for the conception in vain. The series
is a great epic poem, in which the idea far supasses the
execution, though the last is generally fine. *
*
As a mere artist, Claude Lorraine was the superior of

COOPER'S OPINION OF COLE AND HIS PICTURES.

225

Cole. This arose from advantages of position. As a poet,
Cole was as much before Claude as Shakspeare is before
Pope. I know of no painter whose works manifest such
high poetic feeling as those of Cole. Mind struggles
through all he attempts, and mind accompanied by that
impulsive feeling of beauty and sublimity that denote
genius.
It is quite a new thing to see landscape painting raised
to a level with the heroic in historical composition : but it
is constantly to be traced in the works of Cole. Some of
his Italian views are exquisitely true, while they are imaginative. But it requires that one should be familiar with
that land of lands to appreciate them.
I have heard it said that Cole lost his originality and
strength by visiting Europe ; but I regard it as a provincial absurdity. * * * The truth is that one easily gets
in advance of the public mind of America by a residence
among the great works of the old world: and the inexperienced here mistake their own inability to appreciate for a
fault in others.
I have heard it said here that Cole's Italian landscapes
were overcharged copies from the old masters, and not
natural. * * * Cole has overcharged nothing in any
picture I have ever seen ; and it requires his perception of
beauty to come any where near Italian landscape. * *
I do not place the more laboured allegorical landscapes
of Cole as high as the Course of Empire. They are very
fine pictures, and there is something noble in his constant
efforts to unite the moral and intellectual in landscape
painting ; but the first conception, I fancy, was produced
most con amove.
Not only do I consider the Course of Empire the work
of the highest genius this country has ever produced, but I
15

226

COOPER'S OPINION OF COLE AND HIS PICTURES.

esteem it one of the noblest works of art that has ever been
wrought. There are simplicity, eloquence, distinctness and
pathos in the design, that are beautifully brought out and
illustrated in the execution. The day will come when, in
my judgment, the series will command fifty thousand dollars.
Some of Cole's little American landscapes are perfect
gems in their way. He never used his pencil without eliciting poetry and feeling, exhibited with singular fidelity to
nature. I mix but little with the world, and rarely visit
the exhibitions. When I did, I could tell one of these
pieces as far as sight enabled me to see it. On one occasion, I remember to have been misled as to the artist, and
to have stood before a small landscape that was said to
have come from another hand. " Here, then, is another
artist," I said, " who has caught the spirit of Cole." After
all it turned out to be a picture by Cole himself. No one
else could paint such a picture.
Cole was in advance of the times. It requires a different
state of society to appreciate merit of this calibre: and it
would not surprise me to learn that Cole died comparatively poor. I believe he never got an order, or patronage of any kind from a single public body in the
country.
#
*
#
#
*
REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.
" First freedom, and then glory ; when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption."
Cole's motto to his Popular Description of the Series.

In the life-time of a nation,—for nations like individuals
have a life-time, bounded by birth and death—-there is a
summit-level, up to which, it may be said, it carries itself,
and down from which it is carried. Moving forward by
the force of native energies and passions, there arrives a

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

227

time when energies are exhausted, and passions vitiated.
That is the hour of its satiety—the limit of accomplishment.
No longer a labourer, it is a cumberer of ground. As
a cumberer of the ground, it is caught in the arms of avenging, irresistible destiny, and hurried down to extinction.
Sin digs its own grave, and piles around it the stones for
its own monument.
A visible manifestation of these truths is the Course of
Empire. It is the pictorial expression of the poet's view of
humanity, in the bonds of a people, travelling in the greatness of its strength, yet with the passport of Providence,
with only the cold, innutritious morsels of natural religion,
through the cycle of mutation to that point of it—the extreme point of the possible—where the divine anger takes
it captive, and hastens away with it to destruction.
However old may be the idea—the great fact—which
underlies this fabric of art, as a subject for the pencil it is
purely original. It was not intimated by any picture in
the world, but leaped, at an early day, from the painter's
own imagination.
As a theme of art it is grand. As a theme wholly within
the bounds of time, with no living, actual relation, any
more than the Iliad, to a life hereafter—to the world of
Christian revelation, it has no equal in grandeur in any
which has been selected by the painter. As it includes the
entire drama of man—man acting only within the lines of
this world, without a recognition of the future state brought
to light in the gospel, it is, perhaps, the grandest, the most
comprehensive topic that lies in the power of selection.
With all this, the subject is yet one of ineffable mournfulness, for the reason that it does not utter the least whisper
of hope or consolation. It ends where the true interest of
man begins—in the tomb. It points no finger across it—

228

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

holds up no torch by which to look out of its cold darkness
beyond it. And yet, with all the melancholy that hangs
around the grandeur of the theme, its compass, originality,
and fine invention, the genius, passion, reach and fertility
of thought, visible throughout, and all coupled with the
greater or less artistic skill with which it is treated, conspire to render the Course of Empire, not only one of Cole's
completest and finest works, but one of the finest in the
world.
I am aware that such a judgment of the series should be
sustained by careful, reproductive criticism. How far the
following—which speaks only of the design and not of the
execution—sustains it, the reader will decide. To begin, I
pronounce the Course of Empire a grand epic poem, with a
nation for its hero, and a series of national actions and
events for his achievements.
The great truth to which all leads, " the moral of the
strain," is the final nothingness of man, when acting only
with reference to things on the narrow theatre of earth.
As it is impossible for the painter, like the writer, to
exhibit every thread and figure of the entire piece of his
story, he must show such parts of it as will enable the
beholder, through his imagination, to understand those
other positions which he does not see.
Accordingly, in this instance, the artist seizes those great
facts, occurring at long intervals, which have in them a
power to suggest what transpires between.
He paints us five pictures. In the first, for example, is
shown us, not only what the nation-hero is doing at the
moment we gaze upon him, but also what he has been doing,
and yet will do. The second and third show us the same.
In the fourth it is shown us, not indeed what the nation-hero
is doing, (for his work is done,) but what he is suffering—

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

229

what an avenging power is doing with him, and yet will go
on to do. What that power has done is shown us in the
fifth or last.
Five pictures recite, in the painter's bright language, to
the eye of the beholder, that which affords to his mind the
facility and strength to master, with unconscious ease and
rapidity, the entire whole of the poet's fine creation. Now
look through them in their order.
In the first picture, the empire appears, not at its birth,
nor at its transition to youth, but at a period which suggests them both. Speeding past us, a creature of new life,
it is arrested at a moment vividly expressive of its total
childhood. The state in its childhood. To unfold this
idea all things tend. To this point all speaks. All
motion plays around it. All voices sing of that one central reality.
On the first glance, the beholder is put in possession of
the field or locality common to all the five scenes. Looking east, he sees spread out before him a combination of
those natural advantages required for the nucleus of a
mighty state. A bay, at the western extremity of which he
stands, affords at once a fine harbour and a view to the ocean.
Here the energies of a kingdom may go and come, and the
tribute of countries be wafted in. The nearer shores, while
they descend to the water on both hands, in a way well
fitted for the building of a city convenient and imposing, are broken into features which, under any modifications of improvement, will always be beautiful and
picturesque.
The whole combination of scenery, of great expanse, has
the finest characteristics of nature in a wild state—streams,
rocks, woods, dells, waters, and mountains, charmingly and
effectually disposed.

230

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

On the southern or right shore of the bay rises a precipitous hill, crowned with a solitary and remarkable crag, a
certain landmark for the mariner at sea, and conspicuous
from the whole surrounding country. It therefore enables
the beholder at once to understand the several positions to
which he is afterwards shifted.
With this wilderness landscape, into the green turf of
which the footsteps of the young empire begin to cut sharply, the hour and the season perfectly harmonize in speaking
to the one great thought. It is sunrise. It is spring. The
year's work is before it, and the days work is before it, just
as the work of the empire is before it. And they enter
upon their work, the year and the day, in the spirit which
accords with the spirit of the empire entering upon its
great work. May and morning are both abroad, hand in
hand upon the earth. Up from the sea comes the sun,
flashing through the heavens and along the land, trampling
under its glistening feet the dark wild remnants of night
and storm, and sweeping through mists and shadows a wide
path for the glorious day. Forward moves the month of
odours, airing dell and steep, incensing field and forest,
talking along flowery brooks, shouting down from sparkling
waterfalls, and singing up among the juicy greenery of ripe
rich things to come. Hope, promise, preparation, prophecy :
such is the expression of the season. It accords with the
hour of the day in lending life, force, and distinctness to the
one thought, eloquently uttered by the living actors of the
scene, namely: That the empire, in its spring and in its
morning, is a spirited creature of the wilderness, just begining to assert supremacy over land and sea, and exhibiting
the simplest elements of society and the arts. Canoes ride
the swells, scattered huts fling their smokes to the breeze,
the rude inhabitants, clad in skins, send the arrow after the

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

231

light-footed deer, or circle the crackling fire with dance
and song.
In the second picture, we look in upon the empire in its
youth. In the lapse of years, we are carried forward to the
period when the supremacy, at first asserted, becomes a
living vigorous reality. Hopes now begin to be realized,
promises made good, prophecies fulfilled. The aboriginal
canoe? and hut are exchanged for the busy village by the
water-side, and the bolder craft that can wing the seas. The
savage is transformed into civilized man, rising from grosser
superstitions into higher forms of natural religion, progressing in science and the arts, abandoning the chase for the
sober -toils of agriculture, and forgetting scenes of barbarous mirth in the gentler pastimes of the peasant. Time has
tamed and tempered man, man has tempered and softened
the wilderness. The footsteps of empire are heavy upon
the earth and fleet upon the main. They wear the mountains, imprint the solid rocks, and cleave the billows. The
State in its morning, was our first view : we now behold,
at least, the dawn of its grandeur. Again the season, the
hour, and the quality of the scenery, all harmonize with the
general story. The landscape, now seen from a point of
view different from that first occupied by the beholder, has
a milder aspect: the sun, advancing in the sky, shines
freely and pleasantly abroad. Light clouds play around
the mountains. It is summer; the last luxuriant days of
June.
The third picture opens the Empire in its manhood.
Time, necessary for the fulfilment of all of which the past
may have been prophetic, has rolled away. The dawn of
national grandeur is now succeeded by the full blaze. The
nation has carried itself forward to the summit-level of its
long ascending career. The village, that once little com-

232

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

pany of buildings down on the shore, now expands, into
the vast capital, and crowds the scene. Himself in the
skirts of the great city, the beholder sees it embracing
the bay, its foundations in the waves, its crest in the heavens—there, climbing in piles of imposing architecture
around the crag-crowned height—here, spanning the waters
in successive arches—and yonder, ascending to the horizon
a huge assemblage of temples, palaces, colonnades and
domes. A fleet sweeps the harbour—war-galleys and barks
of costly sails. Multitudes witness the progress of a conqueror enjoying the honours of a triumph. Earth and the
waves are mantled with the proud accomplishments of
man, and heavy with the gorgeous embroidery of human
achievement.
To a vision so replete with earthly glory nature herself,
as if in astonishment, gives her countenance and sympathy. Hushed and breathless, she comes in the plenitude
of ripening September, and wraps the scene with noon-day
effulgence.
In all this sumptuous pageant, smiting the sight, steeping sense in splendour, there is a silent revelation of " things
which must shortly come to pass." There takes hold of
one, unconsciously, a recognition of those strange and overwhelming doings which God reserves to himself in the final
affairs of nations, " to the intent that the living may know
that the Most High ruleth in the kingdom of men." One
feels, even among richest fancies, the presence of thoughts
dark and ominous, like those which, at this stage of the
work, began to hasten up in flights, as it were from the
future, upon the painter's mind. Behind this glory, of such
depth to the outward eye, of such veil-like thinness to the
piercing, prophetic eye of the soul, rise in shadowy outlino
awful presages, breathing wrathful premonitions : " Pride

REMARKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

233

goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall." In a word, we feel that of which the scene before us
bears the deep impress, namely, the artist's mind. The
Empire, no longer fresh and vigorous with a spirit rushing
onward, bearing itself and all with it irresistibly upward,
is pausing—reposing on its loftiest elevation in a plethora,
a voluptuous fulness, between the first abatement of its energies, and the appointed hour, when Omnipotence, wrenching
its destinies from its vicious, palsied hands, shall push it on
its fate. All this was in the artist's mind. With all this
is the great central picture impressed. We feel the impression. And hence, in the all-possessing effulgence of the
present, we both have a sense of the past and divine the
future. Vividly graphic as a scene of glory, all is yet suggestive of catastrophe, as the dead luminous calm is often suggestive of the shadowy tempest, or the blue glassy ocean, of
the surf whitening far-off shores. The spirit of the beholder
is therefore secretly attuned to strong and terrible contrasts, such as would naturally be presented at the violent
breaking up, rather than at any period in the decline, of
the state. Accordingly,
The fourth picture exhibits the Empire in its fall. The
moment chosen for the spectator is that, when, at the end of
its rapid downward run, all is in awful motion on the very
bend of ruin—that narrow tract of frantic, shivering, fierce
foam, just before the vast current slides into the polished
green of the cataract. The shades of the now declining
day will fall, and the sear leaves of autumn drop, into the
abyss that swallows it. Weakened and debased by luxury,
" brimstone sprinkled upon its habitations " by the hand of
vice, " the breath of the Lord, like a stream of brimstone,
doth kindle it." In a word, the once proud capital, sacked
by a barbarous enemy, reddens with conflagration and

234

EEMAEKS ON THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.

carnage. All appetite for conquest lost in long satiety,
there is now, in its effeminacy, not even the power to resist.
Enemies, begotten by ambition, and nurtured by tyranny,
take those once far-reaching, deeply-beaten, but now grassgrown paths of victory, and follow them in—rush in
to their revenge. The vanquished recoil upon the conqueror ; the trampled come to trample in their turn, and
snatch back, in one terrible hour, all the gorgeous triumphs
of the past. The wrongs of ages make a general return.
They revel at a festival of blood. The golden head, the
jewelled crown of the empire, is fired to light and cheer the
revelry.
To complete the tremendous tragedy, nature appears
upon the scene, a terrific actor. Clouds and smoke commingled darken the heavens. The sweep of the gale is swift as
the spirit of battle. Surge and flame work ruin in the
crowded port. The very light is fierce, flashing along the
wide gloom, darting upon the sullen shadows. For every
wave of mortal wrath and passion, therq. is a swell of fury
in the elements. All palpitates and rushes, swaying to and
fro in masses, heaving, rolling, thundering in the surf of
wild destruction. The season and the hour still keep pace,
and work in harmony. It is, as intimated above, drawing
on to the close of one of " the melancholy days, the saddest
of the year."
In the first three pictures, to look back a moment, the
nation-hero, as I have chosen to speak, occupies the scene,
running from extremes of activity to those of rest—Shouting
aloud, in the first: See ! I come, as if from crude chaotic
nature, all life, all motion, wildly bounding into being—
Speaking with milder voice, though not less emphatic, in
the second : I go forward, forward still with life, but with
repose beginning to wrestle with activity—Sounding it with

COLE'S MARRIAGE.

235

trumpets in the third : Behold the Empire! Lo, what I
have done !—and activity is prostrate under the noiseless
wheels of repose. But in the fourth and fifth, an avenging
Providence occupies the scene, passing also from extremes
of terrible activity to those of awful repose—Saying, first,
amid commotions and convulsive throes of going out of
being : Lo, I come!—then whispering through silent desolation (which utterance shuts up the scene): " It is done I"
"And after the fire a still small voice," saying, " I t is done."
Such is the expression of the solemn twilight, the motionless autumnal foliage, the quiet footsteps of encroaching
waters, the solitary heron and her nest upon the crumbling
column. By the beams of the moon, now rising over the
tranquil ocean, and by the last gleams of day, the poet lights
the beholder to the tomb of Empire, and gives him voiceless solitude, in which to hear, from mournful ruins and
triumphant nature, " the moral of the strain."
COLE'S MARRIAGE.

October and November of 1836 were golden months in
the life of Cole. In the first, he gave to the public the
Course of Empire ; in the next, he was married.
A history of the hopes, and fears, and joys, with which, in
those weeks, he was stirred, would fill a volume. As he
glided down the Hudson, the glory of autumn was kindling
on its romantic banks. Bright pictures, for years waking
only his own heart, -beaming with brilliancy only to his
own mind, had passed out of his imagination, and now
existed in a visible form on the canvass. And they were
with him on their first voyage to the world. Many eyes
were waiting—many voices would soon say whether or not
what had been so long moving him had in them the beauty,
power, and pathos to move them. How much the loveli-

236

COLE'S MARRIAGE.

ness of nature's colouring helped to beguile many probable
anxieties, there is no record.
On his return, the banks were in flames of splendour.
The world had opened its eyes upon his painted visions
with the voice of applause. The corner-stone of a lasting
fame was laid, and he was goirig forward to what was
nearer to his heart than fame. How much the magnificence of nature helped him to forget, for now and then a
moment, the almost painful joy of hopes more certain than
those founded on the favour of the public, there is, also, no
record. The pages which might be written upon the painter's secret life, in those two golden months, are left to the
imagination.
The following note to his friend, without date, but postmarked November 8th, may serve to intimate the nature of
his feelings at the moment:
My DEAR DURAND,—Do not disappoint me about coming

up. And do more—drum up recruits. I expect Morse,
Ingham, Cummings, and Inman. Make them come, if possible. Don't let me stand up to the parson without a single
soul to keep me in countenance.
Come—come—come! I will not be disappointed.
Yours truly,
CATSKILL, Friday.

THOMAS COLE.

He was disappointed. They did not come. But he was
married, the ensuing week, to Maria Bartow, the young
lady previously alluded to.

CHAPTER

XXIV.

Commission for the Departure and Return.—Thoughts and occurrences:
Retrospection; pictures painted; death of his father; visit to Schroon
Lake ; scenery ; song of a spirit.—To Mr. Van Rensselaer : the Departure and Return.—Thoughts, &c. : autumn; the dying year.—To Mr.
Van Rensselaer : description of the Departure and Return.—Bryant's
criticism.—Thoughts, &c. : Death of his mother.

" THIS was the winter of my discontent," said Cole of
that sad season in Philadelphia. Certainly, no such application of the poet's words could be made with respect to
the winter of 1837.
In addition to several profitable commissions, he received
one from Wm. P . Van Eensselaer, Esq., of Albany, for two
pictures—a pair, representing morning and evening, and
entitled the Departure and Return.
May 14,1837.—These pages have been neglected for a
long time. The winter is past, and many things of interest have transpired since I last touched them. I have been
so busily engaged in acting, that I have had little leisure
for anticipation or review. I haye been married, and my
happiness is increased. Nov. 22 was the day ; and, I trust,
God will grant it to be an auspicious one, and bless us.
The Rubicon is passed, and I feel more contented than I
should have done had I remained single. It was a serious

238

DEATH OF HIS FATHER.

undertaking for me ; but I now rejoice, and believe that I
shall always have reason to do so.
In the winter I painted four pictures : A View on the
Catskill, for Mr. Sturges ; an Autumnal Scene, for a friend
of Mr. Inman ; a small landscape for Mr. Cooke, and a
View of Florence.
My poor father died in September last. And, although
the bonds of affection cannot be severed without sorrow,
yet we cannot but rejoice that he has escaped from the
infirmities which rendered him a burden to himself for
several years. He was an indulgent and affectionate husband and father. He possessed a heart always open to the
distressed, and indignant at the wrongs of the weak and
oppressed. Too generous and unsuspecting of evil to thrive
in the world, his life was spent in buffeting successive
waves of adverse fortune. He never found a calm haven,
until death opened the ports of everlasting rest. He now
dwells in that region of spirits on which his mind dwelt
in fond and hopeful thought, and is, I trust, reaping the
reward of a virtuous life. . He was born in Haynford, in
Norfolk, England, and was 72 years old at his death.
May 15.—The Fine Arts are an imitation of the Creative
Power.
July 8.—I have just returned from a tour of the picturesque. On the 22d ult., Mrs. C. and myself joined Mr. and
Mrs. Durand, with the intention of exploring the scenery
of Schroon Lake. From the hasty visit I paid it, in the
autumn of 1835, I had,reason to expect a rich treat. I
have not been disappointed. To Mr. Durand the scenery
was entirely new : and I am happy in having been the
means of introducing the rich and varied scenery of Schroon
to a true lover of nature.
*
*
*

VISIT WITH DURAND TO SCHR00N LAKE.

239

24th of June, at B
's, an unpretending looking house.
We arrived in the afternoon, and found ample accommodation : indeed all that we could desire—civility, neatness,
excellent fare, and, valued above all, exemption from the
curse of fashion and fashionable society. Here we determined to make head quarters for eight or ten days. Several of those were spent on the lake, others in rambling
about its shores, and among the surrounding mountains—
our sketch-books constantly in hand.
*
*
*
*
The scenery is not grand, but has a wild sort of beauty that
approaches i t : quietness—solitude—the untamed—the unchanged aspect of nature—an aspect which the scene has
worn thousands of years, affected only by seasons, the sunshine and the tempest. We stand on the border of a cultivated plain, and look into the heart of nature. *
*
*
To the north, and retiring in the purple haze of distance, a
company of mountains lift their heads, some dark with
ancient forests, others broken, brown, and bare ; the whole
surmounted by a majestic form, whose serrated summit, at
sunset, lifts itself among the clouds, an amethystine mass.
I do not remember to have seen in Italy a composition of
mountains so beautiful or pictorial as this glorious range of
the Adirondack.
*
*
*
*
One of our excursions was through the lake. Our boat
was rowed by two stout boys, and was just large enough to
accommodate us, our wives being of the party. * * *
The wind blew strongly down the lake, the waves rose
sufficiently to give a good deal of motion to the boat, and
to increase the labour of our young oarsmen. Our progress
was slow. At length we reached the. narrows, where the
waters were smooth. Here the lake is contracted by several jutting headlands ; one of which, with its long sandy
beach and fringe of forest trees, tempted us ashore. It was

240

SCHROON SCENERY.

a beautiful spot. The golden sand sloped gradually beneath
the clear waters, and could be seen at a great depth, as we
approached the beach.
Leaving this spot, we entered the northern expanse of
the lake. *
* We landed, and seated on the drifted
logs, white from the action of the waves and the sun, and
beneath some craggy rocks overhung with evergreens, we
took our simple meal with keen appetites. *
*
*
One day we diverged from the road, about three miles
?
from B
s, with the intention of getting a fine view of
the great range of mountains to the west. We climbed a
steep hill, on which many sheep were at pasture, and gained
a magnificent view. Below us lay a little lake, embosomed
in hills, and a perfect mirror of the surrounding woods :
beyond were hills, partially cleared, and beyond these
Schroon Mountain, raising its peak into the sky. Here we
sketched. But the cleared hills beyond the pond promised
such an opportunity for a complete view of the mountain,
that we could not resist the temptation. Hope and enthusiasm drew us on. We dashed down the hill towards the
pond—skirted its shores through the swampy forest—
scrambled through the black logs of a recent burning—
arrived at a new clearing—passed a log-house or two,
whose inhabitants seemed aghast at the apparition of two
strangers sweeping across their domains without stopping
to ask a question, or say " good day"—ascended the
cleared hills—once or twice turned round for the eastern
view, and were rewarded. The little lake lay below us, a
crystal in an ebony setting: beyond it, and over shadowy
woods, gleamed Lake Schroon, and in the atmosphere of
distance rose the orient hills soft and dim. But we could
not linger. We climbed the topmost knoll of the clearing,
trampling down the luxuriant clover, and, beneath some

SCHR00N SCENERY.—SONG OF A SPIRIT.

24l

giant denizens of the woods, whose companions had all
been laid low, we eagerly looked towards the west, and—
were disappointed. A mass of wood on the declivity of the
hill enviously hid the anticipated prospect. For once I
wished the axe had not been stayed. But we were not to
be foiled so easily. We entered the wood, and found it but
a narrow strip. We emerged and our eyes were blessed.
There was no lake-view as we had expected, but the hoary
mountain rose in silent grandeur, its dark head clad in a
dense forest of evergreens, cleaving the sky, " a star-y
pointing pyramid." * * * Below, stretched to the
mountain's base a mighty mass of forest, unbroken but by
the rising and sinking of the earth on which it stood.
Here we felt the sublimity of untamed wildness, and the
majesty of the eternal mountains.
SONG OF A SPIRIT.
An awful privilege it is to wear a spirit's form,
And solitary live for aye on this vast mountain peak ;
To watch, afar beneath my feet, the darkly-heaving storm,
And see its cloudy billows o'er the craggy ramparts break;
To hear the hurrying blast
Torment the groaning woods,
O'er precipices cast
The desolating floods;
To mark in wreathed fire
The crackling pines expire ;
To list the earthquake and the thunder's voice
Round and beneath my everlasting throne;
Meanwhile, unscathed, untouched, I still rejoice,
And sing my hymn of gladness, all alone.

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

First to salute the sun, when he breaks thro' the night,
I gaze upon him still when earth has lost her light.
When silence is most death-like,
And darkness deepest cast;

16

242

THE DEPARTURE AND THE RETURN.
The streamlet's music breath-like,
And dew is settling fast;

Far thro' the azure depth above is heard my clarion sound,
Like tones of winds, and wares, and woods, and voices of the ground.
I spread my shadeless pinions wide o'er this my calm domain :
A solitary realm it is ; but here I love to reign.

Here we spent an hour, endeavouring to trace, in our
sketch-books, the features of the scene. Impressed with a
sense of solitude, we pursued our labours silently. It was
still and solemn. At times, we heard the sound of running
waters, softly ascending from the woods below, but thrilling
and impressive as the whisperings of midnight.
*
*
To W M . P. VAN RENSSELAER, ESQ.
CATSKILL, July 8th, 1837.

absence of several weeks from Catskill has
prevented an earlier answer to your letter of the 26th ult.
Your pictures are on the easel, but far from being finished.
I hope you will excuse the delay, as it has arisen in part
from previous engagements, (I believe I intimated in my
letter I had such,) and partly from the strong desire I have
to give you the best of my productions. Your commission
was given in a manner so gratifying and agreeable, that I
determined neither pains nor study should be wanting in
order to accomplish something worthy. I have, therefore,
in determining the plan of the pictures, and in making fresh
studies from nature to be available in them, spent more
time than is usual. My earnest desire is to produce something that will be a source of lasting pleasure to both
of us.
Sunrise and Sunset will be the seasons of the pictures.
I shall endeavor to link them in one subject through means
of story, sentiment, and location. It will, perhaps, be as
DEAR SIR,—An

243

AUTUMN.—THE DYING YEAR.

well not to mention the subject more definitely until" the
work is about completed. The size of the pictures you
left, in a measure, to me ; and I hope the canvass I have
chosen will not be found too large, as I think the subjects
require the size, which is about five feet long. I shall now
proceed with them, I hope, without interruption. But I
must ask your indulgence as to time. I am afraid that
#
they cannot be finished before autumn.
*
*
Yours, respectfully,
THOMAS

COLE.

August 20th.—Beautiful weather. The forests and meadows never wore a richer, deeper green. 0 that time would
now stay his flight for a while, and let the summer
linger I
October 6th.—It is past. Summer is ended. The foliage
is now falling in mournful showers. What a harsh and
cruel climate! But are not all earthly climes imperfect,
and bearing some evil ? Where shall we pitch our tent ?
•jf

*

#

#

#•

#

October 14th.—The winter is upon us.
Another year, like a frail flower, is bound
In Time's sere chaplet, withering aye to cling,
Eternity, thy shadowy temples round;
Like to the music of a broken string,
That ne'er shall sound again, 'tis past and gone :
Its dying sweetness dwells with memory alone.
The green of spring, that melts the heart like love,
Died with its virgin season : the strong light
Of hues autumnal kindles in the grove,
And rainbow-tints array the mountain height:
A pomp there is, a glory on the hills,
And gold and crimson stream, reflected from the rills.

.

*

244

DESCRIPTION OF THE DEPARTURE AND RETURN.

To MR. VAN RENSSELAER:
CATSKILL, Oct. 15th,

1837.

It would not be surprising if you should consider me
dilatory in regard to your pictures. But I hope that the
pictures themselves will plead my excuse for the long delay.
The subject, I undertook to paint for you, at first apparently
simple, has grown on my hands. One picture is, as yet,
only completed, and the other upon the easel, although I
have been assiduously employed upon them.
Having advanced so far, I thought it might be agreeable
to you to learn something of the work which I am about to
offer you. I have therefore taken the liberty to give you a
hasty sketch of what I am doing ; at the same time, let me
say, that a written sketch can give but an inadequate notion
of my labours.
The story, if I may so call it, which will give title, and, I
hope, life and interest to the landscapes, is taken neither
from history nor poetry : it is a fiction of my own, if incidents which must have occurred very frequently can be
called fiction. It is supposed to have date in the 13th or
14th century.
In the first picture, Morning, which I call The Departure,
a dark and lofty castle stands on an eminence, embosomed
in woods. The distance beyond is composed of cloud-capt
mountains and cultivated lands, sloping down to the sea.
In the foreground is a sculptured Madonna, by which
passes a road, winding beneath ancient trees, and, crossing
a stream by a Gothic bridge, conducting to the gate of the
castle. From this gate has issued a troop of knights and
soldiers in glittering armour : they are dashing down
across the bridge and beneath the lofty trees, in the foreground; and the principal figure, who may be considered
the Lord of the Castle, reins in his charger, and turns a

245

BRYANT'S CRITICISM.

look of pride and exultation at the castle of his fathers and
his gallant retinue. He waves his sword, as though saluting some fair lady, who from battlement or window watches
her lord's departure to the wars. The time is supposed to
be early summer.
The second picture^-The Return—is in early autumn.
The spectator has his back to the castle. The sun is low :
its yellow beams gild the pinnacles of an abbey, standing in
a shadowy wood. The Madonna stands a short distance
from the foreground, and identifies the scene. Near it,
moving towards the castle, is a mournful procession; the
lord is borne on a litter, dead or dying—his charger led
behind—a single knight, and one or two attendants—all
that war has spared of that once goodly company.
You will be inclined to think, perhaps, that this is a melancholy subject; but I hope it will not, in consequence of
that, be incapable of affording pleasure. I will not trouble
you with more than this hasty sketch of my labours. I
have endeavored to tell the story in the richest and most
picturesque manner that I could. And should there be no
story understood, I trust that there will be sufficient truth
and beauty found in the pictures to interest and please.
I hope that, in undertaking a work which required so
much thought and labour, I have not overstepped your
intention, and that, when you see it, you will be grat'

r*

1

-Y-

Afc

JL.

4fc

4£.

-V.

ITlPfl

Placing this among "his noblest works," Bryant says,
with great justice, " there could- not be a finer choice of
circumstances, nor a more exquisite treatment of them than
is found in these pictures. In the first, a spring morning,
breezy and sparkling, the mists starting and soaring from
the hills, the chieftain in gallant array, at the head of his

246

DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.—POEM TO HIS MOTHER.

retainers, issuing from the castle. In the second, an
autumnal evening, calm, solemn,—a church illuminated by
the beams of the setting sun, and the corpse of the chief
borne in silence—these are but a meagre epitome of what is
contained in these two pictures."
Buckingham, speaking of Cole and his works, at some
length, in his writings on America, says of these paintings :
" for beauty of composition, harmony of parts, accuracy of
drawing, and power of effect, I have never seen any modern
pictures that surpassed them."
October 30th, 1837.—My dear mother is gone. The kindest, most affectionate, the best of parents is departed. She
died on the morning of the 20th of this month. Her children, whom she loved so much, were with her in her last
imoments. I cannot say more. I have too much to say.
Mother!—0 holy name, for-ever blest!
For-ever dear to man, and most to me!
I breath it now with sorrow ill-suppressed,
And rising tears that struggle to be free :
Thou dost not answer, Mother, from the ground ;
Thy tender ear is closed, nor heedeth mortal sound.
My mother!—sweet the hallowed accents fall:
It is the natural music of my tongue :
Sad now its tone, yet potent to recall
Thy love, thy tears, thy tenderness so strong.
And call I vainly ? Does" the tomb enclose
Thy happy spirit ? No !—immortal it arose.

CHAPTEE

XXV.

To Mr. Durand : his Rip Van Winkle; Schroon Mountain picture.—Thoughts
and Occurrences : poetic musings.—To Mr. Durand : Conrad and Medora;
Coleridge's "Love," a subject for a picture.—Pictures for Mr. Stuyvesant.—To Mr. Durand: pictures.—To the same: painting the Dream
of Arcadia.—The Dream of Arcadia
To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, January 4th,

1838.

MY DEAR DURAND,—Your letters are always welcome
visitors, and the last was not the least so, although I have
been tardy in returning your Christmas call. But you will
excuse me when you learn what mighty events have taken
place in the brief space of time since you wrote.
In the first place, I have been rather idle through Christmass, (to what disadvantage I compare with you!) making
a new kind of musical instrument, which, if it shall ever
play, and I shall ever play, you shall hear, when you come
to Catskill. In the second place—mark, I say the second
place, because I do not wish you to think, or ever should
think, or have thought, that the matter is to be compared in
importance to the construction of musical instruments,—in
the second place, then, on New-Year's Day, M. thought she
would make me a New-Year's gift, in the shape of a little
boy. * * *' Now, these weighty matters taken into
consideration will certainly incline you to excuse me for
not having written sooner.

248

DUKAND'S EIP TAN WINKLE.

* * So Rip has toiled up the mountain with the liquor.
I should like to see the old Morpheus : and though I may
not be blessed with a taste of the somnific cordial, I hope to
enjoy the sight of the flagon; and perhaps I may exclaim
like the old woman, (I believe in one of iEsop's fables,) who,
putting her nose to the bung-hole of an empty wine-cask,
cried, " 0, if thou art so delightful now, what must thou
have been when full ?" But your flagon shall not be enjoyed
by nose, but by eyes.
And what have I been doing ? toiling up mountains, even
Schroon mountains, solitary and companionless. I took the
notion, and got into a mountain fever, and nothing would do
but that I must allay it by painting the sable pyramid from
the sketch made in the clearing, before we dashed on to the
Grisly Pond. I consider it our grandest view. I have taken
the liberty of elevating myself a little, as though on a treetop, to get a glimpse of the nearest pond by which we
passed. How I have succeeded you shall judge.
Painting this picture has recalled our Schroon days, and
already, in my mind, they begin to take the hue of romance. That was a glorious day, the day of the lake hunt—
Grisly Pond day. The thoughts of it stir me now like the
music of running waters in an umbrageous valley. Have
you not found ?—I have—that I never succeed in painting
scenes, however beautiful, immediately on returning from
them. I must wait for time to draw a veil over the common details, the unessential parts, which shall leave the
great features, whether the beautiful or the sublime dominant in the mind.
Haggerty's picture I am about to commence. I think I
shall paint one of the Catskill lakes. Will you be angry if
I paint, in a small picture, the view of Mount Moriah from
the meadow, at the head of Schroon ? You have painted it.

SCHR00N PICTURE, MOUNT MORIAH.—MUSINGS.

249

If I thought you would consider it in the least infringing
on your right, or that I should cause the least unpleasant
feeling in your mind, I would relinquish it. The fact is, I
have been looking over and over my sketches, for a subject
for one of my commissions, and I find none that will suit
the purpose so well as this. Write to me, and tell me
candidly. * * * Write soon, and believe me,
Truly yours,
THOMAS COLE.
January 12th, 1838.—The weather is lovely. The other
evening the mountains were as beautiful as I ever saw them.
—exceedingly deep purple.
I gaze upon the cold and cloudy steep,
With sad remembrance of each tender dye ;
Of summer, and of autumn, rich and deep,
The splendid pride of joyous woods; and sigh
That the soft seasons speed so quick away,
While winter lingers with unkind delay.
I gaze, but not as in the earlier day,
With heart too full of youthful hope for gloom,
Ere we beloved ones did gently lay
Within the bosom of the quiet tomb :
Since then the seasons wear a sadder hue,
And evening's golden tints are faded too.
*
*
*
*
*
*
TO MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, January 31st,

1838.

MY DEAR DUEAND,— * * * You know
chose
Medora as the subject for his picture, and I accepted it
without considering it in detail. * * I should like to
paint it vastly, if the figures may be subordinate to the
landscape. Indeed I have a desire. But I am inclined to
think there are subjects more capable, and more likely to
give general pleasure. I will mention one that I have long

250

COLERIDGE'S "LOVE," A SUBJECT FOR A PICTURE.

thought of painting, and you will do me the favour to speak
of it to
, and also to give him my opinion on the subject
of Medora. The subject I would suggest is from Coleridge's
poem of Love:
" Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again," etc.

You will readily perceive how fraught with the pictorial
is this passage from one of the most tender and exquisite
poems in the language. * * * Will you suggest this
subject to
when you see him, and let me hear soon as
convenient ? I hope he will choose it, though I shall be
satisfied with the other. This I will paint if I can.
Now do write soon, and let me know what you are about.
I have finished a little view on the Arno for a gentleman
in Boston. I am afraid the Arno will create a deluge in
Boston: this is the third Arno for Boston. Mr. Haggerty's picture is on the easel; it is one of the lakes in the
Catskills. I hope it will be a pleasing picture, of the wild,
tranquil kind. * * * I believe you will have to enlarge
the exhibition rooms for me, as I shall have such a grist as I
never had before. I intend to paint a scene, or a couple of
scenes, in Arcadia, (of course in the golden age,) and I know
not what else I might do if the sheet was large enough. * *
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

Early in February, Cole received one of his most important commissions—that which resulted in the two fine pictures, entitled the Past and the Present, painted for P . G.
Stuyvesant, Esq.
In a letter dated February 1st, says that gentleman, " I
have fully reflected upon your proposition ; [alluding to a
proposed modification of a commission given in the preced-

PICTURES FOR MR. STUYVESANT.

251

ing December,] and, as I prefer having something very valuable, I wish you to proceed with the two pictures of the size
of Mr. Van Rensselaer's, not doubting they will give Mrs.
S. and myself full satisfaction."
The annexed copy of a letter, without date, appears to
have been Cole's reply to the above :
DEAR SIR,—I am gratified that you have given me a

more ample commission than your previous one, and I
assure you, that I shall avail myself of the opportunity of
endeavouring to produce what will be satisfactory. I have
not yet commenced, and indeed cannot promise to execute
your pictures for several months, in consequence of previous
commissions.
You express a desire to have a subject that will embrace
two pictures. I am happy to find subjects of this kind
attractive. They give more scope for poetical invention,
and are, perhaps, more capable of sentiment than subjects
requiring only a single canvass. But then they require
more labour and study in the execution. If you determine
on having pictures of this kind, I think I can find a subject
both expressive and pictorial.
*
*
*
To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, February 12th, 1853.
MY BEAR DURAND,—I am very much indebted to you for

Mount Moriah, as I always consider you as holding a share
in that stock. But you must not say that my picture will
depreciate yours in your own eyes ; for that I should be
very sorry, even were it warranted by the pictures themselves, which is not likely to be the case.
*
*
So Rip is about finished : I long to see him. The Dance
on the Battery, too, is going on merrily, You seem to
dash along.

252

* *
musical
patent.
Hoping
remain

PAINTING THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

* I find that there is little need of inventing
instruments, when there are so many of Adam's
I find I have a pretty loud toned one of that sort.
you have a merry time dancing on the Battery, I
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, March 20th, 1838.

MY DEAR DURAND,—Your letter was received among the
welcome things, and it gave me great pleasure to learn that
you were getting on so well with your picture. I cannot
speak so well of my affairs after all my bragging, and you
may tell the council that they had better not enlarge the
exhibition on my account this season.
I took a trip to Arcadia in a dream. At the first start
the atmosphere was clear, and the travelling delightful :
but just as I got into the midst of that famous land, there
came on a classic fog, and I got lost and bewildered. I
scraped my shins in scrambling up a high mountain—
rubbed my nose against a marble temple—got half suffocated by the smoke of an altar, where the priests were burning
offal by way of sacrifice (queer taste the gods had, that's
certain)—knocked my head against the arch of a stone
bridge—was tossed and tumbled in a cataract—-just escaped
—fell flat on my back among high grass, and was near getting hung on some tall trees : but the worst of all are the
inhabitants of that country. I found them very troublesome,
very—they have almost murdered me—alas ! I am in their
hands yet. But I hope to dispose of them one by one, if I
have fair play, and have them hung, as a striking example,
in the exhibition of the National Academy, by hangmen of
our aquaintance.

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

253

Stop!—say you—you began in a dream, and have come
down to a dull reality. True. There is one thing, dream
or reality, that is pleasant—that is, the river is open, and
spring is come : but you know all that. I am like the little
dog at Schroon—you perhaps remember it—that was so
glad to see us, it picked up a straw : so I offer you a
straw, and a great deal of nonsense with it. You must
attribute both to a shockingly bad pen—so bad that it can't
write common sense. If you can spare time, and have pen
and ink, will you let me know when I ought to be down at
the hanging : you know I like to see justice done.
*
*
*
I remain, yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.
THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

As the honour of introducing the pastoral, after the order
of Theocritus, into Roman literature, belongs to Yirgil, so
the same honour is due to Cole as the parent of true idyl,
or pastoral painting in America. And as Greece and Rome
never had any equals, in that delightful kind of poesy, to
the above-mentioned authors, so may we venture, at the
least, to predict that our country will produce few, if ever
any, superiors to Cole, in that charming species of picture.
That no one will arise who may surpass him in simple portraiture of the country, who would presume to say ? That
any one will, whose work in its unity and variety shall so
entirely consist of poetic language, we may dare to doubt.
A master's pencil comes not, in every generation, to the
hand of a fine poet. His claim to this eminence rests, it must
be admitted, not on the number of his pastorals, but on the
excellence of a very few; a sufficient basis, when we discover
that in them he has given us all the tokens of the requisite
power, as effectually as he could have done in hundreds.

254

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

By pastorals let it be understood to mean, not those pictures of the country in which men and animals are subordinate and merely incident to the main design, but those in
which they are in such wise actors, that the landscape has,
at least, a moral subordination ; when all conspires to tell a
story, and that a story of rustic life and manners. The
Dream of Arcadia is at once an illustration of the picture
idyl, and a splendid specimen. Every thing in it ministers
to one end—the expression of simple rural life in its most
pleasurable flow. Earth and air, sounds and motions, the
season, the very temper of the elements, and all living
things, serve to gather the sentiments and thoughts of the
beholder into the sweetly running current of a joyous existence in the country. A dream, and a most delightful dream,
of hearts beating healthily upon nature's breast, was in the
poet's brain. To give his vision a palpable frame and
dwelling on the earth ; to pass this fine creation as a soul
into a body, that it might have a substantial, outward
being, for the delight of kindred minds, was the intention
of the artist in this present work.
It is not upon the mountain-pinnacle, nor on the broad
lake, nor the wide prairie, that the mind sinks most naturally down among the affections, but in the valley. Thought
subsides more easily in pleasing sensations when we ourselves sink into the embraces of nature. When her warm
arms are around us, and her soft apparel folds us in, then
is it that our childhood, our native loves and sympathies
more readily get uppermost, and our simple, innocent feelings have a freer and. more gladful play. The scene of the
pastoral is, therefore, happily laid in a vale; and that, in
the romantic bosom of the Peloponnesus. Up, far up a
gently-ascending vale, sight wanders westward, on and on,
and only pauses at the airy pass through which the last

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

255

ranks of one of the brilliant days of Arcady are marching
to other climes. Earth and atmosphere proclaim that we
are on the track of the king of day in a glorious progress.
Everything visible seems to have been trampled with a
golden magnificence, and rolled with the wheels of a glowing splendour. More than this—the vale is not yet clear
of the royal company. Tempted back, the silvery-footed
deserters return by thousands through boughs and shrubbery, over rocks and green-sward, to take their parting
tenderly of juicy verdure and timid shadows. Rising from
the valley, the eye sweeps northward over a high wide
track of hill and dale, half lost in soft and hazy shade, and
bounded by a range of castellated mountains, the first of
which, at the distance of a mile or more, receives, in mid-air,
the day's final salute full on its rocky pinnacles and towers.
Almost beneath their droppings, we pause at a Greek temple, " a thing of beauty," looking ever calmly down the
luxuriant summit of the eastern slope, across which flits a
wing of " living light/ 7 and at whose base a " river windeth at its own sweet will;" hasting forward under the
shades of a Grecian bridge to wed the mountain stream, still
nearer on the right, bursting on the senses freshly in a
white cataract up a broken chasm. Thus happily united,
with a silent company of shrubs and rocks to witness, they
glide along by the lilies and herbage, cooling the banks to
our very feet. On the left, barely twice the flight of an
arrow, spread the tops of a vast and ancient assemblage of
trees, in whose leafy chambers are held the first solemnities
of twilight, and beneath whose far-receding arches dewfooted evening will presently steal in for vespers. Over all
this, the fairest, most luxurious cradle in which Earth, humming her loving lullaby, rocks the new-born June, bends a
heaven which subdues an. exuberance of pearly light to

256

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

accord with its own serenity. Such, indeed, is the form,
the tint, and the disposal of an almost infinite variety of
things—such the feeling and expression of the entire whole,
into which that variety is melted, as to speak of life—life
full of mild sweet rest—full, at the same moment, of joyous,
innocent festivity. Earthly and ethereal melodies blend
into a tide of harmony, the flow and power of which bear
away the willing heart, though the intellect may not fix the
exact meaning of the language of the song. The spirit of
the vale flies in the sky ; the spirit of the sky floats in the
vale. Something sweet and evanescent as perfume has gone
up ; something pure, serene, and everlasting has come down.
The mellow hue of the clouds, sown through the ether, has
an answer in. the precious rays broken and strewn along the
land. There is an universal All hail; distance speaks to distance, mountain to mountain ; grove motions to grove, and
bough to bough. The presence of evening is everywhere—
felt rather than seen ; the presence of day is everywhere—
seen more than felt. Light skips, and darts, and kindles
among the moist still shades; moisture quenches, shadows
veil, and silence hushes, the live and restless light. Life and
gladness leap and bound about, but ever spring into the
embrace of shadowy repose. Night has sprung her invisible net, and caught the day's most imaginative moment.
Life, joy, and beauty struggle in the dreamy meshes. In a
word, so finely attuned is all nature to the spirit of a pastoral, as of itself to suggest happy passages of rural life.
Were there no breathing creature in view, we should unavoidably feel ourselves looking upon a land in which there
must be, at that instant, hundreds of sheep, shepherds, and
peasants, living, loving, and enjoying. To the pastoral
actually represented, the " whole visible scene " speaks with
perfect fitness, and expresses for it the completest sympa-

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

25T

thy. Every effect ministers an impulse and feeling in
exquisite accord with the sentiments and actions of the
persons who appear before us. Out of the remotest object
springs thought that flows in like blood, or darts like
nervous energy to give vividness and strength to the great
central thought, which, in its turn, is ever shedding over all
a moral radiance. And so, while the humanity, at the heart
of the picture, is nourished by its nature from every extreme,
its nature also receives spirit from its humanity. This
gives assurance that the work is a simple harmonious creation—the result of one act of the creative power; and
announces its maker, in the truest sense, both the Artist
and the Poet.
This might be illustrated by a slight process of reproduction. On the summit of a rocky hill beyond the temple,
rendered with exceeding spirit, a bit of pasture declines
into soft, misty shadow ; there sheep are stirring, busily
yet quietly stirring, on the now moistening grass : on the
swelling hillside below the temple, the fleecy creatures lie
down in their whiteness, bedded in yielding verdure and
bathed in sun—kindly promises of luscious rest. Quite
down on the right, at the junction of the streams, the skirt
of evening is palpably on the mingling waters ; there wade
in the full-fed cattle, drinking in sweet coldness, and breathing balm upon the dimply element. Eoused by the goatherd from some woody nook up the vale, a flock comes
trotting homeward to the fold. On that knoll of greensward across the river directly in our front, and within
hearing of a kid's cry, a drowsy rustic lies upon his back,
with a knot of goats ruminating beside him. Immersed in
a gush of warm sunshine, fancy sees him letting down his
lazy eyelids, and gathering felicity from all that steals in
through his other senses: zephyr wings him in the face;
17

258

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

sighs from the full-topped pine above him pour their gentle
troubles in his ears ; smites sharply the flitting of a quick
bird, and tarries the hum of late bees, dusting fragrant
smells from the flowery drapery of the brown trunk ; close
by are the breathing and ever-busy chewing of his fulluddered charge ; further off insect and river-murmurings,
warblings, lowings, and bleatings, music and voices. Steeped
in the quiet delight " of waking dreams/' happy fancies,
honeyed sensations, like his own kids, chase each other
round and round. Ever and anon, with eyes half open,
looking up through the feathery leafage, he spies, in the
same glance, theUofty plumes of the pine gleaming with
golden light, and soft fires in the ermine of the cloud, and
further still the blue sky ; " the soft blue sky melts into
his heart,—he feels the witchery of the soft blue sky."
And now come nearer. On the river-bank opposite, see
a woman finding pleasure less in the loveliness of things,
than in the freedom and sportiveness of her children.
Three run at will within her call, " and the babe leaps
up on his mother's arm." Three run according to choice,
and the impulse of their natures—the girl on the lap of
the blossomy bank, and the boys to the water. True to
the spirit in him, the elder lad dares the stream, and seeks
the shining lilies floating on the further side ; while the
younger, with a flower or two, and his impatience, waits
at the current's edge to share the handful of his brother. The heart of the picture, though, beats in the breast
of the great grove up to the left. One could search there
for memorials of the fortunate Tityrus, and listen for the
strains " of the dainty Ariel:"
" Merrily, merrily shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

There, upon elastic turf, pastoral life is handed over

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

259

to the care of one of its rosy seasons. " Whence come they?
—whither do they go ?"—are no thoughts of ours, any more
than they are thoughts of theirs. Ours is only what is theirs
—the melody and life, the sweetness, quietness and grace of
present enjoyment, irrespective of yesterday or to-morrow.
Cushioned on the velvet between the mossy roots " of the
huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree," and foremost of the
wood, sits a patriarch of the shepherds calmly musing,
fancy tells us, on the experience of age, and the hopes of
youth : at his feet, rests a loving swain with his gentle
shepherdess and dog, holding in a string a playful kid
decked with a necklace of flowers : a few steps further on,
a rustic leaning against a tree, plays upon a sylvan pipe,
and a damsel beats a tambour, to the sound of which
another, with a flowery wreath, " foots it featly here and
there :" still further in, and around an image of the presiding genius of the grove, a group of children bound,
half of them into view, in all the exuberance of youthful
merriment. Laughter and frolic, on tiptoe, and down upon
the grass, are the order—rather, the graceful disorder of
the moment. Of this upleaping, sparkling fountain of
innocence, the eye at length quietly takes leave, and glides
in over a carpet of living green and gold to the grove's
centre, where " shades high overarched embower :"
" Sober, steadfast, and demure,

*

*

*

*

*

*

With even step and musing gait,"

a solitary, half his years in the arms of memory, and half
in those of anticipation, feeds on the fond melancholy that
comes with loneliness and twilight. Thus childhood and
youth; manhood in the bright kindling of the affections ;
manhood in the paler fires of intellect; and old age atmosphered with mild serenity, all unite spontaneously, each

260

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

according to the laws of its nature, in giving one accordant
response to the genial influences of the place and moment.
The force of nature falls upon, and bounds on the soul's
elasticity, and opens up its kindly, salient springs. Gladness breathes in every sentiment, speaks in every action:
and all, health, motion, melody, repose, is one odourous
flowering of joy.
Regarding the picture as purely an idyl, all accessories,
which do not with nature contribute directly to its individuality, may seem to disturb the general harmony. In fact,
they do ; but designedly, and with the same effect as discords in music, giving it by the force of brief, and sudden
contrast, more character. They add to the might and
smoothness of the main stream of expression. The temple,
fair in its proportions, grand in its elevation, smoking
censers and solemnities, the bridge and horsemen, all suggest the state and the metropolis,—the faith, art, and science, power and luxury of Greece in palmy times; thus
serving to render the subject itself more definite—giving
greater distinctness to the country and its rustic peasantry
—bringing them out into clearer social and moral relief,
and with stronger effect, while at the same time they complete the symmetry, and enhance the general amenity of
the work as a whole.
I have hitherto spoken of the Dream of Arcadia as a
pastoral poem. If it be expressive of all that has been
maintained, and doubtless it is of much more, then is it a
true poem, a fine imaginative creation, " a picture rich and
rare," although in a mere artistic sense it might prove
defective. In this, however, it is confidently believed analysis will show that it excels preeminently. The more
carefully it is studied, the more will it be found to be true
to nature in the drawing and qualities of its forms, in its

THE DREAM OF ARCADIA.

261

composition and perspectives, in its colour, light and
shade ; facts which might be urged with respect to most of
Cole's greater works, and which should therefore render
every earnest critic careful how he finds fault before he
has given them, his most serious attention.

CHAPTER

XXVI.

Thoughts and occurrences: spring; the fields; his own works compared with
the old; discouragements; the ruined tower.—To Mr. Adams : Cole an
architect.—To Mr Durand : the critics.—Thoughts, &c. : the summer;
the landscape ; vine in the grove.—To Mr. Durand.—To Mr. Adams : designs for the state-house.—Thoughts, &c. ; excursion to Schoharie; to
High Peak.—To Dr. Ackerly ; home amusements.

May 19, 1838.—Spring has burst upon us. We have
waited long, and anxiously. The birds fill the air with
music, the fruit-trees are clothed in blossoms, and the fields
offer their grassy slopes, whose transparent, juicy green
tempt the eye to delightful repose. The grass, at this
season, is exceedingly beautiful in colour. Tender, though
strong—soft and melting, though intense—it possesses that
due proportion of shadow which softens the crudeness of
great masses of green without destroying its brilliancy;
and when sprinkled with the golden drops of the dandelion, and seen between the spectator and the sun, it
has the most charming effect of colour that nature possesses
in her wide and varied range. But, alas! the painter falls
far short in imitating it. He has not the materials, and
with all the skill in the world must fail.
When I remember the great works produced by the
masters, how paltry seem the productions of my own pencil;
how unpromising the prospect of ever producing pictures

THE RUTNEI) TOWER.

263

that shall delight, and improve posterity, and be regarded
with admiration and respect. Is it my own deficiency, or
the fault of the times and the society in which I live ? This
I know, I have the ambition, the desire and industry to do
as much as any man has done, the capacity I may not
have ; that, however, has not been fairly tried ; no sufficient
field has yet been opened to me. I do feel that I am not a
mere leaf-painter. I have higher conceptions than a mere
combination of inanimate, uninformed nature. But I am
out of place ; every thing around, except delightful nature
herself, conflicts with my feelings-: there are few persons of
real taste ; and no opportunity for the true artist to develop
his powers. The tide of utility sets against the fine arts.
May 22.—I am now engaged in painting a picture representing a ruined and solitary tower, standing on a craggy
promontory, laved by the unruffled ocean. Rocky islets rise
from the sea at various distances : the line of the horizon is
unbroken but by the tower. The spectator is supposed to
be looking east just after sunset: the moon is ascending
from the ocean like a silvery vapour ; around her are lofty
clouds still lighted by the sun ; and all are reflected in the
tranquil waters. On the summit of the cliff around the
ruin, and upon the grassy steeps below are sheep and goats,
and in the foreground, seated upon some fragments of the
ruin, is a lonely shepherd. He appears to be gazing
intently at a distant vessel, that lies becalmed on the deep.
Sea-birds are flying round the tower, and far off in the
dimness below. This picture will not be painted in the
most finished style. Still I think it will be poetic. There
is a stillness, a loneliness about it that may reach the
imagination. The mellow, subdued tone of twilight, the
silvery lustre of the moon, the glassy ocean—the mirror of

264

COLE AN ARCHITECT.

the scene—the ivy-mantled ruin, the distant ship, the solitary shepherd-boy, apparently in dreams of distant lands,
and forgetful of approaching night, and of his flocks, yet
straggling among the rocks, all these combined must surely,
if executed with ordinary skill, produce, in a mind capable
of feeling, a pleasing and poetic effect, a sentiment of tranquillity and solitude. This picture will probably remain
on my hands. It is not the kind of work to sell. It would
appear empty and vague to the multitude. Those who
purchase pictures are, many of them, like those who purchase merchandise : they want quantity, material—something
to show, something palpable—things not thoughts.
To MR. ADAMS.
MY DEAR SIR,—

*

CATSKILL, May 26th, 1838.
*
*
*

*

How vividly your letter and sketches recall to mind days
of " auld lang syne 1" I cannot say the reminiscence would
be agreeable, were it not accompanied by the recollection of
your friendship to the poverty-stricken wanderer: that
shines like a solitary star amid the darkness of the time.
Those days were indeed gloomy and overcast. Inexperienced, ignorant of the profession, I was constrained by
outrageous fortune to assume an appearance of knowledge
and skill I did not possess. I was next to miserable, and
nothing but a hope that could not be quenched sustained
-yy\ n

"5f

7T

W

W

7T

W

7T

I was much gratified to receive the paper containing the
advertisement to architects, and still more so to find your
name on the list of commissioners. I commend the choice,
and hope that the building to be erected will be an honour
to the state and to yourselves. Do you know I am something of an architect ?

THE CRITICS.

265

Our exhibition is now open,—the thin-skinned artist in
the field, to be hunted, torn, and worried by the mongrel
pack of critics that break forth " ravenous and keen " after
their year's fast. I grieve to find criticism so low as it is.
Fulsome praise, stupid presumption, and interested detraction make up the amount of newspaper criticism on the fine
arts. But enough of this. I will only add—if in any of
the papers you see my works extravagantly praised, do not
believe the critic : if you see them censured extravagantly, do
not believe the critic.
*
*
*
*
*
Cole was, indeed, as he modestly says above, " something
of an architect." Profound in all the science necessary to
an accomplished builder he was not. To be so he had
neither time nor occasion. But in all that raises architecture from a mere science to an art he was a very fine architect. A monument of his ability, as such, is the State House
of Ohio, now in process of erection. Although his design
did not obtain the first among the premiums offered, it was
at last adopted, slightly modified—so slightly, as not to
infringe its claim to originality. Its order is Grecian Doric,
embodying the simplicity and majesty peculiar to that style,
and preserving the unity of the Greek temple. When completed, it cannot fail to be pronounced, by competent
authority, one of the most perfect edifices for just proportion
and harmony of parts, on the continent.
To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, May 28fch, 1838.
MY DEAR DURAND,—I have just received your letter, and

it was welcome, although written by a monster with seven
heads and ten horns. I should not have the courage, were
I not horned and hoofed too. But I find myself among the

266

SUMMER.—THE LANDSCAPE.

cast-offs in public favour, as well as odious as a hangman. We
hatched a pretty brood, that's certain. The chickens begin to
crow before they are fairly out of the shell: some of them
make sad wry necks in the attempt, though. But courage, my
dear friend! Detraction, you know, always crawls at the
heels of merit. We know that, as hangmen, our motives
have been pure; and as artists, although advised (that is
sure) by some of the knowing ones to take lessons from
unlicked and favourite cubs, we know a B from a bull's foot;
and although transformed into quadrupeds, we will dance
after our own fashion. I believe, with all my weight of
woes, I shall have to set up as comforter. Ingham wrote
me a few days ago, fiery, though sad. *
*
*
Remember me to all our fellow-hangmen, in the hope that
we shall continue to hang together.
*
*
I remain yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

July 1.—All around is luxuriant, and full of life. The
birds are warbling on every bush and tree. Every tint of
green is displayed, every texture of foliage, from the deep
tones and dense leafage of the forest trees to the tender
transparency of the spreading vine. The meadows glisten,
and the grain waves in the wind. What inimitable beauty!
The longer I pursue my art, the more my experience, and the
more cultivated my eye becomes, the more impotent is my
skill to represent on canvass the ever-varying features of
nature.
*
*
*
*
*
July 22.—There is a climbing plant, attached to an oak
in our grove, that I have watched, year after year, and find
never getting larger or stronger. In spring, it puts forth a
few leaves and tendrils, but the winter kills them, and

267

CONVERSATIONAL.

the slender, woody stem remains without any increase of
size.
*
*
*
*
*
My fate resembles thine:
I toil to gain a sunnier realm of light
And excellence; waste, and pine
In the low shadow of this world of night.
The genial seasons sometimes bear me up,
Till Hope persuades, I ne'er again shall stoop;
But quickly comes the withering blast to blight
My rich and valued growth; and I remain
The same poor thing to bud, and fade again.
To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, Aug.

7th,

1838.

have received your note accompanying
the book of costumes and the canvass, for which I am greatly
indebted to you. The book is amusing ; but the costumes
are of no age or country; and I am sure that some of the
nobles who exhibited in them must have cut ludicrous
figures ; complete card kings, queens and knaves.
*
*
So Newburgh has taken your fancy. I want you to tell
me something more of its advantages. I know there is a
pleasing country about it, but I fear there is little rich forest
scenery near, and few fine isolated trceQ ; and, as for mountains, where are the Catskills ?
*
*
*
I have scarcely done anything since I saw you, although
I have worked day after day. I sometimes think I am
falling off—have forgotten almost all I know of painting.
*
*
*
This last day or two I have been
engaged in drawing on the canvass a sort of Giant Grumbo
Castle : it will be well if it does not turn into the Castle of
Giant Despair, myself his prisoner.
I remain yours, ever truly,
DEAR DURAND,—I

THOMAS COLE.

268

DESIGN FOR THE OHIO STATE HOUSE.

To MR. ADAMS.
CATSKILL, Sept. 10th,

M Y DEAR S I R , —

*

*

1838.

*

*

For the information you gave me concerning the State
House, I am much obliged : and, although my time has been
very much engaged in my regular profession, I have been
able to design a plan, the drawings of which are nearly
executed, though not by my hand—my other avocations
would not permit.
Polychromatic embellishment does not seem to have
affected you very favourably : and certainly it does knock
some of our old notions on the head. But there are very
slight grounds, in this polychromatic discovery, for the argument that our notions of beauty are conventional. But the
Greeks were not quite such barbarians as you seem to suppose. The sculptures on the metopes were not painted.
The ground was painted blue. The sculptures might have
been tinted, as the best modern sculptures are, to take away
the cold effect of the marble. The shafts of the columns
were not painted: such was the. case with several other
members. I believe the object in painting architecture was
to give value to form: colour was subordinate ; it was used
to aid, and not to usurp the place of form. The vestiges of
colour discovered on the temples at Athens, by their
arrangement, confirm me in this opinion ; and, unwilling as
I was to believe that the virgin marble could be improved
by paint, I am still more unwilling to believe that Phidias
and Ictinus were barbarians in taste. " But enough," you
say, " of polychrome; you are a painter, and must speak
well of paint; nothing like paint."
*
*
*
Yours very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

October 9,1838.—I do not know when I have enjoyed a

EXCURSION TO SCHOHARIE.

269

week more than I did the last. Feeling the want of fresh
air and exercise, I had determined to spend it in the midst
of the beautiful of nature. On Monday, in company with
Mr. George Griffin, Jr., I set out to visit the great cave of
Schoharie.
*
*
*
*
*
The cave is near the summit of a hill, and in the woods.
Its entrance is a mere hole, having no picturesque or
cavernous aspect. We descended by means of ladders,
perhaps one hundred and fifty feet, nearly perpendicularly,
and then came to a low and narrow passage, which
leads to a subterranean lake. Here we found a boat,
and were carried, one at a time, beyond the water by our
guide, who pushed the boat along with his hands. The
passage at first is extremely narrow, but, at a turn, widens,
and rises beyond the sight. The water is perfectly clear,
and the perpendicular walls of rock descend into it to unknown depths. There was something awful in being suspended in such an abyss. Landing, we climbed a steep
passage over tenacious clay, and came to a great chamber,
whose sides, in many parts, were not perceptible to us, when
standing in the centre, and whose roof, also, in places, was
extremely lofty. We explored its recesses, climbing over
hills of clay. There were several other chambers. *
*
Their decorations, the stalactites, have mostly been carried
away. Nothing is left' but the damp, dark walls of limestone, gloomy and silent but for the hissing of bats, which
hang from the roof like innumerable drops of black poison.
*
*
We ascended, much delighted with the golden
#
sunshine.
*
Returned to Catskill the same day.
The day following was spent in making arrangements for
an excursion to the highest of the Catskills, High Peak.
This excursion had been long projected, and talked about,
by myself and others, but had been delayed, from time to

270

EXCURSION TO HIGH PEAK.

time, until we began to think that High Peak, at which we
daily gazed, was in a region too elevated for our slow and
heavy feet. But my leisure permitting, or rather, making
my time suit my inclination, I determined to accomplish
the excursion, and endeavoured to muster our original
party, and succeeded, with the exception of the gentlemen,
who were recreant. The ladies being of bold spirit, I
determined to undertake the journey, though no other man
should accompany us. Fortunately, we were not ^educed
to this strait. Two gentlemen, Mr. Theodore L. Prevost,
and Mr. Lewis Prevost, volunteered to be of the party.
3k

£fe

£fe

3k

3k

3k

3k

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The day was such a one as we should have c h o s e n one of our heavenly autumnal days, when the sun shines
blandly through a clear and cloudless sky, and the crystal
atmosphere casts a veil of beauty over the landscape, rich
with the loveliest tints. Sundry baskets, containing many
good things, provided by the ladies, were placed in the
wagons, giving weighty promise that we should not die of
famine among the mountains. We started with high anticipations, and congratulating one another on the weather.
•* * * j t w a s resolved that we should sleep, the next
night, on High Peak. It would be tedious, perhaps, to
describe, although anything but tedious was the ride to
the Clove. The party was in the highest spirits. If there
was not much wit among us, there was abundance of good
nature, which is far better. We entered the fine pass,
where, on both hands, the mountains rise thousands of feet.
The sun shone with golden splendour, and the huge precipices, above the village of Palensville, frowned over the
valley like towers and battlements of Cyclopean structure.
At the village, our party got out to walk up the steep road.
Scattered in groups, we went loitering along, sometimes

HOME AMUSEMENTS.

271

stopping to pick a flower or a pebble, and to gaze upon the
precipices above us, or into the gulf below, where flows the
Caterskill with many a rush and bound, as if it were making
merry with its native rocks, before it left them for the quiet
windings of the lower country. We crossed a bridge,
which spans the stream under impending cliffs. This is
a scene truly picturesque. * * But we could not linger
to gaze upon this. We were hungry, and the wagons
having overtaken us, it was proposed that we should dine
at a charming waterfall close by. * * * We ascended,
next day, and traversed some beautiful realms of moss, where
the sun, shining in gleams through the tall, dark spruce
forest, upon the green, velvety carpet, was extremely fine.
It reminded me of the, interior of some vast Gothic pile,
where the sun comes through narrow windows in slender
streams, and lights whatever it strikes with a refulgence
almost supernatural amid the gloomy shadows around.
There was some hard clambering before we reached the
summit; but the ladies did bravely. We remained all
night comfortably, and descended next morning in health
and spirits.
To DR. ACKERLY.
CATSKILL, NOV. 2d,

1838.

My DEAR GEORGE,—I received yours a few days since,
and was much gratified in your opinion of the poem. * *
As to ambition, this poem is not the thing with which my
ambition wings itself. * * * Tell Sarah we have had a
party. I wished for her to help me get up a little exhibition of shadows, something in the manner of " The ducks
and the geese they do swim over." The thing took wonderfully. It was performed in the pantry. Maria was the
green-room waiter and scene-shifter. By means of pasteboard pasted on my face, I represented several char-

2T2

HOME AMUSEMENTS.

acters—Sam Weller, Isaac of York, Shylock, Dante, an Old
Woman, Don Quixote, &c. Sarah would have enjoyed
it, I am sure, indeed all of you, Ann, and Emma. But we
will try it when I come down, if all is well. I have
finished the picture, and commenced another, and think
of coming down in a fortnight from this.
I remain, your affectionate brother,
THOMAS COLE*

CHAPTER

XXVII.

Thoughts and occurrences : * winter in the city; commission for the Voyage
of Life ; the season.—To Mr. Adams : Ohio State-house.—To Mrs. Cole :
Canandaigua.—Genesee Waterfall.—To Mr. Ward : the Voyage of Life.—
Thoughts, &c.: death of Mr. Ward.—To Mr. Durand: a new paintingroom.—Thoughts, &c.: religious musings.

MARCH 24, 1839.—Again in the country in sight of the
mountains, far from the distracting turmoil of city life. * *
Our sojourn in New York was neither pleasant nor profitable. We were indisposed part of the time, and painting
seemed almost impossible. I hardly supposed myself to be
such a creature of circumstances. I had two paintingrooms, in the course of the winter. The first in the University, which I found too cold, the second in the house
where we boarded. But in neither could I paint, warm or
cold. I commenced several pictures, but did not finish a
single one.
*
*
*
*
*
.
I have received a noble commission from Mr. Samuel
Ward, to paint a series of pictures, the plan of which I
conceived several years since, entitled, The Voyage of Life.
I sincerely hope that I shall be able to execute the work in
a manner worthy of Mr. Ward's liberality, and honourable
to myself. The subject is a'h allegorical one, but perfectly
intelligible, and, I think, capable of making a strong moral
and religious impression.
*
*
*
18

274

PLAN FOR THE STATE-HOUSE ADOPTED.

May 19.—How magical the change wrought by the hand
of nature in a fe# days! Tender green clothes the landscape, and melts the heart. How aptly has nature chosen
her colours!—the soft—the fresh—the healing. The cold,
white snows are gone : the blue shadows and the gray
clouds have given place to hues, to tints and tones,
tempered with warmth, and glowing with freshness and
vitality. The murmur of gentle winds,—most gentle because the harsh branches and rocks are mantled with delicate yielding foliage, herbs and flowers,—the hum of
bees, the warbling of birds, all unite in a strain sweeter and
more harmonious than ever was struck by human hands.
But the season passes as I write. A few days only comprise the spring. Regrets that it will so soon pass invade
the actual enjoyment.
*
*
*
*
To MR. ADAMS.
CATSKILL, July 29th, 1839.
MY DEAR SIR,—I have a thousand apologies for not having replied to your letter of the 21st of June; but I will
only offer one—I have been absent from'home several
weeks, on a tour to the White Mountains of New Hampshire.
On the subject of the state-house, I have little to say. I
find that my plan is the one adopted, with slight modifications. The plan of advancing a central portico from the
main building, you know, is mine. That that portico should
be a copy of part of the Parthenon never entered my
thoughts. You know my opinions with respect to the
Pediment, and I believe you are agreed with me on that
point; but I suppose your fellow-labourers were determined to have one.
*
• *
*
*
We often think about you, and talk about you, and should

CANANDAIGUA.

275

like to have you nearer to us. I am as usual engaged in
painting, and I hope your visit to these parts will set your
easel up again. When you forward Professor Silliman's
minerals, you will perhaps favour me with a line.
*
*
Write to me soon, and tell me how the state-house grows,
but much more about yourself.
I remain yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

To MRS. COLE.
CANANDAIGUA, August 3d, 1839.

will see by the date where I now
am, although you will perceive that it is not my hand-writing. The fact is, I got hold of a piece of paper .on which
somebody else had commenced.
*
*
We have travelled through a great deal of very beautiful
agricultural country : but after all, there are no Catskill
Mountains.
*
*
We spent a part of the evening at Mr. G-——s, a Scotch
gentleman, who has here really a palace, marble statues, pictures, a beautiful garden, and the like. I wish you could see
it. There is nothing in or about New York to be compared
with it. From the top of the house there is a fine panoramic view—gentle hills crowned with grain, dark green
woods, and the beautiful Canandaigua Lake.
To-morrow we shall proceed to Geneseo. * * *
Yours, affectionately,
MY DEAR MARIA,

YOU

THOMAS COLE.

He was on his way to the Genesee river for the purpose
of studying, and taking sketches of its very beautiful and
picturesque scenery. The Yoyage of Life, which he was
now mentally composing, exhibits here and there, in the
sweet windings of its stream, in its alternately rapid and

276

WATERFALL ON THE GENESEE.

placid current, in the fine verdure of its banks and groves,
and in its delightful atmospheric effects, the influence upon
his mind and feelings of this pleasant and refreshing excursion.
The picture of a cascade, on the upper waters of the
Genesee, was painted from a sketch made at the time, n o |
one of his most finished landscapes, perhaps, but translating
the very spirit of nature, when she delights and inspires in
a quiet way. It cools and refreshes in its most luminous
parts. A voice seems to pervade its stillness. The repose
of its woods is yet breezy and life-like. Its lofty blue sky
possesses that marvellous quality of elasticity and moisture,
for which Cole stands almost, if not entirely alone, among
both ancient and modern landscape painters.
To MR. WARD:

From my long silence on the subject of your pictures, I
hope you will not infer that I have allowed so many months
to pass without making some progress towards their completion. I assure you they have occupied too much of my
mind to permit me to be idly deferring their execution. In
fact, it has been difficult for me to overcome my impatience
to commence the pictures before I had studied them with
that care which I know to be necessary to ensure the production of a work of high excellence. The poetical conception of a subject may not be difficult, for it is spontaneous ;
but to imagine that which is to be embodied in light, and
shadow, and colour,—that which is strictly pictorial —is an
accumulative work of the mind.
*
*
*
During the summer, I have been engaged in making
studies of the subject, introducing and arranging in them
all the necessary objects, determining the chiaroscuro, &c,
so that when I have the large canvasses before me, I shall

DEATH OF MR. WARD.—A NEW PAINTING-ROOM.

277

be enabled to proceed with certainty and facility. I have
made some progress on the first picture, which is six feet
six inches long.
*
#
*
*
I am yours, very respectfully,
THOMAS COLE.

November.—Mr. Ward, who gave me the liberal commission for the Yoyage of Life, is dead. There would seem
almost a fatality in these commissions. Mr. Eeed died
without seeing his series completed. Mr. Ward died soon
after his was commenced.
*
*
*
To MR. DURAND.
CATSKILL, Dec. 18th, 1839.
M Y DEAR DURAND,—Being ensconced for the winter in

sight of the grayheaded mountains, and feeling as though
the river ought to close soon, and consequently, as though
my friends in New York were removed one thousand miles
further off, I begin to think I should like to commence a
correspondence with you, in order that the chain which
binds us may not be broken by stress of time and distance,
and in the hope that, through you, I shall, from time to
time, hear a little news from the world of art. *
*
Do you know that I have got into a new painting-room ?
Mr. Thompson has lately erected a sort of store-house, and
has let me have part of it for a temporary painting-room.
It answers pretty well—is somewhat larger than my old
one, and being removed from the noise and bustle of the
house, is really charming. What I shall be able to produce
in it heaven knows. The walls are of unplastered brick,
with the beams and timbers seen on every hand : not a bad
colour this pale brick and mortar. I am engaged upon my
great series.
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

278

RELIGIOUS MUSINGS.

December 26th.—The latest footsteps of the year are now
being impressed on the unstable, sandy beach of time—that
shore which skirts the ocean of eternity. It is a narrow
shore that man treads. Before him spread thick mists and
darkness : and, ever and anon, we hear the plunge of some
one who has fallen into the deep. But let us not fear. It
is the corporeal part of man that sinks. The soul soars
over that vast sea, and finds a fitter dwelling place.
Why do ye count your little months, your years,
Or e'en your ages ? They are nought: they are
The measure of your feeble breath, your fears.
Ye are as misers, hoarding up -with care
A glittering mass, a cold insensate dust,
That ne'er to spirit can be changed: nor gold,
Nor years are chattels of the soul; they rust,
Or perish : her possession is the trust
In God ; the love which tongue hath never told;
And immortality which death shall soon unfold.

CHAPTER

XXVIII.

Thoughts and occurrences : the new year; to his son.—To Mr. Ver Bryck :
first picture of the Voyage of Life.—Thoughts, &c. : birth-day. To Mr.
Adams: Daguerreotype.—To the Rev. Mr. Phillips: of the Voyage of
Life.—To Mr. Durand : the Architect's Dream.—Thoughts, &c. : spirit
of the Gothic artists.—Description of the Voyage of Life.—Bryant's
remarks on the series.—Spiritual meaning of his pictures.

JANUARY 1, 1840.—How strange appear the characters
in which we write the title of the new year ! What mingled emotions of pain and pleasure arise in contemplating them. They announce that the old year is past, with
all its good and evil, its hopes and fears, its cares and enjoyments,—that another year enters upon the stage of time.
With veiled face and hidden form it comes up from eternity,
—like the cloud of Elijah, no bigger than the hand. But
who can foretell whether it bear in its bosom dark storms,
or refreshing rains and gentle airs? God grant, that to me
and mine it bring no great evil! I cannot hope for all good,
for life is a mingled tissue. This day is one that makes a
deep impression on my mind : it is the first of the new
year ; it is the birth-day of our son Theodore.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Thy name, too, hath a meaning,—Theodore—
The gift of God ; that I would ne'er forget.
And may the Giver on the gift outpour
His choicest blessings, and before thee set

280

FIRST PICTURE OF THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.
His shield : so, in the world's tumultuous roar,
Thou shalt be strengthen'd, and sin's arrows fall
Innocuous—thy virtue conquering all.
If 'tis thy lot to live through many years,
And this, the utterance of a parent's love,
Shall meet thy gaze, think, think what anxious fears,
What hopes thy mother's breast and mine did move,
As, watching thee with tenderness and tears,
We looked into the future, knowing well
That sin and sorrow in the world do dwell.
And may the love, which now I would express,
Bring to thine eyes a tear,—strength to thy mind
To battle with temptation—onward press
In virtue's path, e'en for our sake, and find,
In our fond love, a cause for lovingness ;
And prove, my son, when earth's dark vale is trod,
Thou wert, indeed, the very gift of God.

To C. L. VER BRYCK, ESQ.
CATSKILL, Jan.

10th,

1840.

MY DEAR SIR,—* * * Although we are somewhat
nearer the north pole than you, we manage, nevertheless, to
keep pretty comfortable ; at least, we are not so completely
frozen through as to prevent a warm wish, now and then,
for our distant friends, from growing in our hearts.
The mountains have on their wintry garb, but they are
exceedingly beautiful, and I am sure you would be delighted
to see them. Our sunrises and sunsets have been exquisite
this season, as seen from the windows of our warm rooms.
Don't you wish to take a peep ?
I am indebted to you for the extract from Mr. Huntington's letter : and I cannot but feel gratified, as the remarks
come from one whose opinion I value highly. He has
expressed himself elegantly, and I shall be happy if, when

281

THE ANGEl/S PACE.

he sees my pictures again, he will not cease to esteem them
as he does now.
You ask me how the Voyage of Life is progressing. I
can hardly say. I think the first picture is about finished,
that is, will be in three or four days. But it generally
happens that when I have just finished, I have not half
done. Little things that appear easy, and of a few minutes
only, sometimes, by some unaccountable infelicity, if I may
use such a word, require days. The Angel's face has given
me a great deal of trouble. Angels7 visits to me are really
so few and far between that I forget their features. Sometimes the expression would be sulky, sometimes cross, and
sometimes silly. I have, at length, finished one which I
suppose will be found a compound of all the expressions of
which I have spoken. But I will not disparage myself. I
hope the picture is the most complete one I have ever
painted. I should be happy to have you see it. I want
other eyes : mine are accustomed to the picture. * * *
We look forward to next summer with the pleasing
expectation of seeing you here. * * * Pray give my
best regards to Mr. Bryant, when you see him, and tell him,
that when I look at the mountains, I often think of him.
jd,
•Tr

.ifc,
-jv*

-it^5*

Jfc
-ar

Yours, very truly,
February 1,1840.—My
these years!—subtracted
sum, and thrown into the
but not enjoyed, except
virtuous actions.

^
*&

.At.
*Jv*

4fc
*Jv*

THOMAS COLE.

birth-day. How they accumulate,
one by one from the appointed
past—things that may be counted,
they leave the remembrance of

To MR. ADAMS.
CATSKILL, February 26th, 1840.
MY DEAR SIR,—*
* * With respect to the Voyage
of Life—the fictitious one is going on slowly, but the real

282

THE DAGUERREOTYPE.

one rapidly. I suppose you have read a great deal about
the Daguerreotype. If you believe everything the newspapers say, (which, by-the-by, would require an enormous
bump of marvellousness,) you would be led to suppose that
the poor craft of painting was knocked in the head by this
new machinery for making Nature take her own likeness,
and we nothing to do but to give up the ghost. * * *
But I was saying something about Daguerreotype matters
—this the conclusion : that the art of painting is a creative,
as well as an imitative art, and is in no danger of being
superseded by any mechanical contrivance. " W h a t fine
chisel did ever yet cut breath ?"
*
*
*
You desired me to write when I had nothing to say ; so
I have filled the sheet with nothing. If you find it difficult
to comprehend, light your cigar with i t ; it will then
become smoke, which is a little heavier than nothing.
Write soon.
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

To REV. J. F. PHILLIPS.
CATSKILL, March 21st, 1840.

MY DEAR SIR,—I am obliged to you exceedingly for the

kind criticism with which I have been favoured on the
subject of the direction of the stream in my pictures of
The Voyage of Life. And while I cannot perceive the
weight of your objection, I Qwe it to your kindness to give
my reasons for differing from you.
In the first place, the subject is a poetical one, and,
of course, poetic reasons are valid. There are many windings in the stream of life, and on this idea I have proceeded. Its course towards the Ocean of Eternity we all
know to be certain, but not direct. Each picture I have
wished to make a sort of antithesis to the other, thereby
the more fully to illustrate the changeable tenor of our

EXPLANATORY OF THE SERIES.

283

mortal existence. I am convinced the opinion of spectators
will be various on the subject of the direction of the stream.
This I have gathered from remarks already made. That
which you have thought might be a defect, has been considered a beauty.
But I may be permitted to defend my work on stronger
ground than this : I mean on that of pictorial necessity.
This the painter must consider equally with poetical propriety : the circumstances of colour, form, and chiaroscuro,
have to be held in view : he is not aiming merely to express
a poetic thought, but to express it picturesquely. Now to
apply this to my subject. In order to give the same direction to the stream in each picture, I should be constrained
to have the same view of the boat and figure or figures—
nearly the same all through the several parts of the work :
this would be monotonous, and would strike the beholder
as having arisen either from incompetency to execute, or
from poverty of invention, and that pleasure which arises
from novelty would entirely be lost.
I will say a few words explanatory of my conception of
the subject, from which, perhaps, you may be enabled to
gather my reasons for executing it as I have.
The first picture represents infancy. The infant lives in
the present. It neither looks back into the past, nor forward into the future. It enjoys the strange world into
which it has come ; but its views and capacities are limited to a very small circle.
The second picture represents yout'ii on the verge of
manhood. In that season of life all is hope and expectation. The world spreads out before us a wide paradise.
Visions of happiness and glory rise in the warm imagination.
In the first, therefore, I have placed the infant in the alle-

284

EXPLANATORY OF THE SERIES.

gorical scene where the objects upon which it gazes are all
near. There are flowery banks, but not wide-spreading
landscapes to meet its feeble vision. By painting the cavern in the back-ground of the picture, and not very far
from the spectator, and by bringing the stream directly
towards him, I have confined the scene as much as I knew
how, with due regard to poetical effect.
In the second, I have endeavoured to represent the scene
extensive, luxuriant and magnificent. The stream flows
from the beholder, stretching far away directly towards a
visionary pile of architecture, suspended in the air over
the distant horizon. Here you will perceive the pictorial
necessity of which I have spoken. A picture is not like a
scene in nature, where the eye can embrace the whole circle
of the horizon, but is bounded like a view taken through a
window. The greatest scope of vision is from the foreground to the extreme distance. Now, if the river had
flowed in any other direction than the one I have chosen,
how could the aerial architecture have been introduced so
as to have been placed in full view of the youthful voyager ?
it must have been imagined as existing out of the picture,
which would be a tax on the imagination of the spectator,
that few would be willing to pay.
In the third, the stream will flow across the picture, for
I do not require in it an extensive view.
In the last, the stream is to be seen mingling with the
great Ocean of Eternity.
*
*
*•
I have written these remarks hastily, and perhaps unintelligibly ; but you will be kind enough to make every
excuse.
I am, yours, very respectfully,
THOMAS COLE.

285

THE ARCHITECT^ BREAM.
To MR. DURAND.

CATSKILL, May 26th, 1840.

MY DEAR DlJRAND,—

*

•
•

*

*

Do you know I have received a letter from
, telling
me that neither he nor his friends like the picture I have
painted for him, and desiring—expecting me to paint another in place of it, composed of " rich and various landscape,
history, architecture of' different styles and ages, $*c, (these
are his words) or ancient or modern Athens ?" His letter is interlarded with fulsome panegyric on my excellence in such pictures : " My friend Cole is celebrated for
painting rich landscapes with architecture, history, &c,
intermixed," You and I painting modern and ancient
Athens would, with " the aid of prints, &c, have made pictures full of poetry, full of reality, and full of the most
intense interest to everybody of literary character who
should behold them"—and full of trumpery, if they had
resembled this twaddling. After having painted him a picture as near as I could accommodate my pictorial ideas to
his prosaic voluminousness,—a picture of immense labour, at
a much lower price than I have painted pictures of the same
amount of work for several years past—he expects me again
to spend weeks and weeks in pursuit of the uncertain
shadow of his approbation. I will not do i t ; and I have
written to him, saying that I would rather give him his
books back, and consider the commission as null. The picture was painted for him—is his. I am sure you would
commend the course I have taken, if you knew all the circumstances. On this subject I will say no more. But
beware how you paint for the same patron. *
*
*
I remain yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

The work of which Cole speaks in the foregoing, and

286

THE ARCHITECT'S BREAM.

which was exhibited the same spring in the National
Academy of Design, was the Architect's Dream, a large picture painted for an architect: as Bryant expresses it, " an
assemblage of structures, Egyptian, Grecian, Gothic, Moorish, such as might present itself to the imagination of one
who had fallen asleep after reading a work on the different
styles of architecture."
However much the design of the picture failed to satisfy,
it might, at least, have pleased by its airy, rosy, bright distance over the glassy waters, and its sky—one of those
great breadths of almost cloudless, yielding blue, for which
Cole is remarkable, glowing with the rich warmth of an
Italian sunset.
August 3, 1840.—
*
*
*
*
This abnegation of themselves, this ^^egotistical spirit
possessed by the Gothic artists, so foreign to our own times,
has been, I believe, the true source of excellence in the fine
arts, in every age ; and as there has been more or less of that
chaste devotion, so have the arts risen or sunk. In the art
of Greece this lofty feeling can also be traced : parts, for
instance, of the Parthenon, which the Athenian multitude
never gazed upon, ruin has revealed to modern eyes,
sculptured into forms as elaborate and exquisite as any of
the parts most exposed ; the work was to Minerva, and not
to man. Every great artist works to God, forgetful of the
caprices, the prejudices, and even the desires of men : he
labours to gratify his soul's devotion to the beautiful and
true which are centred in God.
When artists descend to labour merely as a means of obtaining reputation and emolument, they abandon the path
that leads to the highest excellence, and are found forever
grovelling with the sordid spirits of this world.

DESCRIPTION OF THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

287

Late in the autumn, Cole gave his second great series to
the public. The following is a popular description of it by
himself:
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.
An Allegorical Series. The subject is comprised in Four Pictures. The
first represents the period of Childhood; the second, Youth; the third, Manhood ; the fourth, Old Age.

1. CHILDHOOD.—A stream is seen issuing from a deep cavern, in
the side of a craggy and precipitous mountain, whose summit is
hidden in clouds. From out the cave glides a Boat, whose golden
prow and sides are sculptured intofiguresof the Hours. Steered by
an Angelic Form, and laden with buds and flowers, it bears a
laughing Infant, the Yoyager, whose varied course the Artist has
attempted to delineate. On either hand, the banks of the stream
are clothed in luxuriant herbage and flowers. The rising sun
bathes the mountains and flowery banks with rosy light.
The dark cavern is emblematic of our earthly origin, and the
mysterious Past. The Boat, composed of figures of the Hours,
images the thought, that we are borne on the hours down the Stream
of Life. The Boat identifies the subject in each picture. The
rosy light of the morning, the luxuriant flowers and plants, are
emblems of the joyousness of early life. The close banks, and the
limited scope of the scene, indicate the narrow experience of Childhood, and the nature of its pleasures and desires. The Egyptian
Lotus, in the foreground of the picture, is symbolical of human
Life. Joyousness and wonder are the characteristic emotions of
childhood.
2. YOUTH.—The stream now pursues its course through a landscape of wider scope, and more diversified beauty. Trees of rich
growth overshadow its banks, and verdant hills form the base of
lofty mountains. The Infant of the former scene is become a
Youth, on the verge of Manhood. He is now alone in the Boat,
and takes the helm himself, and, in an attitude of confidence and

288

DESCRIPTION OF THE VOYAGE OP LIFE.

eager expectation, gazes on a cloudy pile of Architecture, an airbuilt Castle, that rises dome above dome in the far-off blue sky.
The Guardian Spirit stands upon the bank of the stream, and,
with serious, yet benignant countenance, seems to be bidding
the impetuous Yoyager God speed. The beautiful stream flows
for a distance, directly toward the aeriel palace; but at length
makes a sudden turn, and is seen in glimpses beneath the trees,
until it at last descends with rapid current into a rocky ravine,
where the Yoyager will be found in the next picture. Over the
remote hills, which seem to intercept the stream, and turn it from
its hitherto direct course, a path is dimly seen, tending directly
toward that cloudy Fabric, which is the object and desire of the
Yoyager.
The scenery of the picture—its clear stream, its lofty trees, its
towering mountains, its unbounded distance, and transparent atmosphere—figure forth the romantic beauty of youthful imaginings,
when the mind elevates the Mean and Common into the Magnificent, before experience teaches what is the Real. The gorgeous
cloud-built palace, whose glorious domes seem yet but half revealed to the eye, growing more and more lofty as we gaze, is
emblematic of the day-dreams of youth, its aspirations after glory
and fame ; and the dimly-seen path would intimate that Youth, in
its impetuous career, is forgetful that it is embarked on the Stream
of Life, and that its current sweeps along with resistless force, and
increases in swiftness, as it descends toward the great ocean of
Eternity.
3. MANHOOD.—Storm and cloud enshroud a rugged and dreary
landscape. Bare, impending precipices rise in the lurid light. The
swollen stream rushes furiously down a dark ravine, whirling and
foaming in its wild career, and speeding toward the Ocean, which
is dimly seen through the mist and falling rain. The boat is there
plunging amid the turbulent waters. The Yoyager is now a man
of middle age : the helm of the boat is gone, and he looks imploringly toward heaven, as if heaven's aid alone could save him

DESCRIPTION OF THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

289

from the perils that surround him. The Guardian Spirit calmly sits
in the clouds, watching, with an air of solicitude, the affrighted
Yoyager : Demon forms are hovering in the air.
Trouble is characteristic of the period of Manhood. In childhood, there is no carking care : in youth, no despairing thought.
It is only when experience has taught us the realities of the world,
that we lift from our eyes the golden veil of early life; that we feel
deep and abiding sorrow : and in the Picture, the gloomy, eclipselike tone, the conflicting elements, the trees riven by tempest, are
the allegory ; and the Ocean, dimly seen, figures the end of life,
which the Yoyager is now approaching. The demon forms are
Suicide, Intemperance and Murder; which are the temptations that
beset men in their direst trouble. The upward and imploring look
of the Yoyager shows his dependence on a Superior Power; and
that faith saves him from the destruction that seems inevitable.
4. OLD AGE.—Portentous clouds are brooding over a vast and
midnight Ocean. A few barren rocks are seen through the gloom
—the last shores of the world. These form the mouth of the river;
and the Boat, shattered by storms, its figures of the Hours broken
and drooping, is seen gliding over the deep waters. Directed by
the Guardian Spirit, who thus far has accompanied him unseen, the
Yoyager, now an old man, looks upward to an opening in the
clouds, from whence a glorious light bursts forth ; and angels are
seen descending the cloudy steps, as if to welcome him to the
Haven of Immortal Life.
The stream of life has now reached the Ocean to which all life
is tending. The world to Old Age is destitute of interest. There is
no longer any green thing upon it. The broken and drooping figures
of the Boat show that time is nearly ended. The chains of corporeal existence are falling away ; and already the mind has glimpses
of Immortal Life. The angelic Being, of whose presence, until now,
the Yoyager has been unconscious, is revealed to him ; and, with a
countenance beaming with joy, shows to his wondering gaze scenes
such as the eye of mortal man has never beheld.
19

290

BRYANT'S REMARKS ON THE SERIES.

Bryant, in his Oration, calls the Voyage of Life " of
simpler and less elaborate design than the Course of Empire, l)ut more purely imaginative. The conception of the
series is a perfect poem. The child, under the care of its
guardian angel, in a boat heaped with buds and flowers,
floating down a stream which issues from the shadowy
cavern of the past, and flows between banks bright with
flowers and the beams qi the rising sun; the youth, with
hope in his gesture and aspect, taking command of the helm,
while his winged guardian watches him anxiously from the
shore ; the mature man, hurried onward by the perilous
rapids and eddies of the river ; the aged navigator, who
has reached, in his frail and now idle bark, the mouth of the
stream, and is just entering the great ocean which lies before
him in mysterious shadow ; set before us the different stages
of human life under images of which every beholder admits
the beauty and deep significance. The second of this
series, with the rich luxuriance of its foreground, its pleasant
declivities in the distance, and its gorgeous but shadowy
structures in the piled clouds, is one of the most popular
of Cole's composition."
I t was Cole's aim to give, in all his landscapes, that
spiritual meaning which he himself drew from nature,
and to teach, when the subject admitted of it, a strong
moral lesson. How well he succeeded in this, in the
Voyage of Life, an incident may serve to illustrate. The
distinguished engraver* of the Second of the Series,
called Youth, going early one morning into the exhibition
room, found there a single person only, a middle-aged man,
seemingly lost in deep thought before those pictures of
Cole. " Sir/' said he, at length, addressing the artist,
* Mr. Smilie.

SPIRITUAL MEANING OF HIS PICTURES.

291

who had been noticing his face, a striking one, with a
peculiarly melancholy air, " l a m a stranger in this city,
and in great trouble of mind. But the sight of these pictures has done me great good. They have given me
comfort. I go away from this place quieted, and much
strengthened to do my duty."

CHAPTER

XXIX.

Thoughts and Occurrences: Birth-day.—To Mr. Adams : the season.—
Thoughts, &c: Beauty of summer; Canoe Lake; flowers; a complaint.—Determination to re-visit Europe.—Remarks on the duplicate
series of the Voyage of Life painted at Borne.—To Mrs. Cole: eve of
embarkation.

JANUARY

31,1841.—

This day has closed another of my years.

*

*

*

*

*

*

I know that there have mingled in the tide
The light, the dark, the painful and the glad.
But as I gaze into the future's depths,
And strive to learn what yet remains of life,
Whether of seasons, months or moments, Oh,
5
T is blank, mysterious, and my mortal ken
Is lost in gloom. Am I disconsolate
That all is dark ? 0 God forbid ! for though
Not yet is granted prescience to man,
Him to sustain is given immortal hope
Who gave my being knows the time to take.
That time, 0 Lord, I wait. Grant that the hour,
Whene'er it come, may find my trust in Thee.
To MR. ADAMS
CATSKILL, April 8, 1841.

exhibition will open in a few weeks.
I wish I could meet you there. The mountains are now
covered with snow; and our spring is a sort of wrestling
match between bitter February and sour April. Between
MY DEAR SIR,—The

THE BEAUTY OF SUMMER.

293

the two, a green thing is not allowed to appear, except
the evergreens, and they are black and blue and brown
from the bruises they have received in the conflict. 0 for
a single blade of grass ! if it were only one inch in length;
it would cheer my drooping spirits. But this you will call
" a green and yellow melancholy;" do so ; but pray that I
may not be bilious.
I sent you my printed description of The Yoyage of Life.
I hope you were pleased with the plan of the subject. I t
would gratify me if you would come and see the pictures.
Do come on. I have not built my house yet; but you know
we are not roofless. Hard times, and an adage which a
knowing friend of mine uttered—" fools build houses and
wise men live in them "—entered my soul like a two edged
sword; so I am playing Fabius, and hope to conquer by
delay. Do come. Although the new house is not built, the
old one is here, and we can take our " cakes and ale,"
though we are grown prudent; and when we are filled, we
can go and see the site of the new house, and say how magnificent it is to be: that you know is not expensive. I really
begin to think these kind of enjoyments are about as substantial as any others, except # * # but come, and I
will tell you the rest.
Yours &c.
THOMAS COLE.

May 30, 1841.—Summer is glowing around us. The
blossoms cover the paths like snow, and the woods are
clothed in green. A sigh escapes us that the footsteps of
spring are so fleet. Let us rejoice in the beauty around us,
thanking Almighty God that He has given us this glorious
season, and hearts capable of feeling the fulness of its
beauty. We are wakened in the morning by the song of

294

CANOE LAKE.

birds; we open our eyes upon the green fields; and the
leaves, tender and playful as children, cover the gray arms
of the oak and chestnuts of our grove ; sweet smells salute
lis, and we breathe with delight the fresh and fragrant air.
It is indeed a beautiful world. 0, that the cares, the turmoil, and the sin of the world were not! The children are
happy in these days. There is no keeping them within
doors. It would be a sin to do so.
July 17.—This afternoon we made an excursion to Canoe
Lake, about three miles off. We found the valley, in which
the lake sometimes is,
*
*
*
covered with
weeds and flowers. *
*
*
It is a wild secluded
scene ; and when the water is there, which at times stands
to the depth of thirty feet, it is exceedingly beautiful.
*
*
*
*
In returning, I remarked that,
although American scenery was often so fine, we feel the
want of associations such as cling to scenes in the old
world. Simple nature is not quite sufficient. We want
human interest, incident and action, to render the effect
of landscape complete.
•Jf

*

-Jfr

•&

*

4fr

Blue flowers are very fine in the bright sun-light, while
in the shade they are of little value. Orange-coloured
or red flowers, on the contrary, are disagreeable in the
glaring sun. * * They are most beautiful in the shade,
which they illuminate with a pleasant glow. In gardening,
I would place blue flowers in the light, perhaps intermingled with pink and delicately tinted ones ; in the shade,
scarlet and orange; in places intermediate, crimson and
rich purple flowers.
I am not the painter I should have been had there been a
higher taste. Instead of working according to the dictates
of feeling and imagination, I have painted to please others

A COMPLAINT.

295

in order to exist. Had fortune favoured me a little more
than she has, even in spite of the taste of the age, and the
country in which I live, my imagination should not have
been cramped, as it has been ; and I would have followed
out principles of beauty and sublimity in my works, which
have been cast aside, because the result would not be
marketable.
The complaint uttered above breathes a sadness, which,
at this time, was haunting the mind of Cole. It gives,
indeed, the main cause of his sadness. And that was, that
he had not been permitted wholly to pursue the lofty walk
of art fQr which alone he had any abiding love. While he
could not but feel, at times, that what he had already done,
defective as it might appear in his own severe judgment,
would, one day, make his country conscious of his great
power, still he could not but confess to himself, that, for the
present, he had little to hope. Unjust, shallow criticism
was injuring his reputation, and lessening his patronage:
ill health was undermining his constitution : popular subjects for painting waked in him little or no enthusiasm:
abroad there was the possibility of some lucrative commission, which at the moment, he particularly needed: if not
that, there were, at least, the delight and improvement of
travelling, and the chance of regaining health and spirits.
He determined, therefore, to gratify a long and earnest wish
once more to visit Europe.
Before we attend him there, a few remarks are ventured
with regard to a duplicate of the Voyage of Life, painted
while at Rome. Waiving the considerations which made
him feel at liberty to re-produce this work, he never would
have done so, in all probability, though he frequently meditated it, but for the influence of a kind and intimate friend,

296

EEMARKS ON THE VOYAGE, ETC.

the American consul at Rome. He commended the beauty
and originality of its design, and its high artistic merit;
he prophesied its great popularity, and probable sale to some
of the English, or other travellers. The issue of the undertaking proved, however, that he was mistaken, although,
at the general exhibition of Modern Artists, opened during
the winter and spring at the Porta del Popolo rooms, the
pictures attracted much attention from artists and connoisseurs. Praise was chiefly bestowed upon them for the
beauty of the subject. The drawing, execution and colour
were considered by many observers as unnatural, incorrect,
hasty, and even feeble. They regarded them as the work of a
young artist, of admirable genius indeed, but one who yet
required much study of nature to correct his taste, and
improve his style.
Any one at all versed in the Modern German, French,
Italian and English schools of painting might have anticipated for Cole precisely the judgment rendered above. The
French, and especially the Italians, are characterized by
great extravagance and forced effects. Their pictures speak
their national disposition to extremes, and have an affected,
self-assuming, flattering air.
They are compliments to
nature. Religious fervour, even when the subject is professedly devotional, seldom breathes on their canvass.
Their colour, with few exceptions, is hard, heavy and positive. Their reds are red, their greens green, their browns
and blues brown and blue. One sees little of the modest,
gentle blending so beautiful in nature. Crude and affected
in their manipulation, their forms, although usually well
rendered, are bereft of sweetness and delicacy. Prom such,
the works of Cole, of course, would receive the smallest
sympathy. To them they could not but appear weak and
devoid of meaning. Steeped in the love of this present

REMARKS ON THE VOYAGE, ETC.

297

life, and soiled with its sensualities, they had no heart for
the pure, deep sentiment, the strong moral and religious
expression of his pictures.
Among the Germans what is legitimately the means of
art is elevated to its end. While they express more of the
sentiment of nature in their pictures than the Italians and
the French, their ambition appears to be to show a mastery
in the machinery of art. A triumph with them is the perfection of manipulation or handling. They aim to draw
with the greatest exactness, and to draw every thing down
to the minutest detail. They strive to make out every
object with the plainness which it really has in nature, but
which she ever presents to the eye as we usually behold it.
Elaborateness is the grand characteristic of their style.
Freedom its fatal deficiency. Their works are frequently
prodigies of labour ; never specimens of the magical swiftness with which genius, in the plentitude of liberty, evolves
its creations. Their excellence is imitation—too often soulless imitation. To mirror the outlines and the limits of
nature is the extent of their task: to express her living
spirit was the task of Cole. And while every bank
was fresh with that—every rock haunted with it—every
plant, bough, and mossy root swelling with it—every tree,
grove and forestf alive with it—every space and distance
moist and breathing with it—every luminous cloud warm
and passionate with it—every shadow pensive with i t earth and heaven stirring, palpitating, beaming with it—
what to the German were such pictures as the Voyage
of Life, so long as he did not behold foremost his own
darling mechanical finish about it? They could sympathize with no one who so outstrode them in intellect and
feeling, and sung in landscape with a poet's heart of the
presence of God, and qf human hopes and fears, joys and

298

BEMABKS ON THE VOYAGE, ETC.

sorrows. His imitative pictures—simple views—would
have pleased them better, and given them some plainer
token of the power and truthfulness of his pencil.
Why the series was not more popular with the English
it is difficult to see, if we do not lay it to some little jealousy, and the dislike of a new name among them. There
was that in it, in many ways, which resembled British art.
In its features, complexion and general expressiveness there
were marks of relationship not usually found in German,
French and Italian art. Though far more delicate, his colour still resembled that of the English : without its " trick/'
his execution still resembled theirs : possessing more of the
finished accuracy of the German than they, his drawing
was of their school. With all this likeness to, still he
was not of their school. More accurate, he was without
its forced effects : more simple, he was free from its pretension : more tender, he was, at the same moment, more vigorous in the flow of his feelings: more pure, subtle and
playful in fancy, he was also far richer and grander in
imagination : less of the showery, shadowy noon of England, he was more of the pure translucent day—more of the
moist blue firmament of clearer climates—more of the true
blaze of sunset, and the mellow, soothing, uncertain twilight
of the wide world. But there was a broad difference, with
all the similarities : difference enough to set him off by himself, and make him the originator of a new school of landscape—a distinction which time will inevitably confirm.
That doubtless was his crime with the English, as his
fresher, tenderer colour, absence of affectation, and poetry
of design were with the Italians, and his greater force,
freshness and truth, of colour, more varied and classical
conceptions, and lac?£ of that laboured manipulation, with
the Germans.

EVE OF EMBARKATION.

299

To MRS. COLE.
NEW YORK, Aug. 6, 1841.

I have a few moments to spare, so I will commence a
letter to-day, although I may not finish it before to-morrow.
* * I found Mr. Porter on board the boat, whose conversation, in some measure, helped to dissipate my melancholy
thoughts on leaving you and the little ones. Indeed I have
to strive hard against them.
*
*
*
Mr. Porter has given me letters to Paris. Miss Sedgwick
has written me a charming letter, and four introductory
ones ; one of which is to Mrs. Jameson. Miss S. says at
the conclusion of her letter—" cast your cares behind you ;
or rather let me say, in a better spirit, and grateful that I
may say it, cast your care upon the Lord : and God grant
that, in due time, enriched by all your foreign experience,
you may have a happy return to your dear wife and children, and I trust my eyes will not be too dim to see, and
welcome you,"
*
*
' *
0, how I should like to step in, and see you and Theddy
and Mary ! I can imagine them trotting about on the piazza.
Mr. Ver Bryck is at work, and has painted a good portrait of a gentleman ; and I hope business will begin to
come in.
I think there will be quite a number of friends down to
the ship, to-morrow, to see me off.
*
*
*
Your ever affectionate husband,
THOMAS COLE.

CHAPTER

XXX.

To Mrs. Cole : thoughts of home.—To the same : Kenilworth Castle; Warwick Castle ; Stratford.—To the Same : the Louvre.—Journal: N. Poussin; Correggio ; spirituality of the earlier painters.—Thoughts, &c. :
thoughts on the works of the old masters.—Journal: Neufchatel; distant Alps; Bernese Alps.—To Miss Maria Caoke : of Switzerland.—Journal : Vaucluse.
To MRS. COLE.
LONDON, August 21, 1841.

letter, I know, will dissipate some
anxiety on the subject of my safe arrival here. * * *
I assure you that, on the evening of my departure from
New York, when the shades of night began to descend
upon the ocean, I felt melancholy indeed. I felt, every
moment I was borne further and further from you and
those I love, that the reasons I had for leaving you and
visiting Europe, and which I had considered so forcible,
were, under this gloomy influence, trifling and unsatisfactory. But next morning the melancholy thoughts were
in a great measure dissipated, and I have not felt such
deep depression since : and the strong desire to return to
you is accompanied by the hope that my visit to Europe
#
will result prosperously.
*
*•
At the moment I am writing, there are several musicians
beneath my windows, playing very plaintively, " 0 where,
and 0 where, is my highland laddie gone ?" It brings the
MY DEAR MARIA,—This

KENILWORTH CASTLE.

301

tears to my eyes, for it awakens recollections of home.
You know I used to play it on the guitar. They have now
changed the tune for one more gay and sprightly, and I
ought to change my thoughts also, for it does not do for me
to dwell too long on such remembrances.
*
*
* I
intend to go into the country, shortly, to see my friends,
and make some studies. On my return, I shall, in all probability, remain in London a few days, and then proceed to
Italy, where I shall paint the series.

TO THE SAME.
LONDON, Sept. 22d, 1841.

Since I last wrote to you, I have been at Kenilworth
Castle, Warwick Castle, and Stratford, the birth-place of
Shakspeare, besides visiting my uncle William, in Derbyshire, and my uncle, aunts and cousins in Lancashire. The
weather was delightful when I was at Kenilworth, the
country rich and beautiful, and the ruins went beyond my
expectations. I must not attempt to describe them to you
now, for the description would fill the sheet: yet the ivyclad towers, roofless halls, whose floors are covered with
green turf and flowers, and cropped by flocks of sheep, and
over which, through the dismantled windows and ragged
loopholes, the sun casts his wandering rays, inspired me
with a melancholy pleasure ; more melancholy, my dear
Maria, because my mind was half with you. Every flower
and mass of ivy, every picturesque effect, waked my regret
that you were not by my side. The weather, as I have
said, was truly delightful, and there were groups of visitors,
chiefly country people ; lads and lasses seated on the sunny
turf, or clambering the dilapidated towers. Had I been a

302

WARWICK CASTLE.—STRATFORD.

magician, I would have conjured up the haughty Elizabeth
to contemplate the scene which her eye beheld in its " pomp
and circumstance/' and where now " Ruin greenly dwells !"
What a lesson to human pride! I made several sketches,
from one of which I intend to paint a picture for Mr.
Faile.
Prom Kenilworth I went to Warwick Castle, only a
few miles distant. It is the most complete specimen of
Feudal architecture. The Warwick family still reside
there : it is as perfect as in olden time. The gates, the
towers, the port-cullis, the courts, the walls panneled with
oak, and covered with ancient armour, all conspire to carry
one away from the steamboat and railroad world in which
we now live. From Warwick I went to Stratford. The
house in which Shakspeare was born is much more humble
than I expected. I made a sketch from his bust in the
church, which is different from the pictures we have.
7v

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W

7T

TO THE SAME.
PARIS, Oct. 7th, 1841.

Well, you see I am in Paris. I did hope to be further on
my way to Italy before this. I left London on the day
mentioned in my last, Mrs. Jameson in company. Possessing, as she does, so much knowledge of art, artists, and
pictures, she could not fail to be an interesting companion.
ii.
-Jf1

4*,
-TC"

At
TT

.&£,
TV1

4k
W

.at.
TV*

&,
Tt*

You know that, when I was in Paris before, I did not see
the pictures of the Louvre, in consequence of an exhibition
of modern works. I have now seen them. The collection
far exceeds in number and beauty what I had expected.
Imagine a most splendid gallery, a quarter of a mile long,
with walls on each side 'covered with the choicest pieces
of ancient and modern art.
•*
*
*

THE LOUVRE.

303

There is one thing I am sure you will be pleased with,
that is, I feel more of an artist than I have done for years.
•TC*

W

W

T ^

How I do long to be a little richer. There are such beautiful things of all kinds here, that they tempt me at every
step. I have been purchasing a good many casts : I have
children, sheep and dogs, horses, dancing-figures, hands and
heads around me, and one very exquisite thing, called the
guardian angel, that comes home to my heart, and makes
me think of home, you, and my dear little rogues. * * *
This is surely a wonderful place, wicked and sensual to be
sure, but with a multitude of excellent and fine things in it.
Mr. Rossi ter and I have taken our places in the diligence
for Switzerland : we shall set off to-morrow. *
*
Yours, affectionately,

THOMAS COLE.

October 7th I spent at the Louvre. In recalling what
I saw there, I find that my mind dwells with most pleasure
on the works of N. Poussin, Carreggio, Titian, Claude, and
of painters earlier than Raphael. N. Poussin, in my estimation, was one of the greatest masters; t although in his
historical works we do not find the most agreeable colour ;
and at times there is a statuesque appearance in his figures :
yet we forget these in the admiration of his expression, composition, fine design, and admirable propriety. "While his
costumes are not always correct, we never see in him any
of that recklessness and violation of truth, so characteristic
of the Venetian school. In his compositions there is a simplicity, a chastity, a classic feeling, which, to the refined eye,,
must ever give pleasure. You are always transported by
him from the present into the past: you are in Judea or
Arcadia : you live in a world—in a time, far removed from
this. His landscapes are equal to his historical pictures;

304

N. POUSSIN.

and, if not the first landscape painter that ever lived, he is
certainly the first in classic landscape. He has not the
glowing and elaborate beauty of Claude, nor the truthfulness of Euysdael, nor the startling chiaroscuro of Salvator
Rosa ; but you find in him a breadth and amenity, a largeness and simplicity, which, combined with a silvery tone of
colour, and enlivened by appropriate and fine figures, are
truly enchanting. He may indeed be called the classic.
Correggio astonishes me with his power. How I regret
that Correggio should have exhibited his wonderful skill on
such subjects. It was in the spirit of his time, we may say :
'alas! that one of so much genius could not have soared
above the low tastes of his age.
*
*
*
Ghirlandaio, Lucas of Leydon, and others, have given me
much pleasure. There is so much spirituality in them:
somewhat rude and dry their works are certainly : but the
painter in his deep devotion never dares to obtrude himself
or his art. A calm and holy feeling seems to have influenced him. He worked not to show the world his skill:
his productions were the outpouring of a devotional spirit.
#

#

#

*
PARIS, Oct. 8th, 1841.

I am in the midst of the works of art, * * steeping myself in the great minds of olden time. I have dwelt among
pictures since I came here, and feel both delighted and
depressed, yet stimulated. I feel that art has not yet
arrived at its acme. Much more may be done, wonderful as
some of the master productions are. I am conscious that
time has too far advanced for me to subject myself to that
study, and training of hand and eye which are necessary.
I began too late in life. But I will do my best. If I may
not be the first, I will not be the last. *
* I am hope-

CHAUMONT.

305

ful and earnest, and cannot entirely fail, if God grants me
health and moderate means.
October 16.—* * * Have just arrived at Neufchatel,
after a fatiguing ride from Paris. * * * We were
now pursuing our way down the pass, the stream dashing
impetuously along a thousand feet below, when a view of
Lake Neufchatel, and the distant Alps rising beyond, opened
upon us. This was our first sight of the Alps, and a grand
one it was. Upon the highest summits clouds were resting,
while the level country was smiling in sunshine. The scene
of the lake and the distant mountains resembled one from
the upper part of the Plattekill Clove, where you see the
Hudson and the New England hills beyond,
October IT.—This has been a charming day. We rose
early, and found the morning bright and windy, but not
cold. The lake, which was of a fine pea-green, dashed on
the shores in magnificent style. We made a sketch, before
breakfast, of the pass through which we came yesterday,
and also one of the Alps, as seen across the lake. * * *
We also went to the summit of Chaumont, said to be about
5000 feet above the sea. This commands one of the finest
general views of the Alps. In consequence of their great
distance, there are, it is said, only a few days in the year
when they appear to advantage. We were fortunate, for
the atmosphere was clear, and a more sublime sight never
opened on my eyes. At sunset, they were lighted like fires
in the blue firmament. Where the summits were snowy,
they seemed like tents of silvery fabric mysteriously suspended in the sky, while those which were dark melted
into atmosphere. As the sun went down, they became more
and more brilliant; a ruddy colour overspread them, which
gradually faded away into a pale and spectral hue. They
20

306

BEENESE ALPS.—SWITZERLAND.

did not seem like vast and ponderous masses, but airy
things, which the gentlest winds might dissipate. Wonderful and glorious are Thy works, Almighty God ! Tomorrow for Berne. The new moon, to-night, over my
right shoulder. Maria says, good luck. By what links our
thoughts are connected with those we love!
October 18.—This morning, at four, we set off in the
diligence for Berne. Between the lowlands, of which I
have spoken, and Berne, the road crosses two ranges of
hills : after we had gained the height of the second,—the
road lying through delightful woods—and just on the descent,
the most wonderful and sublime view that I ever beheld
burst upon us—the Bernese Alps—vast, towering amid the
hazy atmosphere of the morning—their snowy summits
glittering in the sun—their bases lost in the haze. The
lower mountains, giants in other lands, rose dimly, range
after range, until they rested on the nearer hills, glowing in autumnal richness. The snowy Alps, as they are
seen afar off, are difficult to describe. They are too beautiful to be compared with anything of earth ; they seem of
an etherial tissue—like drapery composed o f moon-beams,
floating in the blue sky, and tossed by the breeze—silvery
festoons suspended in the heavens.
*
*
*
To MISS MARIA COOKE:
LYONS, October.

The last week has been a living one to me, and the impressions left upon my mind are such as, I hope, will never
be erased. I have enjoyed much ; and had some of my deaT
friends been with me, my pleasure would have been complete : but absence from them throws a shadow over the
most sunny landscape, and where I see the most beauty, I

OP SWITZERLAND.

307

feel the strongest regrets. * * * I have seen no picture that represented the Alps truly, and words are incapable of describing them. The imagination searches in vain
for comparisons. They are unearthly things—of the texture
of the moon, as seen through a fine telescope, beaming with
a sort of liquid silvery light—folds of heaven's drapery
fallen to the earth. After a short stay at Neufchatel, we
proceeded towards Berne, the Jura mountains still about
us. How much they reminded me of our own Catskills,
their forms and forests. Scenes sometimes burst upon us
all American.
*
*
*
From Thun we took the pass of the Simmenthal. * *
Prom thence we made a pedestrian tour through the pass
of the Dent de Jaman, to the Lake of Geneva. And here I
may say, with Byron, "I have been repeopling my mind
with nature." Stupendous mountains with snow-clad summits, impending crags, black pinnacles of rock, foaming
torrents, valleys of deepest verdure, whose green slopes
ascended the mountain sides to mingle on high with precipices and dark forests ; shepherds and innumerable cattle,
making the vales musical with the continual sound of their
large sweet-toned bells ; houses clustered in the depths of
the valleys, or perched on the tops of precipices, altogether
combined to produce such pictures of savage grandeur and
pastoral beauty as one could never have imagined. * *
You may fear, perhaps, that the wonderful scenery of Switzerland will destroy my feeling for our own : this will not
be the case. I know that, when I return, I shall yet find
beauty. Our scenery has its own peculiar charms, and it is
so connected with my affections that it will never lose its
power. I send, in this letter, a little flower, plucked in the
pass of the Dent de Jaman, the forget-me-not; you may not
recognize it, in consequence of the imperfect manner in

308

JOURNAL:

YAUCLUSE.

which it is preserved ; but it is from the Alps. * * * I
have sent two flowers ; the pink one is Alpine also : please
present it to Elizabeth.
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

Lyons, Oct. 29, 1841.—This morning, we set off in the
boat down the Rhone, for Avignon.
Oct. 30.—* * We have been to Vaucluse. * * As
we came in full view of the mountains among which Vaucluse is situated, we enquired of our little driver in what
direction it lay. He, pointing to a reddish mass on a bleak
mountain side, some six or seven miles off, said, " There is
Vaucluse." We were disappointed, and became more and
more so as we approached. Nothing could be more dreary
than that mountain-side. The valley, through which we
were riding, was sprinkled with olive and mulberry trees,
but not a tree was to be seen on those barren heights. We
came at last to a pass, with high rocks on either hand, and
a narrow but fertile valley through which flowed a clear
and rapid stream, with greener waters than any I remember to have seen before. A newly painted house stood
under a projecting rock. Is this the place that Petrarch
selected as his home ? A solitude it might be, but where
was the grandeur, the beauty, that we had expected in the
vale of Vaucluse ? We had imagined the rich, the lovely,
the luxuriant, although the secluded. A little further on,
our road made a quick turn, and a scene different, indeed,
from anything I had fancied opened upon us : a few straggling houses stood on the bank of the rapid stream, which
descended a deep ravine in a tortuous course, dashing and
foaming over its rocky bed. On the right, rose a heap of
rocks, several hundred feet high, crowned by a ruin, evi-

VAUCLUSE.

309

dently a castle of the middle ages ; on the left side of the
stream, mountainous rocks arose, singularly marked with
excavations, like the entrances of caves. At the upper end
of the valley, from whence the water seemed first to burst
forth, stood stupendous precipices, walls of perpendicular
or impending rock, scarred, scooped, marked, and stained,
mounting to the sky—a strange and impressive scene ! A
few fruit-trees and small gardens fringed the water's edge ;
all else naked rocks, except here and there a few spots of
sombre green, where some hardy plant found a crevice for
its roots. The scene recalled to my mind my own picture
of Infancy in the Yoyage of Life, where the stream issues
from the foot of the mountain. The rain began to fall, and
I feared that it would be impossible to make a sketch from
a spot which I thought favourable ; but on looking round I
saw one of those cavernous excavations; to this I retreated,
and effected, though hastily, what I wished. The time was
unfavourable, as there was no chiaroscuro. I then pursued
my way towards the head of the vale : the grandeur of the
scene increased at every step. The beetling crags closed
in upon the valley on all sides, and the river, which before
was rapid, now dashed furiously down, tossed and tormented, over the jagged rocks. Not an eddy, not a spot of
green or smooth water—all was white, like a torrent of
commingled hail and snow, and down the glen it thundered,
and the huge cliffs reverberated the roar. A little higher
still, and how the scene was changed! at the base of a
precipice of vast height, was a basin of green water, deep
and clear, of small extent, and exhibiting a surface but
little troubled. I have seldom felt the sublimity of nature
more deeply. There was no arch, no vault, and yet here
came forth a river from the mysterious bosom of the earth,
as gently as though it had been sleeping in its darkness.

810

VAUCLUSE.

I descended the valley, crossed the little bridge at the
village, and climbed the crag on which the ruin stands. It
commands fine, I may say fearful views of the scene below.
Roofless, many of its walls thrown prostrate, its halls and
courts are filled with flowering plants and odoriferous
shrubs, thyme and lavender. I plucked some flowers as a
memento, and departed.
November 9.—Rome. But here I am in the " city of
the soul."
*
*
*

CHAPTER X X X I .
To Mrs. Cole: at Rome again.—Thoughts, &c.: retrospection.—To Mrs.
Cole: commences the second Series of the Voyage of Li£e; life at Rome.—
To the same: New Year's Day; Tasso's face; invitation to a prince's
party.—To Ver Bryck: Rome; recollections.—To Mrs. Cole : gaieties ;
Prince Torlonia's party; Princess Doria; French embassador's party;
flowers.—Journal: Catacombs of St. Agnes.—To Mr. Durand; anticipations of Sicily.—Thoughts, &c. : Thorwaldsen.—To Mrs. Cole: the Vatican
by torchlight.—To the same : the pictures finished ; the miserere; anticipations of home.
To MRS. COLE.
ROME, NOV. 11th,

1841.

*
*
* So you see I have arrived at Rome at last.
I am sure you will congratulate me on having got to a
resting place, and painting place once more. I assure you
that the pleasure of travelling is usually after it is over.
But here I am sitting in my studio, warm enough, but confoundedly flea-bitten, a large canvass on my easel with
some chalk-marks upon it, and a small sketch for a picture
of Vaucluse, that I finished to day from a drawing made on
the spot, and which I intend to make use of on the large
canvass. But how can I paint without you to praise, or to
criticise, and little Theddy to come for papa to go to dinner,
and little Mary with her black eyes to come and kiss the
figures in my pictures. Indeed I feel lonesome in my room;
but I am determined to paint, and will too, and a great deal

312

THOUGHTS, ETC. : RETROSPECTION.

in a short time. I long for the time to arrive when I shall
again see you.
*
*
#
Rome, November 23,1841.—Last evening was the anniversary of my marriage. Five years have elapsed, and I
am in Rome. What strange leaves open in the book of
life! Health, and the necessity of renovating my artistic
feeling, and of gathering fresh materials for my profession,
have dragged me away from home. My life will be burdened with sadness until I return to my wife and family.
I have made a great sacrifice of affection for what I consider to be duty. God grant that I may not be disappointed
in my hopes and labours. I close the book, and leave all
to Him.
To MRS. COLE.
ROME, NOV. 30th, 1841.

MY DEAR MARIA,—

*

*

*

*

I have not yet finished the picture of Vaucluse, but it is far
advanced. I have been engaged on some other little things.
But I shall surprise you perhaps, perhaps make you sorry,
when I tell you I am just beginning to paint the Voyage of
Life over again. Mr. Greene, the Consul, and several other
persons here have urged me strongly to do it, believing it
will result greatly to my advantage. I intend to carry
them through very speedily.
#
#
*
December 3.—
*
* As usual, I have been occupied in painting, sketching, &c. The weather has been
delightful—a soft, balmy atmosphere, like the very finest of
our spring days, a clear sky and sunsets, in which the air
seems like molten gold.
After church-time to-day, I took a walk to St. Onofrio,

TASSO'S FACE.

313

where Tasso died, and was buried. I picked some leaves
from an ancient oak there, that is said to have been a
favourite tree of his. You may be sure, I thought of you
when I did so, and remembered too with what interest I
read, and you listened to his life, in the past winter. I
intend to go to St. Onofrio for some sketches, as it commands admirable views of Rome and the Campagna. The
English church here is held in a building just out of the gate
of the Piazza del Popolo, very near where I live. There is
a very good clergyman, and several hundreds attend.
TO THE SAME.
ROME, Jan. 1, 1842.

My DEAR MARIA,—I wish you a happy new year, and
all our dear friends " also, and all the little children that
round the table go/ 7 as the song says.
*
*
I went
to St. Onofrio, and saw the cast in wax which was taken
from Tasso's face and head after his death. It was the next
thing to seeing Tasso himself: the very pores of the skin
are there. The face is a handsome one—a broad forehead
and small chin : on the mouth there is quite a smile, and
the eyes are open. Last evening I had a present made me
for you—a cameo—Raphael's Madonna del Sisto. I t is
such a one as you perhaps have never seen; so I have something for you when I come back.

TO MR. VER BRYCK.
ROME, Jan. 31, 1842.

was delighted to receive your
note through Mr. B. Though it contained but few lines,
it was from a dear friend, and included a bit of his mind.
*
*
*
MY DEAR V E R BRYCK,—I

314

ROME.—PAINTING.

This Rome, this *' city of the soul," is indeed a place that
holds a man's heart like Mahomet's coffin suspended between
earth and heaven. It is, inded, the Mecca of the artist; and
I am grieved that the most devout may not always be numbered among the pilgrims. Your company would be delightful here : your enjoyment of the beauties of art and
nature would enhance mine. We could walk on the Pincian Hill together, and watch the sun set in gold behind
the dome of St. Peter's, and talk of the Catskills, for every
sunset takes my heart with it to my distant home.
*
#
*
I have already nearly painted two of the pictures, and a
third is commenced.
*
*
I sincerely hope
that you are prospering ; that, although in the depth of
winter, your prospects are blooming like the Roman rose.
Present my kindest remembrances to Huntington, Durand,
Cummings, Bryant, and all those friends whom you know I
prize.
*
*
I assure you, it will be delightful for me to tread with you on the heights of the Catskills, and to sit on that rock which we know so well, and
again look over that vast and varied landscape, whose recollections will ever be dear to me for itself, and for associations which are a part of my life. Adieu.
Yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

To MRS. COLE.
ROME, Feb. 6,
*

#

-5f

x

#

*

1842.
*

I am getting on bravely with my pictures. The first and
the third are completed, and I am building the castle in the
second : by the time this reaches you, I think it will be
finished, perhaps before.
*
*
*

GAIETIES.

315

Will you be surprised when I tell you that I never went
to so many parties in my life, in the same a length of time,
or to such splendid ones ? Almost every night, for the last
month or six weeks, has been spent in making calls, or at
dinner-parties and soirees. Several reasons induce me to indulge in these gaieties—the desire to make acquaintances—
the desire, I may say the curiosity, which a man in a strange
•country feels to become acquainted with the forms and
usages of society, and to see distinguished personages—and
the recreation it affords after the labours of the day—and,
perhaps more than all, the pleasure in the anticipation of
being able to describe to you persons and things which may
be interesting. Among other invitations, I received two
from Prince Torlonia, and one from the French embassador;
all of which I took advantage of. The embassador's party
came off last night. I will give you a slight sketch of
these parties, if this rascally Roman paper, upon which I
am writing, will allow me.
The company were invited at 8 o'clock. The palace of
Prince Torlonia, in which he has his parties, is near St.
Peter's. As we approached, (I say we, for I went with several other persons in a carriage,) the street was lined with
cavalry. After leaving the carriage, we ascended several
long flights of carpeted steps, which led to large entrance
halls, in which guards and servants were placed: in the last
hall our names were announced by the servants, and we
proceeded to the presentation chamber, where the master
of ceremonies presented us to the prince and princess, who
stood in the middle of the room. We bowed, a few words
were passed, and we proceeded to the next room, which
appeared to me to be badly lighted, but perhaps for effect.
Here were ottomans in the centre of the room, and around
it, mirrors, pictures and statues, and a brilliant assemblage

316

PRINCESS T0RL0NIA.

of beauty and fashion. I saw more diamonds and emeralds,
in one hour, than I ever saw in my whole life before. Here
we were regaled with delicious ices, and wandered about
" at our own sweet will."
The Princess Torlonia is decidedly one of the most beautiful women I ever saw : indeed I was never so struck with
admiration before. This may partly be attributed to her
family, and to the dignity consequent upon high station, in
spite of republican notions to the contrary, and partly to
being seen by candle-light. She is of the ancient Colonna
family, about eighteen years of age, rather above the middle height, her form graceful, face classic in its contour, a
noble forehead, and fine large Italian eyes of pensive expression. Her head-dress consisted of a wreath of roses round
the upper part of the head, a circlet of diamonds below,
clasping the top of her forehead. The hair was brought
down, as is the fashion here now, plain on each temple as
low as the ear, and turned back. She wore a necklace of
splendid diamonds. Her dress was white satin, with a very
thin lace'-like skirt over it, with puffs of satin descending
from her waist in front downward in diverging lines: the
band at the waist was ornamented with a rose in front: the
sleeves were short, with a small rose in each. She wore massive bracelets ; and, on the whole, was elegantly and tastefully dressed. It is not more than two years since she was
married. She was then taken from the convent, and had
never once seen her future husband. After the presentations were over, the princess, accompanied by Prince Frederick of Prussia, led the way to the ball-room, which was
brilliantly illuminated, the music from the orchestra struck
up, and the dancing commenced.
The next that attracted the admiration of the company
was the Princess Doria, the daughter of the English Earl of

THE FRENCH PARTY.

sir

Shrewsbury. I never saw such a splendid display of dress
and jewels. There were present a number of English nobility, as well as French and Italian. The dancing continued until two o'clock, with intervals. The supper, cold of
course, then came in, carried on tables ready set. I left
after supper, but understood that the party did not break
up until five in the morning. Among the guests were the
Countess Guiccioli. She is about for.ty years old, but a fine
looking woman still, and I could not but look with interest
on a woman whose name will ever be coupled with that of
Byron.
There are some minstrels now singing in the street below
my window, and the air so strongly reminds me of home
that I can scarcely proceed with my description.
The French embassador's party, at which I was last evening, was got up with more taste than Prince Torlonia's,
and the party, though large, was far more select. The lady
of the embassador was present only for a short time, as she
is an invalid. She is a very interesting looking person,
about thirty years old, with a fine intellectual face. She
sat all the time she was present. Her attire struck my
fancy exceedingly. She wore" a sort of hat, of crimson
velvet, and ornamented with diamonds. Her dress was
white satin, with a sort of cape. I will stop by saying, it
reminded me of some of the most elegant costumes of the
fifteenth century.
*
*
*
How I long for you to walk with me in the grounds of
the villa Borghese, to see the warm sunlight streaming
through the stately pines upon the rich grass, and to listen
to the birds that are now singing like ours in May. * *
February 12.—I was just clearing off my palette, after
working on that group of trees that gave me so much
trouble in the second picture, when your letter of the 27th

318

THE CATACOMBS.

of December came. It was a delightful treat, and I read
it over and over again. I am thankful that you all continue
to enjoy such excellent health. How I should have enjoyed
your Christmas party, and seeing the children. Your account
of Theddy's boots and Mary's dream was next to seeing the
little rogues themselves. I wish I was at home to admire
Harriet's carnations. During the carnival here, there were
cart loads of flowers thrown about. Think of that in the
middle of winter! I picked a few violets just like Harriet's,
in the Borghese grounds last week. How delighted I shall
be when my pictures are finished. *
*
*
February 16.—I have seen that, to-day, which will be a
lasting subject of thought—which has made an impression
on my mind that can never be effaced—the Catacombs of
St. Agnes. I went in the company of Mr. Greene, the
consul, Mr. G
, Mr. P
, and the Padre who has the
charge of the excavations, and has made a plan of the subterranean labyrinth. The sky was cloudless, and before we
entered the gloomy regions of the dead, we stood for sometime in the vineyard, gazing at the mountains that rise
around the Campagna di Eoma. The entrance, about two
miles out of the Porta Pia, is by a flight of steps, partly
antique, I believe. At the bottom, we found ourselves in a
narrow passage cut in the tufa rock. On either hand were
excavations in the walls, of various dimensions, which contain the bones of the early Christians. For two hours, we
wandered in these gloomy regions. Now and then we came
to a chapel. The passages were, in general, about six feet
wide, and from five to twelve feet high, arched, and sometimes
plastered. The cells are in tiers, one above another. Many
of them were open, and disclosed the mouldering bones of
those who flourished in the first centuries of the Christian

CATACOMBS OF ST. AGNES.

319

church. Others were closed by tiles or slabs of marble with
cement, which appeared with the impressions of the trowel
as fresh as yesterday. Here were the remains of the early
martyrs of Christianity. You know them by the small
lamp, and the little phial or vase which once contained some
of their blood. These vessels were inserted in the cement
that sealed up their graves. Impressions of coins and
medals, the date of the interment, are also to be seen in the
cement, with inscriptions marked with the point of the
trowel, usually the name of the individual, with the words
" in pace," or " dormit in pace." What pictures cannot the
imagination paint here ! Yet nothing so impressive as the
reality : scenes where Christian hope triumphed over affliction ; where the ceremonies of their holy religion were performed far from the light of day. The chapels are generally
ornamented with pictures, some of which are in good preservation. They are rudely executed, but with some spirit.
One picture represented Moses striking the rock, another
Daniel in the lion's den, another the three holy children in
the fire, and still another, the Virgin Mary. There were
several pictures which represented bishops or priests—men
in clerical robes. Occasionally the drippings of the water
formed stalactites upon the walls and ceilings. Some of
the bones were coated with calcareous deposit.
Some notion of the extent of the catacombs may be
formed from the length of time we were walking. There
were many passages we did not enter, and many impossible
of access from the rubbish with which they were choked
up. We came into the open air—into the light of the
glorious sun, and again stood and gazed upon the mountains. There they are, as eighteen hundred years ago :
they are not changed; as they looked then, they look
now.

320

ANTICIPATIONS OF SICILY.

To MR. DURAND.
ROME, March 8th, 1842.

was delighted to receive your kind
letter, of the 16th of January. In this distant land, a letter
from home is a god-send—a heart-warming.
*
*
I intend to set off for Sicily, in a few weeks, when I hope
to profit by, and enjoy the beautiful scenery : but it is
doubtful whether I ascend iEtna, although, as you know, I
have a passion for climbing. After I have visited Sicily, I
intend to hurry home as fast as circumstances will allow.
*
*
* We are in the enjoyment of cloudless skies ;
roses in bloom, at all times, and, at the present, the fields
are covered with flowers. Don't you wish I had art enough
to bring home some of this climate with me—sufficient for
you and me ? In the hope of seeing many pictures by your
hand, on my return,
I remain, &c, &c,
MY DEAR DURAND,—I

THOMAS COLE.

March 20.—Yesterday I was gratified with a visit from
Thorwaldsen. He is a grand old man. His remarks on
the Voyage of Life were highly gratifying.
He seized
the allegory at once, and understood the whole intention
of the artist. He said my work was entirely new and
original in its conception, and executed in a masterly manner. He commended much the harmony of colour, and the
adaptation of scenery and detail to the expression of the
subject. He remained in my room some time, looking at
the pictures. When he went away, he thanked me for the
great pleasure I had given him, and asked to come again.
" Cole," says Mr. Greene, " was naturally anxious to have
Thorwaldsen see the Voyage of Life, and I arranged the
interview. At the appointed hour, ten in the morning, the

THORWALDSEN,

321

old gentlemen came. The four pictures were standing in a
row, the first three completed, the last still wanting in some
finishing touches ; but all that was essential to the story
was there. I never saw Cole so nervous as when Thorwaldsen opened the door. Common criticisms he did not mind,
but this was an ordeal to shake even his practised nerves.
He walked directly to the first piece, and taking the words
from Cole's mouth, as he began his explanation, went
through the whole story, reading it from the canvass as
readily as if the trees and flowers had been words. When
he came to the last scene, he paused, and stood silently
before it, his eye resting with an expression of solemn
musing on that cloud-veiled ocean, upon which he too was
to sail so soon. Twice he returned to examine the other
three, and twice returned to gaze again at the closing scene
with the same deep expression of earnest sympathy. I hardly
ever passed an hour with him after that day, but what he
would bring in some mention of Cole : * When I had heard
from him ? What was he doing ? A great artist! What
beauty of conception! what an admirable arrangement of
parts ! what an accurate study of nature! what truth of
detail V I have often heard him speak of artists, friends
and foes, the living and the dead, but never with such a
glow of heartfelt enthusiasm as when he recalled his visit
to the study of Cole/'
To MRS. COLE.
ROME, March 26th, 1842.

* * Yesterday,
and saw thousands of flowers in the fields.
and I feel somewhat sad and depressed.
move my pictures over to the studio of Mr.
MY DEAR MARIA,—*

*

*

I took a walk,
To-day is rainy,
I was about to
Terry.

Well, I have got into a new studio, and a
21

322

THE VATICAN BY TORCH-LIGHT.

grand one it is, and my pictures look well in it. It is about
forty feet long, and twenty-six wide, and as high as a twostory house. I am at work too at the last picture.
*
Last night I went to the Vatican to see the statues by
torch-light. The effect was perfectly magical; each column
and statue starting out, as it were, from the mysterious
darkness around. The life-like effect of those great works
of art—the Apollo, the Laocoon, and others—was almost
startling. The whole seems to me like a vivid dream of
the most beautiful things that can be conceived. * *
TO THE SAME.
ROME, April 2d, 1842.

* * * Won't you be glad when I tell you that the
pictures are at length completed ? And don't you think I
have worked hard to finish them within four months from
the commencement? * * A good number of persons
have seen them, and I assure you I have every reason to be
satisfied with the impression they have made.
*
*
*
*
*
*
Next week I intend to start for Sicily ; from thence I
shall bend my steps homeward.
*
*
I went to hear the Miserere in the Sistine chapel. The
music was wonderful; but I found myself in purgatory, the
crowd was so great.
I am not sure that I told you I had been presented to the
pope. I was pleased with the interview as a matter of
curiosity, though I did not think proper to kiss his holiness's big toe. He was quite talkative.
I hope Harriet has good luck with her flower-bed, this
spring, as I expect to see a glorious sight. You and the
girls must begin to think where we shall have my return

ANTICIPATIONS OF HOME.

323

pic-nick, for I am determined to take more recreation than
I have for years past; so I intend to have a jollification on
my return, and a pic-nick too, in the course of the season :
so make every preparation. My spirits rise as the time
approaches, and I hope nothing will occur to damp the
pleasure I anticipate. But it is not well to hope too
much.
*
*
*
*
*
THOMAS COLE.

CHAPTER

XXXII.

Journal: south of Italy.—Tour of Sicily : Taormina; ascent of AEtna.—Journal: Milan ; The Last Supper.—Lago Maggiore.—Down the Rhine :
an adventure.—To Sarah Cole : on the eve of embarking for America.

IN April 1842, Cole left Rome to make the tour of Sicily.
As usual, nature and the vestiges of antiquity were the
great objects of attraction ; and the south of Italy afforded
him much that was rich in both.
" There is a sad pleasure in wandering among the ruins of
these cities and palaces. We look at arches and columns in
decay, and feel the perishable nature of human a r t : at the
same glance, we take in the blue sea rolling its billows to
the shore with the freshness, strength and beauty of the
days, when the proud Caesars gazed upon it."
*
*
From Palermo he went to Segeste, from Segeste to Selinunte, and from thence to Agrigentum, now musing with
inexpressible wonder among the relics of their mighty temples, and then expressing enthusiastic delight at the grandeur of the scenery, and the great abundance of wild flowers.
From Agrigentum he journeyed on to Sicily's ancient capital,
Syracuse, from Syracuse to the awful wonders of iEtna,
and the picturesque beauties of Taormina.
" What a magnificent site 1" he exclaims of Taormina :
" iEtna with its eternal snows towering in the heavens—

ASCENT OF -ETNA.

325

the ranges of nearer mountains—the deep romantic valley
—the bay of Naxos—
*
*
I have never
seen anything like it. The views from Taormina certainly
excel anything I have ever seen."
The tour of Sicily, especially the ascent of iEtna, took a
strong hold on his imagination. There was, at the time,
none of the present conveniences of travelling. The journey was performed with guides and mules, and occupied, a
month. For the first time perhaps in his life, he took the
precaution to carry a pistol in his pocket. But the pocket
was presently worn.through, and the useless weapon consigned to some secure nook among the luggage. His companion, an English painter, yet bears testimony to the very
pleasant character of the excursion, and the admirable
qualities of his friend : " It was the most delightful journey
I ever took."
*
#
« Q0\G w a s ^he o n jy
man for whom I ever had so ardent an attachment in so
short a time."
*
*
« Cole," said he, on
their return from the summit of iEtna, " I should never
have ascended without your encouragement:" "Nor I," replied he, with that characteristic generosity which loved to
concede all to a friend, " without your energy." In their
conversations he often spoke of his family with great tenderness, and talked frequently of the beauties of the valley
of the Catskill river, and the graceful outline of the neighbouring mountains.
The annexed is a spirited sketch of his ascent of Mount
JEtna.
On the ninth of May, we commenced the ascent of iEtna.
As the season was not the most favourable, the snows extending further down the sides of the mountain than in the
summer, we were equipped, under the direction of our
guide, with coarse woollen stockings, to be drawn over the

326

ASCENT OP .ETNA.

pantaloons, thick-soled shoes, and woollen caps. Mounting our mules, we left Catania in the morning. The road
was good and of gradual ascent until we reached Nicolosi,
about fourteen miles up the mountain,
*
*
the
place where travellers usually procure guides and mules.
*
*
It was our intention to rest for the remainder of the day; but Monte Rosso, an extinguished crater,
being in the vicinity, my curiosity got the better of my intention to rest, and I sallied forth to examine it. The road
lay through the village, which is built of lava, and is
arid and black, and many of the buildings rent and twisted.
Monte Rosso was formed by the eruption of 1669, which
threw out a torrent of lava that flowed thirteen miles,
destroying a great part of the city of Catania in its resistless course to the sea, where it formed a rugged promontory, which at this day appears as black, bare and herbless
as on the day when its fiery course was arrested by the
boiling waters. And here I would remark, that the lavas
of iEtna are very different from those of Yesuvius. The
latter decompose in half a century, and become capable of
cultivation ; those of JEtna remain unchanged for centuries,
as that of Monte Rosso testifies. It has now been exposed
to the action of the weather nearly two hundred years :
with the exception of the interstices where the dust and
sand have collected, it is destitute of vegetation. Broken,
in cooling, into masses of rough but sharp fracture, its
aspect is horrid and forbidding, and it is exceedingly difficult to walk over. If two centuries have produced so little
change, how many centuries must have served to form the
rich soil which covers the greater part of the mountain's
sides and base!
Our purpose was to see the sun rise from the summit of
i E t n a ; and at nine in the evening, our mules and guides

ASCENT OF JETNA.

327

being ready, we put on our Sicilian capotes, and sallied
forth. We had two guides, a muleteer, and (as there was
no moon) a man with a lantern to light the mules in their
passage over the beds of lava. For several miles the way
was uninteresting, it being too dark to see any thing except
the horrid lava or sand beneath the feet of the mules. At
times the road was so steep that we were ordered by our
guides to lean forward on the necks of the mules, to keep
them and ourselves from being thrown backwards. At
length we entered the woody region. Here the path was less
rocky ; and, as we wound up the mountain's side, beneath
the shadows of noble trees, I could not but feel the solemn,
quietness of a night on JEtna, and contrast it with what
has been, and what will, in all probability, be again, the
intermitting roar of the neighbouring volcano, and the
dreadful thunder of the earthquake. At midnight, we arrived at the Casa delle Neve, or House of Snow. This is a
rude building of lava, with bare walls entirely destitute of
furniture. We made a fire on the ground, took some refreshments which we had brought with us, and in about an
hour remounted our mules, and proceeded on our journey.
We soon left the region of woods, and, being now at an
elevation of seven thousand feet above the sea, felt somewhat cold, and buttoned our capotes closer about us. From
the ridges of lava, along which we rode by the light of the
stars, which now became brilliant, we could discern the
snow stretching in long lines down the ravines on either
hand ; and, as we advanced, approaching nearer and nearer,
until at length it spread in broad fields before us. As the
mules could go no further, we dismounted, and, taking an
iron-pointed staff in our hands, commenced the journey ovei
the snows. I t was now half-past one, and we had seven
miles to traverse before reaching the summit. The first

328

ASCENT OP iETNA.

part of the ascent was discouraging : it was steep, and the
snow so slippery that we sometimes fell on our faces ; but
it became rather less steep, as we ascended, and, though
fatiguing, we got along comfortably. As the atmosphere
was becoming rare, and our breathing hurried, we sat on
the snow for a few minutes, now and then. At such times,
we could not but be struck with the splendour of the stars,
far beyond any thing I had ever seen. The milky way
seemed suspended in the deep heavens, like a luminous cloud,
with clear and definite outline. We next arrived at the
Casa degli Inglese, so called ; but alas for us! the ridge of
the roof, and a part of the gable, were all that rose above
the snow. In the midst of summer, travellers may make
use of i t ; but to us it was unavailing, except the gable,
which served in a measure to shield us from the icy wind
which now swept over the mountain. We again partook
of a little refreshment, by way of preparation for the most
arduous part of our undertaking, and were, now at the foot
of the great cone. The ascent was toilsome in the extreme.
Snow, melted beneath in many places by the heat of the
mountain, sharp ridges of lava, loose sand, ashes and cinders, into which last the foot sank at every step, made the
ascent difficult as well as dangerous. The atmosphere was
so rare that we had to stop every few yards to breathe. At
such times we could hear our hearts beat within us like the
strokes of a drum. But it was now light, and we reached
the summit of the great cone just as the sun rose.
It was a glorious sight which spread before our eyes.
We took a hasty glance into the gloomy crater of the volcano, and throwing ourselves on the warm ashes, gazed in
wonder and astonishment. It would be vain for me to
attempt a description of the scene. I scarcely knew the
world in which I had lived. The hills and the valleys over

ASCENT OF JETNA.

329

which we had been travelling for many days, were comprised within the compass of a momentary glance. Sicily
lay at our feet, with all its " many folded" mountains, its
plains, its promontories and its bays ; and round all the
sea stretched far and wide like a lower sky, the Lipari
islands, Stromboli and its volcano, floating upon it like
small dusky clouds, and the Calabrian coast visible, I
should suppose, for two hundred miles, like a long horizontal bank of vapour. As the sun rose, the great pyramidal
shadow of iEtna was cast across the island, and all beneath
it rested in twilight-gloom. Turning from the wonderful
scene, we looked down into the crater, on whose verge we
lay. It was a fearful sight, apparently more than a thousand feet in depth, and a mile in breadth, with precipitous,
and, in some places, overhanging sides, which were varied
with strange and discordant colours. The steeps were rent
into deep chasms and gulfs, from which issued white sulphurous smoke, that rose, and hung in fantastic wreaths
about the horrid crags ; thence springing over the edge of
the crater, it vanished in the clear air. I was somewhat
surprised to perceive several sheets of snow lying at the
very bottom of the crater, a proof that the internal fires
were in a deep slumber. The edge of the crater was a mere
ridge of scoriae and ashes, varying in height; and it required some care, in places, to avoid falling down the steep
on the one hand, or being precipitated into the gulf on
the other. The air was keen, but fortunately there was
little wind. After spending about an hour on the summit,
we commenced our descent.
*
*
*
JOURNAL. May 22.—Two days ago I returned from Sicily. In a few days I leave Rome, in .all probability, for
ever. I am thankful that I have been preserved in health,

330

JOURNAL : THE LAST SUPPER.

and I now look forward with pleasing expectations of
being soon united to my family.
*
*
*
MILAN.—The first object of interest I visited was the
cathedral. It is truly a magnificent structure. Though not
of the purest and best style, it makes a grander impression
on the mind than St. Peter's. The view from among its
many pinnacles and statues is wonderfully fine. The distant Alps, in their everlasting white, the city and the fertile
plains around, make a grand panorama.
*
*
Among the drawings of Da Vinci, in the Ambrosian
library, that which affected me most was a drawing of a
head of Christ. The Last Supper of Da Vinci is a sad
ruin. I was surprised to find it not a fresco, but a picture
in oil colours. It appears that the Austrians intended to
have it transferred to canvass, for the purpose of removing
it to Vienna, and an experiment was actually made to
ascertain the possibility of doing it. It had been considered a fresco : but in consequence of something said in a
manuscript at Paris, a doubt arose, and, on examination, it
was discovered to have been painted in oil. It is impossible, so they say, to transfer an oil-picture from the wall to
canvass ; and so the picture was left. The marks of the
experiment may be seen. What a fortunate circumstance
that it could not be removed! To have done it would have
been sacrilege. Little thought Leonardo, when he determined to paint it in oil, what an important decision it
was.
LAGO MAGGIORE, June, 1842.—
O sky and earth, how ye are linked together
Upon the bosom of this lovely lake !
See, the wild Alpine breeze is doubtful whether
It may the calm and sweet communion break.

A small poem, of which the lines above are the beginning,

AN ADVENTURE.

331

was written by Cole on the banks of that very beautiful
sheet of water, as he was passing northward to the Rhine,
on his way to England.
In his passage down that far-famed river, he met with an
adventure, which he used to relate with inexpressible
humour.
About dusk the steamer stopped for the night at
,
where a Frenchman and himself went ashore, and took
lodgings at an hotel. In the morning, after breakfast,
they went walking very leisurely about the town, returning,
as they supposed, in good time for the boat. As they
sauntered towards the landing, the bell of the steamer
suddenly told them that they had little time to lose. They
were just a moment too late. The Frenchman was frantic,
—a perfect explosion of wrath, gesticulations and shouts, in
French and German ; while he, the American, with almost
his only word of German, plied the departing vessel with
cries of " Darnpfschiff! darnpfschiff!—stop! stop! Darnpfschiff ! " Darnpfschiff, though, moved off quietly, and was
presently lost sight of in the windings of the river. A
pleasant voyage was thus unexpectedly changed into an
anxious pursuit after lost baggage by the first boat from
above. . Happily, one arrived within an hour, and soon
found them, now made quite intimate by misfortune, walking the deck, and talking over, in mingled French, English
and Italian, their common calamity. It was impossible,
though, not to notice what appeared to be the singular
resemblance in the interior arrangements of the steamers
on the river Rhine. Here and there were the counterparts
of things on board the ill-mannered craft that had so
ungraciously left them. Even the men had a familiar air.
The bags and boxes seemed to be duplicates of those upon
their own boat. More curious still, there were trunks that

332

ON THE EVE OF EMBARKATION FOR AMERICA.

were the very brothers of their own : and so, indeed, to
their agreeable surprise, they were their own ; and they were
going down the Rhine in the right steamer. They had
taken it unconsciously, as it returned to the landing, from
which, during the night, it had loosed, and gone above to
give place to the one that had so naturally involved them
in mistake.
To SARAH COLE.
LONDON, June 16th, 1842.
MY DEAR SARAH,—I arrived here yesterday, but was not
able to get my letters until to-day. The first letter that I
opened was the one that announced to me the death of our
dear brother.* I will not attempt to say how much the
information affected me. * * I will not dwell upon the
melancholy event, but am very thankful that the last days
of our brother were peaceful.
*
*^
Since I last wrote, I have travelled through Switzerland,
part of Germany, and landed in England from Rotterdam,
yesterday. I have so much to say that I cannot write, and
leave it in hope that I shall soon see you.
*
*
Give my love to Ann and Emma. I hope my return will
serve to cheer them.
*
*
*
Your affectionate brother,
THOMAS COLE.
* Dr. George Ackerly.

CHAPTER

XXXIII.

To Mr. Greene ; the Catskills.—Thoughts, &c.; arrival at home; the beautiful, the true.—Cole a member of the church.—To Mr. Edmonds; picture
of Mount iEtna.—Thoughts, &c.; New Year's Day.—To Mr. Greene; art,
artists.—To Ver Bryck.—To the Same; art, critics.—Thoughts, &c.:
associations.
*.
To G. W. GREENE, ESQ., Consul at Rome.
MY DEAR SIR,—I have now been nearly a month at home.
*
*
* You will, I know, be pleased to learn that I
arrived in safety, and found my family in excellent health.
Of course there was a little commotion on my arrival, which
was a day or two earlier than expected. Since then I have
been walking, and looking about, marking the changed,
observing the unchanged. In fact, I have been in a very
idle mood. I have done something towards a beginning to
paint, although I have not yet touched a canvass. * * *
Must I tell you that neither the Alps nor the Apennines,
no, nor even iEtna itself, have dimned, in my eyes, the beauty
of our own Catskills? It seems to me that I lodk on
American scenery, if it were possible, with increased pleasure. It has its own peculiar charm—a something not found
elsewhere. I am content with nature : would that I were
with a r t !
I wish I could transport you here for a few days to enjoy
with me these magnificent mountains : I know you would be

334

THOUGHTS, ETC. : CONVEKSATIONAL.

willing to repay me in kind, and take me out of the Porta
Pia to get a sight of Mont Albano.
*
*
*
Yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.
To W M . A. ADAMS, ESQ.
CATSKILL, Aug. 26th, 1842.

DEAR ADAMS,—

*

*

*

At my silence for the

last year you will not be altogether surprised, when I inform
you that year was spent in the Old World, from which I
returned only a month ago. The last winter I spent in
Eome : since that I have travelled through Sicily, and on
my homeward way viewed the far-famed Ehine. I have
seen much, and, I trust, acquired knowledge. My health has
been much benefitted, and I shall now be able to go to
work with renewed spirit and capacity. I wish you had
been with me when viewing the wonders of ancient art,
the remains of antiquity, and the magnificent works of
nature ; for, although, at times, I was favoured with congenial companions, I often turned round in vain for some
one to whom I might say, " How beautiful is this."
I have been an idle, do-nothing sort of person since my
return. I have had so much to see, so much to talk about,
so much to enjoy in the society of my wife, children and
friends, that it has been impossible to work. But, in all
human probability, the next week will see some canvass
spoiled.
*
*
*
Believe me, yours truly,
THOMAS. COLE.
November 27, 1842.—It seems strange to me that I have
not written a word on these leaves since my return from
Europe. I t is not because there has not been anything of
interest to write, but rather that there has been too much.
I returned, July 30th. The Great Western entered the
harbour of New York—never was there a more beautiful

335

THE BEAUTIFUL, THE TRUE.

morning. Everything looked brilliantly, the sky, the water
and the earth, and my spirits were in harmony with all.
The same evening, I left, in the boat, and arrived at home
after midnight. I was hardly expected so soon, but was
not the less welcome. I found all well—Maria—children—
all. For a few weeks after my return I felt happier, perhaps, than I ever did in my life. Would that such bliss
were more enduring! But it may not be in this world.
The cares and anxieties of life will crowd upon us, and we
are only now and then permitted to get a foretaste of the
joys that, we hope, are in store for us hereafter. These
brief seasons of happiness are bought by months of painful
care. *
* How much I grieved during my absence.
But, thank God, I am once more at home, and have learned
to value more highly than ever my own fireside.
Snow-squalls to-day—during the intervals, brilliant sunshine. The woods are roaring in the blast. I fear the
river will soon close.
" What now as beauty thou dost know,
Shall one day come to thee again as truth."

SCHILLER.

Doubtless the true and beautiful are one in art and
nature. Truth is the fixed and unchangeable standard of
taste. A work of art, however it may please the fancy and
amuse the eye of the multitude at first, unless built upon
truth, will presently pass away : on the contrary, one which
has truth for its foundation will remain permanent, and
make its way to the mind and heart at last, though it
struggle for a season with neglect. By truth in nature,
I mean anything's fulfillment of the objects and purposes
for which it was created. The true leaf or flower, for
instance, will be that which perfectly performs its various
functions, and so accomplishes its appointed work. In the

336

THE BEAUTIFUL, THE TRUE.

human form the true and beautiful will be that which is
completely developed for the ends and offices of life. By
the true in art, I mean the imitation of the true in nature, not
the imitation of accidents, nor merely the common imitation
of nature indiscriminately. All nature is not true. I may
instance the withered vine, the imperfect flower, the stunted
tree. These are false, and deformities. I would say, the
true and the beautiful in art are the reproduction of the perfect in nature, and the carrying out of principles which
nature suggests. Art, in its true sense, is, in fact, man's
lowly imitation of the creative power of the Almighty.
The Apollo, the Farnesian Hercules, the Venus de Medici, are as true as anything art has achieved. In the
Apollo are embodied dignity, agility and grace ; in the
Hercules, force and masculine power; in the Venus, the
excellence of feminine form, destitute in great measure of
intellectual expression. These works are true, having their
type in nature. All forms, all principles of beauty live in
nature. To her the artist must always turn if he would
produce a work of immortality.
Upon the principle laid down, the lowliest creature in
the world may be beautiful; for instance, the oyster : so
indeed it is. But not pictorially beautiful, perhaps.
Not to follow the subject further, one thing is clear to
my faith. When, to our clay-clogged perceptions, and to the
dimness in which all objects at present are immersed, shall
succeed the fine medium of eternity, and the piercing vision
of the soul in its new and glorious body, then shall we
behold, according to the poet, that that has come to us as
truth, which once we knew as beauty.
A subject which Cole had, for some time, been revolving
in his mind very prayerfully, but of which we find no

FIRST PICTURE OF iETNA.

337

record in his secret journal, was that of his becoming a
member of the church. The step was taken after his return
from Europe, when he received baptism, and the rite of
confirmation, and came to the communion. How he adorned
his profession may be gathered from concluding chapters.
To F. W. EDMONDS, ESQ.
December 17th, 1842.

iEtna was sent to New York yesterday, * * and as something explanatory of the subject
may be desired, I take the liberty of saying it to you.
The view is taken between Caltagirone and Lentini; the
time just after sunrise. iEtna, which is about forty miles
distant, lifts its snowy head in the warm sunlight, while the
base of the mountain is partly veiled in the vapoury atmosphere and the mists of the morning. On the left, and
nearer than iEtna, is a range of broken hills. Upon the
peak of one is seen a tower, which is said to have been
occupied by Nero during an eruption of the Volcano. Between the foot of the mountain and the middle ground is an
undulating country, with here and there a village or tower
rising from the hazy shadows into the golden glances of
the sun. The middle ground is composed of bean and
grain fields, with groves of olive trees. On the left, in the
foreground, is a large Caruba tree, and upon the right the
remains of an aqueduct.
It may be supposed that the flowers are too abundant in
the picture. This is not possible. It must be remembered
that the scene is not far from the fields of Enna. * *
Yours, &c,
MY DEAR SIR,—The

THOMAS COLE.

The iEtna of which he speaks above, the first of four, of
22

388

CONVERSATIONAL.—ARTS, ARTISTS.

nearly the same scenef was painted for the American Art
Union.
January 1,1843.—It is not without sadness that I write
the title of the coming year. * * The departing year
has been an eventful one to me. It has had deep anxieties,
and heartfelt pleasures. * * I have arranged my studio,
settled down to my old painting habits, finished several
pictures, and am now looking out over the snow-clad landscape. What a contrast between this winter and last I
Yet I delight in the clear air, when it is not too cold.
#
#
*
*
To G. W. GREENE, ESQ.
M Y BEAR SIR,—I live, you know, in a remote sort of
place, and in winter, have little intercourse with the great
world, and have not been able to learn what has occurred
respecting the Eoman Consulship. * * I do not feel
perfectly satisfied here. Reputation, ability, are little
prized among us. We talk much about them, and pretend
to be proud of them. At the same time every tyro in art
is said by the critics to rank with the great artists, ancient
and modern; and the youth in his teens, who can paint a
cabbage, is lauded as a Zeuxis or a Raphael. I care not
for the censure or praise of such critics, except in so far as
it affects me in a pecuniary way. But one who has gained
some reputation, and hopes he is not entirely unworthy of
it, ought to be able to live by his profession, although
younger artists are in the field. There is little of real art
in our atmosphere, and to me but few congenial minds. I
languish, sometimes, for the intercourse I enjoyed last winter, and feel that there is little to bind me here but my
family, and my own dear Catskills. But then a man must
not be a vagabond, and roam all the days of his life. He

CONVERSATIONAL.—ARTS, ARTISTS.

339

ought to cast anchor in some quiet harbour. He who lives
for himself alone, will find himself, at last, lone and melancholy.
*
* ' *
How I should love to see Thorwaldsen. It would do my
heart good to see him at work, as I have seen him. I hope
he is well. If you think he would remember me, tell him
that I would tender my sincere regards.
*
*
I told you in my last that Crawford's bust of Orpheus
was sadly shattered about the neck ; but I have repaired it,
and intend to put it in the exhibition. I hope he is well,
and bravely at work. The Orpheus must be far advanced
by this time.
**
*
Would you know what is going on here in the way of
art ? It is difficult to say, except that Tom has painted a
portrait which shames the old masters ; Dick has just finished a red herring to the very life ; and Harry has completed his grand historical picture of the Pig-Killing. But
this is too bad. Huntington has finished a very fine picture
from the Pilgrim's Progress. Page is painting Jeptha's
Daughter. For myself, I have been engaged " pot-boiling "
all winter : drudgery, drudgery, and precious time flying.
I told you in my last that I arrived happily at home :
and I was happy. But, alas! there is no exemption from
mortal cares. My wife is well, and the children rosy and
noisy. The Catskills are as beautiful as ever. We are
now closed up by winter, which is long and severe. What
a contrast ? You are among the green things of spring, I
in the midst of snows.
*
*
*
Yours, &c;

THOMAS COLE.

To C. L. VER BRYCK.
CATSKILL, Jan. 17th, 1843.
MY DEAR V E R B R Y C K , — " 0 , are you sleepin' Maggie V

I am not going to sing you a Scotch song, but to expostu-

340

HUMOUROUS.

late. I well remember a certain melancholy sort of gentleman, who, in spite of his Jaques-like vein, had much of
music in him : but, at times, he hung up his harp, and
the listeners listened in vain. He would promise a strain,
but it came not: and those who expected pleasure, received
disappointment. * * * I knew a person too who had a
friend, whom he esteemed very much ; he resided in a
remote place, the friend in a large city. *• * * The
friend, ' compassionating the recluse's solitary situation,
promised to send a book or two from the great city, in
order that the long winter evenings might be shortened,
and the tedious storms mitigated through their benign influence. A letter was likewise promised with news from the
great world, so that the wondering ears of the recluse's
wife might be gratified with the strange doings and events
of that same world. Perhaps the harper and the friend
may be the same person. I should be led to infer as much,
because both had promised what they did not perform. * *
I am desirous to know something about the world of the
fine arts. I have heard, of late, next to nothing. I am in
a remote place. I am forgotten by the great world, if I
ever was known. What a dismal situation ! Yet I hope
to survive. I take a little mountain refreshment, now and
then a good bowl of sunrise, and another of sunset, which
is more than you can get, unless it is vilely smoked. Pray
write to me soon, but do not promise anything, as you
love me.
I remain yours, until you let me forget you,
THOMAS COLE.

TO THE SAME.
CATSKILL, February 21, 1843.

MY DEAR V E N BRYCK — *

*

*

I am afraid the reso-

lutions you made, when last here, have been put to flight by

THE FINE ARTS.

341

a certain little, trickish fellow, sometimes called Cupid.
He is a sad fellow at times ; though, like the sun and the
rain, we cannot get along without him.
*
*
*
The catalogue of fine works of art in New York is certainly not a long one, and heaven knows when it will be
creditable to so large a city. Nevertheless, I wish I had
been with you and Huntington. You think I do not lose
much by residing in this remote place. Perhaps not much ;
and I would not exchange for the city. Yet the little I
lose is important: the intercourse with a few congenial
minds is stimulating and healthful in its influence. * * *
I have just read in the New World, that Huntington has
completed his historical picture, and that it is considered a
fine work. I have no doubt it is so. I am anxious to see
it. But our critics are strange creatures, half-fledged chickens, that twist their necks with a crow, perfectly ludicrous
at times. Your mention of iEtna reminds me that I have
of late been delivering a lecture before the illustrious and
learned Lyceum and gentry of Catskill, on Sicilian scenery
and antiquities. . • *
*
*
*
Do you know I have had the ineffable pleasure of sitting on the grand jury of late, and have been studying
cases of assault and battery, bigamy, larceny, etc., to my
heart's content, rather discontent ? You see what a public
man your friend is becoming.
*
#
*
Your letter commenced very plaintively, and I am obliged
to you for Ophelia's strain. But a little more of the allegro in your letter would have given me heartfelt pleasure.
*
*
*
I remain yours, as ever,
THOMAS COLE.

February 26th, 1843.—How the soul is linked in harmonies and associations! A word spoken now recalls one

342

ASSOCIATIONS.

spoken years ago. A strain of music, a single tone of the
voice, wings the mind into the distant past. A mountain
here sends one, in a thought, to a mountain in a foreign
land; the streamlet, warbling at one's feet, is answered to
by another on a far-oflf continent. Things not only suggest
their like but their very opposite. A feather can remind
us of greatness and empire ; a mist, of Heaven ; a rock, of
the very lightness and mutability of things upon earth ; a
leaf, of the unchangable nature of paradise. By this magnetism of ideas is the world of the mind drawn together,
and bound. This world of the mind is, in infancy, a point:
it increases with the hours, the weeks, the years. As old
age approaches, the accumulated materials begin to fall
away,—the latest first, and so on towards the point of
infancy.

CHAPTER

XXXIV.

Thoughts and occurrences: the Falls of the Caterskill in winter; winter;
pictures painted.—The Ministration of Angels.—Thoughts, &c: Allston.—
A sunset.

THE FALLS OF THE CATERSKILL IN WINTER.
Winter, hoary, stern and strong,
Sits the mountain crags among ;
On his bleak and horrid throne,
Drift on drift the snow is piled
Into forms grotesque and wild :
Ice-ribbed precipices shed
Cold light round his grisly head :
Clouds athwart his brows are bound,
Ever whirling round and round.

March, 1843.—We have often heard that the Falls of
Caterskill present an interesting spectacle in mid-winter ;
but, despite our strong desire to visit them, winter after
winter has passed away without the accomplishment of our
wish, until a few days ago. Feb. 27th, a party of ladies,
who, to do them justice, are generally more alive to the
beauties of nature than our gentlemen, invited Mrs. C. and
myself to join in this tour in search of the wintry picturesque.
The preparation of our whole party was short; but

344

CATERSKILL FALLS.

anticipated pleasure made us prompt. The pantries were
ransacked ; cloaks, moccasins and mittens were in great
demand, and we were soon glancing over the creaking
snow. The sleigh-bells rang in harmony with our spirits,
which, as usual, when we can break away from our ordinary
occupations with a clear conscience, and breathe the fresh
air, are light and gay.
On approaching the mountains, we were somewhat fearful
that a snow-storm would put an end to our journey ; but it
proved transitory, and, in truth, added to our enjoyment, for
by partially veiling the mountains it gave them a vast, visionary, and spectral appearance. The sun, which had been
shorn of his beams, broke forth in mild splendour, just as we
came in view of the Mountain House, seated on the bleak
crags a few hundred feet above us. Leaving the House to
the left, we crossed the lesser of the two lakes. From its
level breast, now covered with snow, the mountains rose
in desolate grandeur, their steep sides bristling with bare
trees, or clad in sturdy evergreens; here and there was to
be seen a silvery birch, so pale and wan that one might
readily imagine that it drew its aliment from the snow that
rested round its roots. The Clove valley, the lofty range
of the High-Peak and Kound-Top, which rise beyond, as
seen from the road between the House and the Falls,
are in summer grand objects; but winter had given them
a sterner character. The mountains seemed more precipitous, and the forms that embossed their sides more
clearly defined. The projecting mounds, the rocky terraces,
the shaggy clefts, down which the courses of the torrents
could be traced by the gleaming ice, were exposed in the
leafless forests and clear air of winter ; while across the
grizzly peaks the snow was driving rapidly. There is
beauty, there is sublimity in the wintry aspect of the

CATERSKILL FALLS.

345

mountains; but their beauty is touched with melancholy,
and their sublimity takes a dreary tone.
Before speaking of the Caterskill Falls, as arrayed in
wintry garb, it will be necessary, in order to render myself intelligible to those who have never visited them, to
give a hasty sketch of their appearance in summer.
There is a deep gorge in the midst of the loftiest Catskills, which, at its upper end, is terminated by a mighty wall
of rock ; as the spectator approaches from below, he sees
its craggy and impending front rising to the height of three
hundred feet. This huge rampart is semi-circular. From
the centre of the more distant or central part of the semicircle, like a gush of living light from Heaven, the cataract
leaps, and foaming into feathery spray, descends into a
rocky basin one hundred and eighty feet below; thence
the water flows over a platform forty or fifty feet, and precipitates itself over another rock eighty feet in height;
then struggling and foaming through the shattered fragments of the mountains, and shadowed by fantastic trees, it
plunges into the gloomy depths of the valley below. The
stream is but a small one, except when swollen by the rains
and melted snows of spring and autumn ; yet a thing of
light and motion is at all times sufficient to give expression
to the scene, which is one of savage and silent grandeur.
But its semi-circle cavern or gallery is, perhaps, the most
remarkable feature of the scene. This has been formed in
the wall of rock by the gradual crumbling away of a narrow stratum of soft shell, that lies beneath gray rocks of
hardest texture. The gray rock now projects sixty or seventy feet, and forms a stupendous canopy, over which the
cataract shoots; underneath it, if the ground were level,
thousands of men might stand. A narrow path, tolerably
even, but raised about twenty feet above the basin of the

346

CATERSKILL FALLS.

waterfall, leads through a depth of this arched gallery,
which is about five hundred feet long.
It is a singular, a wonderful scene, whether viewed from
above, where the stream leaps into the tremendous gulf
scooped into the very heart of the huge mountain, or as
seen from below the second fall—the impending crags—
the shadowy depth of the cavern, across which darts the
cataract, that, broken into fleecy forms, is tossed and
swayed, hither and thither, by the wayward wind—the
sound of the water now falling upon the ear in a loud roar,
and now in fitful, lower tones—the lonely voice—the solitary song of the valley.
But to visit the scene in winter is a privilege permitted
to few, and to visit it this winter, when the spectacle (if I
may so call it) is more than usually magnificent, and, as the
hunters say, more complete than has been known for thirty
years, is indeed worthy a long pilgrimage. What a contrast to its summer aspect! No leafy woods, no blossoms
glittering in the sun, rejoice upon the steeps around! Hoary
winter
" O'er forests wide has laid his hand,
And they are bare ;
They move and moan a spectral band,
Struck by despair ?"

There are overhanging rocks, and the dark browed cavern; but where the spangled cataract fell, stands a gigantic
tower of ice, reaching from the basin of the waterfall to
the very summit of the crags. From the jutting rocks,
that form the canopy of which I have spoken, hang festoons of glittering icicles. Not a drop of water, not a
gush of spray is to be seen ; no sound of many waters
strikes the ear, not even as of a gurgling rivulet or trick-

CATERSKILL FALLS.

347

ling r i l l ; all is silent and motionless as death ; and did not
the curious eye perceive, through two window-like spaces
of clear ice, the falling water, one would be led to believe
that all was bound in icy fetters. But there falls the cataract, not imprisoned, but shielded like a thing too delicate
for the blasts of winter to blow upon. It falls, too, as in
summer it falls, broken into myriads of diamonds, which
group themselves as they descend, into wedge-like forms,
like wild fowl when traversing the blue air. I have said
that the tower or perforated column of ice reaches the
whole height of the first fall; its base rests on a field of
snow-covered ice, spread over the basin and rocky platform,
that in some parts is broken into miniature glaciers. Near
the foot it is more than thirty feet in diameter, but is somewhat narrower above. It is in general of a milk-white
colour, and curiously embossed with rich and fantastic ornaments ; about its base are numerous dome-like forms, supported by groups of icicles. In other parts are to be seen
falling strands of flowers, each flower ruffled by the breeze ;
these were of the most transparent ice. This curious
frost-work reminded me of the tracery and icicle-like ornament frequent in Saracenic architecture : and I have no
doubt that nature suggested such ornament to the architect,
as the most fitting for halls where ever-flowing fountains
cooled the sultry air. Here and there, suspended from the
projecting rocks that form the eaves of the great gallery,
are groups and ranks of icicles of every variety of size and
number. Some of them are twenty or thirty feet in length.
Sparkling in the sun-light, they form a magnificent fringe.
The scene is striking from many points of view; but one
seemed superior to the rest. Near by, and overhead, hung
a broad festoon of icicles : a little further on, another cluster of icicles of great size, grouped with the columns all in

348

CATERSKILL FALLS,

full sunlight, contrasting finely with the sombre cavern behind. The icicles in this group appear to be broken off
midway some time ago, and from their truncated ends
numerous smaller icicles depend : they look like gorgeous
chandeliers, or the richest pendants of a gothic cathedral
wrought in crystal.
Beyond these icicles and the column, is seen a cluster of
lesser columns and icicles, of pure cerulean colour ; then
come the broken rocks and woods. The icy spears—the
majestic tower—the impending rocks overhead—the wild
valley below with its contorted trees—the lofty mountains
towering in the distance, compose a " wild and wondrous"
scene, where the Ice-king
" Builds, In the starlight clear and cold,
" A palace of ice, where the torrent falls,
" With turret and arch, and fretwork fair,
66
And pillars blue as the summer air."

We left the spot with lingering steps and real regret, for
in all probability we were never to see these wintry glories
again. The royal architect builds but unstable structures,
which, like worldly virtues, quickly vanish in the full light,
and fiery trial.
It may be asked, by the curious, how the gigantic cylinder
of ice is formed round the water-fall. The question is easily
answered : the spray first congeals in a circle round the
foot of the Fall, and as long as the frosts continue, this circular wall keeps rising until it reaches the summit of the
cataract, as is the case this winter ; but ordinarily, the
column only rises part of the way up. Even when imperfectly formed, it must be strange to see the water shoot into
the hollow tube of ice fifty or one hundred feet high, and I
have no doubt it would amply repay any one for the fatigue
and exposure to which he might be subjected in his visit.

AFTER THE TEMPTATION.

S49

March 26, 1843.—It is still winter, inexorable winter.
Snow-storm has followed snow-storm, furious winds have
blown from the northwest, and drifts of great depth been
piled up.
*
*
We never longed so much
for spring. Maria wishes to be in the garden among the
flowers, and I wish to ramble over the hills. But we must
wait patiently. A fine comet is now flaming in the heavens.
The train is of great length, stretching across one-third of
the sky.
July 30.—It is a year to-day since I arrived from Europe.
It was a happy day. I have had pleasant days since; but many
of them strongly seasoned with the troubles of this uncertain
world. I have worked hard, but fear that I have produced
little of great beauty or value. The pictures I have painted
are a small view of the Torri di Schiave; Campagna di
Roma ; View of Mount JGtna at Sunrise ; Ruins of Temples
at Agrigentum ; Temple of Segeste ; Kenilworth Castle ;
Rubligh Mountain, Switzerland; Aqueducts, Campagna di
Roma; Snow piece, and several sketches. I am now engaged on a large picture, which, I trust, will be of more importance than anything I have done for a length of time.
I have painted it in a serious spirit, and I hope its effect
will be religious.
*
• *
* #
After the Temptation, or " The Angels Ministering to
Christ in the Wilderness/ 7 was one of Cole's largest sacred
landscapes. It is spoken of as it was, rather than as it now
is. It represented an immense tract of uncultivated country, Judean in its character, a little after day-break. The
beholder is looking east. The left foreground was a fine
example of the broken and rocky. The eye swept instantly
down into a great gulf, opening off to the north, and then as
instantly rose out of its blackness, following up the ribbed

350

THOUGHTS, ETC. : ALLSTON.

sides of an impending precipice, and the piled rocks mountain high. Into that abyss the Tempter, an evil-looking
form, was seen descending.
Christ and the two angels form a bright group in the
right foreground. The radiance, which is their own, and
not of the dawning, is heightened by the heavy mass of
mingled foliage and darkness above them.
In from the foreground, the picture widened almost to
the boundless, giving an horizon of grandest circle, and
weary extents of earth, with their manifold features of varied
grace and ruggedness, still dim and sleeping beneath a veil
of soft and vapoury twilight. Morning is, as yet, only
wakening the heavens : the fire of the red day-break is just
catching along the under folds of the low, sullen clouds of
night, yet gloomily mantling the scene. It had great grandeur, great solemnity, great repose. So predominant were
these qualities of the picture, as a simple piece of nature,
that the group of celestial figures were thereby thrown into
the false position of accessories. To redeem them from
that, and give them their due importance, Cole was persuaded by an officious friend to cut the canvass down to its
present size ; in which, indeed, there is visible all the subtle,
spiritual beauty of the silent, solemn hour represented, but
with a sad diminution of its original grandeur as a landscape.
Allston is dead! As a man he was beloved by all who
were so fortunate as to be acquainted with him. It was
not my lot to have a very great intercourse with him:
that which I had has caused me to regret his loss exceedingly.
He was truly a distinguished artist, and has executed
works which will never cease to be highly prized, and considered great works of art. His taste was pure, and

ALLST0N.—A SUNSET.

351

elevated far above that of most of his cotemporaries. He
always aimed at the highest beauty, both of execution and
sentiment, ever considering the former as the servant of the
latter. His Dead Man Restored by touching the bones of
Elisha, and his Miriam, may be considered among his finest
works. His Belshazzar I have not seen. Some of the small
pictures painted in later years are exquisite. The sketches,
and half-finished pictures, which I have seen in his studio,
are charming. It is to be regretted that they were never
finished.
*
*
*
*
He was a great artist, a good man, an honour to his
country—one whose name should be revered and respected.
In person, he was about the middle size, and when I knew
him, spare and almost emaciated. His countenance was
pale, marked with deep lines, and full of mobility. His
eyes were very prominent, his forehead retreating, and his
hair falling on his shoulders in silvery ringlets. His walk
was peculiar, a sort of springing gait, as though his spirit
could scarcely b.e kept from rising by its mortal cumbrance.
He is gone to that land where the love and beauty
which dwelt so much in his soul will be perfected and
glorified.
A SUNSET.
I saw a glory in the etherial deep;
A glory such as from the higher heaven
Must have descended. Earth does never keep
In its embrace such beauty. Clouds were driven,
As by God's breath, into unearthly forms,
And then did glow, and burn with living flames,
And hues so bright, so wonderful and rare,
That human language cannot give them names;
And light and shadow strangely linked their arms
In loveliness: and all continual were
In change; and with each change there came new charms.

A SUNSET.
Nor orient pearls, nor flowers in glittering dew,
Nor golden tinctures, nor the insect's wings,
Nor purple splendours for imperial view,
Nor all that art, or earth to mortals brings,
Can e'er compare with what the skies unfurl'd.
These are the wings of angels, I exclaimed,
Spread in their mystic beauty o'er the world.
Be ceaseless thanks to God that, in his love,
He gives such glimpses of the life above,
That we, poor pilgrims, on this darkling sphere,
Beyond its shadows may our hopes uprear.

CHAPTER

XXXV.

Picture of Mtna, from Taormina.—To Mrs. Cole: the Sketch Club.—To Mr.
Parker; L'Allegro and II Penseroso.—Campagna di Roma.—To Mr. Wadsworth : proposed pictures, Sowing and Reaping; Life, Death, and Immortality.—To Mrs. Cole: the Mill at Sunset.—To the Same : Moon over the
left Shoulder.—Poem of the Voyage of Life.—Thoughts, &c. : death of Ver
Bryck.—Pictures of 1845-6.—To Mrs. Cole: the Elijah.—Church/the
painter.—Twilight.

THE ensuing autumn and winter, Cole made an exhibition
of some of his pictures, first in Boston, and then in New
York, but not with the success anticipated.
The following, dated New York, December 9th, 1843,
was written to his wife, a few days previous to the opening
of his exhibition in the old gallery of the Academy of
Design, in Clinton H a l l :
" Since I last wrote I have been as busy as anybody possibly can be. Mrs. Reed could not let me have the Course
of Empire, which, you know, is a great disappointment, as
it must diminish the effect of my exhibition. But I have
determined to make up for it, and have commenced a large
picture, larger than the AngeFs Ministering to Christ, of
Mount iEtna from Taormina. I have already finished
two-thirds of it, and have only painted on it two days. I
never painted so rapidly in my life."
He might have added. " nor with more delight."
23

It was

354

JETNA FROM TAORMINA.

painted in the gallery, with the pictures ready for exhibition
around him. During its progress his sister paid him a visit.
"With a great brush, his palette piled with colours, and with
coat off, he went rushing to the canvass. " Ah, Sarah," said
he, as she entered, " this is the room to paint in—and this is
the way I love to paint."
Speaking of this work, Bryant says, " It was a miracle of
rapid and powerful execution. It was not so generally admired as many of his works, and no doubt had in it some of
the imperfections of haste ; but, for my part, I never stood
before it without feeling that sense of elevation and enlargement with which we look upon huge and lofty mountains in
nature. With me, at least, the artist had succeeded in producing the effect at which he aimed, I have no doubt that
he painted it with a mind full of the greatness of the subject,
with a feeling of sublime awe, produced by the image of that
mighty mountain, the summit of which is white with perpetual snow, while the slopes around its base are basking
in perpetual summer, and on whose peak the sunshine yet
lingers, while the valleys, at its foot, lie in the evening twilight." Subjoined is Cole's description of the
picture:
MOUNT uETNA FROM TAORMINA, SICILY.

The scene, from which the artist took this picture, is considered
one of the finest in the world. In the distance rises Mount JEtna,
clad in snows, which the fires of the volcano never entirely dissolve.
Its height is about eleven thousand feet above the Mediterranean,
which, on the left of the picture, is seen to indent the eastern coast
of Sicily. In the middle distance of the picture, forming part of
the vast base of iEtna, is a varied country, broken yet fertile, and
interspersed with villages, olive groves and vineyards. Crowning
a hill, on the right of +1 ^^are, may be seen part of the village

L'ALLEGRO AND IL PENSEROSO.

355

of Taormina, anciently a city of consequence, and now interesting
to the traveller from the numerous remains of Grecian and Roman
antiquity, which still exist. In the foreground, is the ancient
theatre of Taormina, one of the most remarkable remains of antiquity. This theatre was built by the Greeks. The Romans afterwards altered it, so as to adapt it to their less tasteful and refined
exhibitions. It afterwards became a Saracenic palace and fortress,
and more recently, the villa of a Sicilian nobleman. It has been
abandoned for many years, and has suffered from time and violence,
and is now in the state in which it is represented in the picture.
The time is soon after sunrise.
To MRS. COLE:
NEW YORK, Jan. 5th,

1844.

*
* The Hartford people wish to have my picture of
iEtna for their new Lyceum, where they have a fine exhibition-room. They will give me $500 for it. Pretty good
for five days work.
*
*
*
I had the club here on Friday last. There has never
been a fuller meeting, nor a more pleasant one. The article
on Sicily seems to please. I suppose you have gotten your
Knickerbocker before this ?
x
x
*
*
*
*
#
To MR. CHARLES PARKER.
NEW YORK, Jan. 8, 1844.

DEAR SIR,—* * I now write to say, unless you suggest
something from nature, of which I have sketches, or from
poetry or history, I intend to commence two pictures, to be
called L'Allegro and II Penseroso. In the first, I should
represent a sunny luxuriant landscape, with figures engaged
in gay pastimes or pleasant occupation. In the second, I
would represent some ivy clad ruin in the solemn twilight,
with a solitary figure musing amid the decaying grandeur

356

PROPOSED PICTURES : SOWING AND REAPING.

around. I hope the subject will suit your taste, for it is
one on which I can work con amore. I have just finished
two pictures for Miss Hicks. One is a view of the Campagna di Roma, the other a fancy piece.
#
*
I remain, yours truly,
THOMAS COLE.

The Campagna di Roma, (using the appropriate language
of Bryant,) with its broad masses of shadow dividing the
sunshine that bathes the solitary plain strown with ruins,
its glorious mountains in the distance, and its silence made
visible to the eye, is one of those pictures of Cole which we
most value, and most affectionately admire.
To MR. WADSWORTH, of Hartford, Conn.

* * I have been dwelling on many subjects, and looking forward to the time when I can embody
them on the canvass. They are subjects of a moral and
religious nature. On such I think it the duty of the artist
to employ his abilities : for his mission, if I may so term it,
is a great and serious one. His works ought not to be a
dead imitation of things, without the power to impress a
sentiment, or enforce a truth,
If it is not taking too great a liberty, I will attempt to
describe one or two of the subjects which I am desirous to
paint. One is to be called Sowing and Reaping, in four
paintings.
The first would represent a rich and beautiful landscape
in spring—streams, waterfalls, trees, cottages and a rainbow. In the foreground, as a principal figure, should be a
husbandman sowing grain. Others might be seen engaged
in the various occupations of agriculture of the season. It
should be a fresh and vigorous landscape, full of motion. In
DEAR SIR,—*

LIFE, DEATH AND IMMORTALITY.

357

this the husbandman, trusting to bounteous Heaven, commits the seed to the earth.
The second would represent a battle-field : a conqueror
riding over the slain in pursuit of a defeated enemy, cornfields and villages burning, every thing to depict the horrid
effects of war. In this picture, the conqueror, trusting in
his own strength, sows his seed of ambition.
The third picture would represent reaping. The same
scene as the first, but in harvest time—the reapers coming
from the field, or bringing the last loaded wagons into the
barn ; the husbandman sitting at the door of his dwelling,
under his vine and porch, in the midst of his happy family.
Here the husbandman reaps the honest fruits of his labour.
In the fourth picture the conqueror is seen sitting with
gloomy brow in a magnificent chamber of his palace, by a
table, upon which is a dagger, and a paper inscribed with
names, and headed Proscription. In the background are
seen conspirators stealing from behind massive columns to
assassinate him. In this the conqueror reaps the fruits of
ambition. In this series the moral lesson would be obvious.
Another subject under consideration I would call Life,
Death and Immortality—a series of three pictures.
The first picture, Life, would represent day—a magnificent landscape—distant mountains, flying clouds casting their
shadows over the green hills, rivers, waterfalls, luxuriant
trees and fields of waving grain, vessels wafted by the
breeze; all sunny, figures variously engaged, children and
old men—every thing to indicate the fullness and variety
of life.
The second picture, Death, should be night—a wild and
dreary landscape—a few leafless trees stretch their branches
across the gloomy sky, a distant view of the ocean, a few
faint streaks of light on the horizon, the vestiges of de-

358

THE NEW YORK GALLERY.

parted day, a vast cavern seen in the sides of a mountain,
and descending into it a funeral procession, torch-light, the
corpse covered with white drapery, and followed by a few
mourners. The cavern will be lighted by torches, the
rocks, arches and columns retiring into the deep gloom,
here and there a sarcophagus or other monumental form,
showing that this is the sepulchre of the multitudinous
dead. A tone of solemn gloom and darkness must pervade
this picture.
The third, Immortality. Any description of this picture
would, perhaps, only mislead, as its effect will depend
mostly on its execution. It will consist of angels conducting a spirit towards the gates of heaven, a flood of light
bursting from on high upon the ascending figures, and
piercing the trackless gloom that lies behind them.
In this series, the transient fullness of Life is contrasted
with the gloomy silence of succeeding Death, which again is
the preparation for the glories of Immortality, intimated,
but not disclosed.
In painting these pictures there would, of course, be
changes and variations from what I have written, in order
to the accomplishment of pictorial effect. The figures, in
general, would be comparatively small.
To MRS. COLE:
NEW YORK, March 15,

1844.

** * * My picture is in a state that I cannot well
leave it. And to-night there is a second meeting of gentlemen at Mr. Sturges' on the subject of establishing a permanent gallery of pictures in the city of New York. The
Reed gallery is to be purchased as a commencement. The
Course of Empire, in such a case will be disposed of in a
manner most agreeable to me.
*
*
*

MILL AT SUNSET.

359

The picture of which he speaks, called the "Mill at Sunset,"
is one of those rare creations of the pencil that touch the
thoughtfuLbeholder like a rich and tender melody. If the
expression may be allowed, it is a pictured song ; one of
the finest of songs too, and most beautifully pictured. The
manifold sounds and activities of the day are so far quieted
that the cattle, ruminating or grazing in the luxuriant pasture, the children sporting on the flowery green, and the
busy mill, are left as striking characteristics of the scene,
and sing to the heart, while the rich vesture of the month,
the glassy lake, reflecting the quiet beauty of the floating
clouds, and all bathed in the day's last delicious light, fill
the senses, and entrance the soul. For beauty of composition, fine colouring, graceful line and delicacy of touch, and
that moist, living air, so peculiar to Cole, few of his pictures are superior to the " Mill at Sunset.77
Dissatisfied with the subjects which circumstrances now
required him to paint, and saddened by the death of Ver
Bryck, Cole found, during his favourite month of June, exercise for thought, as well as solace for his grief, in the composition of a poem, in four cantos; a kind of translation,
in heroic verse, of his painted Allegory of the Voyage of
Life, and containing passages of great strength, beauty and
pathos. Among his larger poems, this, for the music of its
verse and some other qualities, would undoubtedly stand
first with the mass of readers.
July 9,1844*—Since writing on these pages, many months
have elapsed. I spent the winter in the city, but sorrowfully, for I was separated from my dear wife and children.
It seemed well on account of business. I exhibited the
largest collection of my pictures that I ever placed before
the public, at one time.

360

EXCURSION TO MOUNT DESERT.

This spring, I lost my dear and valued friend Ver Bryck.
He had been long ill. I was with him an hour before he
died. He went away in peace—Christian peace. His
mind was clear to the last. Where shall I turn for the
companionship of so congenial a mind—of one so pure, so
refined?
*
*
A more lengthy tribute of affection to his friend is a memoir, written at the request of the National Academy of
Design, and published in the Evening Post.
A token of Cole's goodness, as well as an additional
memorial of his love for Ver Bryck, is a small, but carefully
painted picture, executed for him some time after his death,
to answer a commission given him by a generous patron.
The subject, selected by Ver Bryck himself from his own
sketches, not long before he died, is a tranquil sylvan scene
in summer, on the Thames, and expresses in its treatment
that sweet and fresh repose, upon which the heart of the
sufferer would naturally love to dwell.
To MRS. COLE •
BOSTON, Aug. 22d,

1844.

* * * I arrived here last evening. I spent a day
with Mr. Church, at Hartford, very pleasantly. This afternoon, it is my intention to proceed to Dresden, on the Kennebec, where Mr. Pratt is gone, and will meet me. We
shall then go to the Penobscot. I intend to be as spirited
as possible, and to get as many fine sketches as I can.
Mr. Church will be with you in a few days after you get
•fl-iia

#

#

#

#

w

*

Cole was on his way to Mount Desert Island, on the
coast of Maine, for the study and sketching of sea views.
August 29.—We are now at a village in which there is

EXCURSION TO MOUNT DESERT ISLAND.

361

no tavern, in the heart of Mount Desert Island. One might
imagine himself in the centre of a continent with a lake
or two in view. The ride over the island took us through
delightful woods of fir and cedar.
August 30.—The view from Beech Mountain—sheets of
water inland, fresh-water lakes, and mountains, the ocean
with vessels sprinkling its bosom—is magnificent. * *
September 3.—The ride here to Lynham's was delightful,
affording fine views of Frenchman's Bay on the left, and
the lofty peaks of Mount Desert on the right. The mountains rise precipitously—vast bare walls of rock, in some
places of basaltic appearance. Those near us, I should suppose, we're not far from 2000 feet above the sea. The
road was exceedingly bad, stony, and overhung with the
beech and spruce, and, for miles, without inhabitant. We
lost our road too, and came to a romantic place near a
mountain gorge, with a deserted house and a piece of meadow. One might easily have fancied himself in the forests
of the Alleghanies but for the dull roar of the ocean
breaking on the stillness. The beeches of this region are
remarkably fine. Sand Beach is the grandest coast scenery
we have yet found. Sand Beach Head, the eastern extremity of Mount Desert Island, is a tremendous overhanging
precipice, rising from the ocean, with the surf dashing
against it in a frightful manner. The whole coast along
here is iron bound—threatening crags, and dark caverns in
which the sea thunders. The view of Frenchman's bay and
islands is truly fine. Some of the islands, called porcupines,
are lofty, and belted with crags which glitter in the setting
sun. Beyond and across the bay is a range of mountains
of beautiful aerial hues.
Some pecuniary embarrassment, arising from an impru-

362

PICTURES.

dent investment, and requiring too much of his time, together with his dependency upon commissions, which seldom allowed satisfactory scope to his pencil, served for a
time to interfere greatly with that serenity of mind which
Cole now desired more earnestly than ever in order to the
successful pursuit of his art. He executed, though, during
this period, (1845 and 46,) numbers of pictures, large and
small, several of which are among his finest landscapes.—
Twilight, a view up the Catskill river, with great extent of
woodlands, and the distant, dark blue mountains—the delicate skirt of a brilliant summer afternoon. The Cross in
the Wilderness—the last hour of an autumnal day, with
vapoury air and rich yellow light. The Mountain Ford—
wonderful for the moisture and clarity of its deep heaven,
and the vitality of its atmosphere. Campagna di Roma and
Torri di Schiave—that subtle effect, impalpable but to the
eye of the keenest observer, of the moonlight stealing in
from the east upon the retiring twilight. The Catskill
Mountain House—the eastern slope of the south mountain
with its broken tangled forests of oaks and maples and
steepled pines, as viewed from the lofty northern crags.
L? Allegro—a joyous spirited picture of a rural scene in
Italy. II Penseroso, Lake Nemi after sunset—expressive
of the tender, pensive spirit of the hour, and the pleasing
loneliness of shadowy woods and waters. The Pic-nic Party
—a sylvan scene, all American, wide, bright, polished
waters, manifold woods, over all the sweet glad light and
quiet air, and every where the sense of beauty with wildness. Home in the Woods, The Hunter's Return—both
large landscapes, and full of the rarest excellencies of the
pencil; more especially the latter, which opens upon the
beholder one of those wild picturesque dells, peculiar to the
Alleghanies, where the wooded mountains, the atmosphere

THE ELIJAH.

363

and sky are steeped in the still solitary splendours, the
crimson, gold and purple, of an autumnal sunset, all conspiring to make it, next to the Good Shepherd, the most
complete of his picture idyls, and certainly one of the
finest simple landscapes to be found. To mention one more,
The Arch of Nero—a quickly painted picture, but one
powerfully expressive of the activities of nature, of great
harmony and perfection of parts, "and rendered to the
eye," says Bryant, " with an easy and happy dexterity, so
natural, at this time, to the pencil of Cole."
To MRS. COLE :
NEW YORK, March 3, 1845.

I arrived here safely with the pictures. I have not quite
finished the Catskill yet, but have commenced sketching on
the canvass for the Sea Yiew. There was a very pleasant
club-meeting at V. P
's, on Thursday. Mr. Sturges is
pleased with the Ver Bryck picture.
I forgot to tell the children they must be very good when
I am away. I hope Theddy draws, and Mary. Ask Mr.
Church if he will not give Theddy a little lesson. Tell
Mr. C. that I expect to see something quite fine on my
return. I am not quite certain whether I can come up before next week. I wish to finish my pictures and sell
them.
*
*
*
The pictures, to which he alludes above, are more particularly the Sea View, from one of his studies made the summer before, at Mount Desert Island, on the coast of Maine,
and Elijah at the mouth of the cave in the mount of God—a
large picture, painted in a week ; having no doubt some of
the unavoidable faults of haste, but many very bold and
striking features, and embodying real grandeur of concep-

364

CHURCH, THE PAINTER.

tion. Although not popular, Cole insisted upon it that it
was one of his most effective works.
From the foregoing letter, it will be perceived that Frederic Church was, at the time, a pupil of Cole. Although
a mere youth, and fonder, perhaps, of the beauties spread
in profusion around him than of the painting room, he yet
exhibited in his sketches of nature a facility and correctness of drawing that gave high promise of that excellency
which now justly places him among great and true landscape painters. " Church," said Cole, on several occasions,
" has the finest eye for drawing in the world."
Those pleasant days, when his artistic talents were directed by his distinguished master, will ever occupy a large
place in the memory of the pupil, now growing into his
celebrity.
An excursion to Black Head, or the Dome
Mountain, as Cole loved to call it, one of the finest portions of the Catskill,-must always continue to be, both, to
the present writer and the living painter, one of the luminous points of the past. Our ride, in the morning, over the
finely broken, intervening country, through the fresh air,
sweetly scented with millions of flowers in the fields and
along the road-side, the likeness of which we see in many
of Cole's rich pictures, was one of those rides the very
memory of which is beautiful and fragrant.
At noon,
thirsty and panting on the moss beneath the black fir trees
of the summit, we gazed and listened, and grew cool and
rested ;
" While from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Came a still yoice."

Then followed the descent—the plunge down the wooded
steeps, and the laughable mishaps, from slips upon the slant
wet rocks, and trips among the roots, vines and brush-wood ;

THOUGHTS, ETC. : TWILIGHT.

365

and all concluding with a pensive return homeward, in the
dark, loaded with blooming boughs, gathered while yet the
golden rays of the sun were upon their crimson and snowy
clusters.
TWILIGHT.
The woods are dark; but yet the lingering light
Spreads its last beauty o'er the western sky.
How lovely are the portals of the night,
When stars come out to watch the day-light die.
The woods are dark ; but yet yon little -bird —
Is warbling by her newly furnished nest.
No sound beside in all the vale is heard :
But she for rapture cannot, cannot rest.

CHAPTER

XXXVI.

Thoughts and occurrences: anticipations of a great work; birth-day ; the
Tread of Time; death in the family ; lost time.—Excursion to the Shawangunk.-— Excursion tjp South Peak.—A new studio.—Its views.—Excursion to the Adirondack Mountains.—Thoughts, &c.: Christmas-day;
birth-day ; death in the family.—Niagara.—To Mr. Falconer: sculpture and painting.—Thoughts, &c. : New Year's-day; the season.—
Cole's last letter: mental and moral habits of artists.—Thoughts, &c.:
Cole's last notes,
JANUARY 1, 1846.— * * I long for the time when I can
paint whatever my imagination would dictate without fear of
running into pecuniary difficulties. This painting for money,
and to please the many, is sadly repulsive to me. Thoughts,
conceptions crowd upon me, at times, that I would fain
embody. I am kept from them by necessity. I am like one
who, travelling through a desert, comes to a deep stream,
beyond which he sees green fields, and fruits, and flowers,
and fears to venture in the rushing waters. But I am about
to venture. I have determined to commence, in a short
time, indeed I have already commenced drawing on the
canvasses, a series of five pictures. The subject is the
Cross and the World. I have no commission for the work,
and my means are scarcely competent for me to accomplish
so great an undertaking. But the work, I trust, is a good
one, and I will venture in faith and hope.
February 1, 1846.—This is my birth-day. The air is

THE TEEAD OF TIME.

367

keen, but calm ; the sky almost cloudless at sunrise. The
mountains received the first rosy light in deep serenity. I t
is Sunday, and a holy calm seems to rest on hill and
valley, and the voiceless air. 0 that this morning's tranquil beauty may be an augury of the coming year to me!—
that my soul may be possessed by that holy peace which descends from heaven!
THE TREAD OF TIME.
Hark! I hear the tread of time,
Marching o'er the fields sublime,
Through the portals of the past,
When the stars by God were cast
On the deep, the boundless vast.
Onward, onward still he strides,
Nations clinging to his sides:
Kingdoms crushed he tramples o'er:
Fame's shrill trumpet, battle's roar
Storm-like rise, then speak no more.
Lo! he nears us—awful Time—
Bearing on his wings sublime
All our seasons, fruit and flower,
Joy and hope, and love and power:
Ah, he grasps the present hour.

Underneath his mantle dark,
See, a spectre grim and stark,
At his girdle like a sheath,
Without passion, voice or breath,
Ruin dealing: Death—'tis Death !
Stop the ruffian, Time!—lay hold !Is there then no power so bold ?—
None to thwart him in his way ?—
Wrest from him his precious prey,
And the tyrant robber slay ?

368

LOST TIME.
Struggle not, my foolish soul:
Let Time's garments round thee roll.
Time, God's servant—think no scorn—
Gathers up the sheaves of corn,
Which the spectre, Death, hath shorn.
Brightly through the orient far,
Soon shall rise a glorious star:
Cumber'd then by Death no more,
Time shall fold his pinions hoar,
And be named the Evermore.

July 1,1846.—I open this book once more, and to record
an event which has brought upon me new cares. The
death of Mr. Thompson, my wife's uncle, with whom we
have lived ever since we were married.
*
*
*
He died in his seventieth year, in the communion of the
Holy Catholic Church, and in the hope of a joyful resurrection.
*
*
*
*
*
The gardens and orchards, for weeks past, have shown
evidences that their master's hand is no longer here. Useless shoots disfigure the trees. Weeds riot in the beds, and
the grape-vines are trailing on the ground. The beautiful
around us is tinged with melancholy, and even the vine
and tree converse with us of one who has left us for ever.
No, not for ever. God grant that we meet him in those gardens of eternal joy where death can never enter.
July 28, 1846.—The summer is in a great measure past,
and I have produced very little in my art. Circumstances
have waylaid and robbed me of much precious time. These
seasons of lying fallow occur from time to time in the
minds of most men whose pursuits are intellectual,—seasons
when the mind seems incapable of executing any great
work. It has, in fact, lost its enthusiasm, without which
nothing fine in art can be produced. I trust this unproduc-

EXCURSIONS: THE SHAWANGUNK.

369

tive season will soon pass by, and that I shall be engaged
earnestly upon some important work.
If Cole, as he complains above, had, for the while, little
enthusiasm for painting, he was full of enthusiasm in gathering for it fresh materials from nature. The months of
Aug. and Sep. were mainly devoted to mountain excursions.
His first, in company with McConkey, then his pupil, and
a couple*of friends, was to the Shawangunk, those picturesque hills of Ulster county, from whose heights the eye looks
south upon the Highlands, and to the north upon the blue
Catskills, and the distant fields and summits of New England. A couple of days were spent- in this pleasant summer
region, and several choice studies of the remarkable lake,
which sleeps in a high fissure of the mountain, and of its
singularly wild shores of perpendicular precipices and huge
crags, evidently the ruins of a portion of an adjacent peak,
added to his already large collection.
Of several amusing incidents, occurring at the time, a
single one is here related. At the close of an unusually
happy day, under a heaven of most perfect loveliness, and
in the midst of strikingly romantic scenery, climbing and
creeping among crags and shrubbery, singing, shouting,
bathing; gathering mosses, and " huckleberries," when not
engaged in the more quiet employment of sketching, all returned to the little mountain inn to supper. During the
evening, while they were recounting the pleasant toils and
adventures of the day, to which mine host, a short-spoken
Dutchman, sat gravely listening, with the smoke of a rank
old pipe curling round his head, the pleasing anticipations
of the morrow were quickly put to flight by the following
intelligence, seasoned with a caution: "Better be a little
careful about the pond there. It's all rattle-snakes. A
24

370

EXCURSIONS : THE SHAWANGUNK.

man shot sixty there, one day, and never got out of his
tracks." An involuntary shiver, with cold chills and exclamations of horror, instantly fan over the whole party. A
conversation upon snakes, serious and comic, was kept up
until a late hour, and now and then renewed from bed to
bed during the night. All dreamed of snakes, and waked
in the morning to renew the theme. Cole and McConkey
returned after breakfast to the scene, to complete their
sketches, but with very different feelings from those with
which they had, the day previous, sought the picturesque
lake of the Shawangunk.
A half finished picture, exquisitely beautiful in its sky,
remains as a memento of this delightful excursion.
This was succeeded by an exhilerating jaunt to South
Peak, perhaps the finest for views in the whole range of the
Catskills. It was accomplished in two days with a party
of twelve, the larger part of whom were ladies.
The following is Cole's description of the manner in
which the night was passed upon the summit.
*

*

#

#

#

#

#

Evening now closed around us. The red flame shot up
its long tongue with a loud crackling when the gummy foliage of the evergreen fir was sportively thrown upon the
fire, and the smoke rolled up and away in luminous billows
over the tree-tops, waving to and fro in the fresh nightbreeze, and shining in the pale green light. The heavens
seemed, even in their starry blue, awfully dark—immeasurably deep : the trees more closely about us stood out in
strong relief from the broad gloom of the great mountain
forest; and the bough-house, all glowing with a flood of
light except its dark recesses, presented a. scene of singular
beauty. Within reclining forms were dimly seen : in front,

SOUTH PEAK.

371

figures in grotesque costumes of shawl and blanket, both
sitting and standing, caught the vivid brightness on their
faces and vestments. Every light was clear; every shadow mingled with the shadow of the surrounding woods, giving a unity of effect that ceases to exist by day. Every
form, thus united with the great shadow of the wilderness,
became, with trees and grass, a part of the mountain top.
And now came songs and pleasant jests, recitations,
snatches of old plays, and bits of romance. Ever and
anon a shrill whoop went like an arrow into the vast solitude. Last of all, when the general excitement had abated,
and a solemn quiet had settled upon every heart and countenance, (as we were a Christian band,) came prayer and
the Gloria in Excelsis. As the last strains died away, and
we realized ourselves far above the common world, in the
cold, pure region of the clouds, thoughts of earth, with its
cares and turmoils, took their departure—thoughts of heaven, with its eternal order, stole upon the soul, and attuned
it to quiet songs of joy and thankfulness.
Then came the hours of repose. One by one we sank
down upon the fragrant fir, the ladies in the more retired
part, the gentlemen on the* outer edge of the bough tent,
one in shawl or cloak, another in his blanket, and I in my
brown monk's dress. After a fragmentary conversation in
low tones, here and there, like scattering shots after a day
of battle, all was silent. Though weary, I had no disposition to sleep ; and so, with closed eyes, I either made pictures in the dark, or opened them, and looked through the
eaves of our leafy roof into the pure blue of the heavens,
now beginning to pale in the rising moon. As she ascended
she darted her silvery rays, through the trembling leafage
of the interposing wood, full upon my face. In the meantime, the ear was busy drinking in both soothing and awak-

372

SOUTH PEAK.

ening sounds. The weary sleepers breathed heavily;
the breeze, at one time softly whispering over head, came
at another rushing over the forest tops with a fitful melancholy roar—now afar off like the sea surf, and now making the branches swing about in the dim light of our declining fire. Solemn, awful midnight! A thousand fancies
came thronging on my mind. Stillness, however, did not
reign, uninterruptedly through the night. There was music
between the acts of our silent drama, sleep. Two of the
gentlemen rising to renew the fire, one of them, familiar
with Indian life and manners, sang with characteristic gestures an Indian song. From low guttural tones the voice
rose in mournful strains, higher and higher, to the utmost
loudness ; then, sinking to the same deep note from whence
it first commenced, it presently swelled again in fitful modulations to the shrillest pitch, and concluded* abruptly with
a yell. After this wild and unique melody, the gentlemen
resumed their places upon the evergreens, and all was still
again, except the breeze and the crackling of the brilliant
fire. Not a cricket chirped. In the surrounding woods
the winds sang their songs alone. When the gray dawn
broke in mildly, a solitary robin on the mountain side below
us was warbling his morning hymn. I shall never forget
the quiet sorrow with which, in the course of the forenoon,
we bade farewell to South Peak, and slowly took our way
down the mountain to our conveyances at the farm-house.
A matter of much interest to Cole, after these mountain
wanderings, was the building of a new studio. It is constructed somewhat in the Italian villa style, and with
reference to a spacious gallery, soon to have been built for
the large works he contemplated painting. Its situation
commands a view of vale and mountain of the rarest beauty.

EXCURSION TO THE ADIRONDACK.

373

At a distance of ten miles, a portion of the Catskills, fronting the Hudson, for some thirty miles in extent, rise abruptly to the height of three and four thousand feet, having
an outline along the sky of exceeding grace, and presenting,
in Cole's own words, a very good resemblance to the
base of Mount iEtna. A fancy sufficiently lively to supply
the appropriate summit, would thus enable the beholder
to form, from the door of the studio, a tolerable conception of that grand volcano. The space overlooked
from the studio to the foot of the mountains is singularly
beautiful and picturesque, having numberless wooded hills
and rocky points, interspersed with, softest meadows and
pasture-lands, and here and there enlivened with the
sparkling waters of the Catskill river. Along the flowing
outline of the mountains are seen, now behind one summit and then behind another, as the season changes, some
of the finest sunsets ; at one time rivaling those of Italy
in tenderness, at another, inexpressibly wild and gorgeous.
In the September following, Cole, with a friend and
McConkey, made a fortnight's excursion to the Adirondack Mountains, and the wild shores of Long Lake. I t
is not, perhaps, generally known that, to this day, a jaunt
through that region of the State of New York will ordinarily subject the tourist to more privation and fatigue
than almost any other he can take in the United States,
this side of the Mississippi. The wilderness, haunted by
the great moose, the wolf, the bear and panther, seems
almost interminable, and nearly houseless : the mountains,
some of them reaching into the sky, ragged, rocky pinnacles, and robed with savage grandeur, are pathless
and inaccessible without a guide: the lakes, which are
every where, and often strikingly beautiful, repel by the

374

EXCURSION TO THE ADIRONDACK.

oppressive loneliness in which they slumber. The excursion, certainly one of the wildest and most fatiguing, was
also, with its varied incidents, one of the most agreeable
Cole had ever taken in America in search of the picturesque. Bursts of sunshine, shouts and merriment, cheered
the tiresome hours through the gloomy shades of the vast
woods: songs and firelight, with the recollections of the
past day, and the anticipations of the coming, turned the
rude encampment under the dewy forest boughs into a
kind of festivity: even the long twenty miles down Long
Lake, (that Lago Maggiore of the woods, as Cole himself
called it,) in a little skiff—the painter and his companions,
with their guide, a boy, alternately at the oars,—and the
longer twenty miles back again, next day, in the cold rain,
had their intervals of pleasing excitement, from trout-fishing, from a night's repose in the forest, and from the everchanging scenery on the shores and islands, now and then
transferred to the sketch-book.
Among the most picturesque of his sketches, taken in
this Alpine wilderness, were those of the Indian Pass, a
gorge of wonderful sublimity and wildness, in the neighbourhood of Tahawus, the Mont Blanc of New York, and
the ironworks of Mr. Mclntyre, from whom Cole and his
friends received every hospitality. John Cheney, as remarkable with his single pistol among the fierce denizens of those
savage woods, as Hood with his bow in the wilds of Sherwood, was both guide and entertainer. As instances of his
prowess with this little weapon, and of his simplicity in
speaking of it, he clipped off the head of a pigeon sitting upon
a high tree; and said, " Some bucks came from the city with
fancy rifles to shoot with me ; but I generally beat them, because they sometimes missed." The ride out to Lake Champlain, sixty miles, portions of the way through the darkest

NIAGAKA.

375

forests, will ever be remembered by his companions as one of
the merriest, if not the most comfortable, of their lives. It
was upon a " buck-board," a single plank laid on the two
axle-trees of a lumber wagon, upon which you sit sideways,
with the feet resting upon a parallel chain.
Christmas day, 1846.—
I am now sitting in my new studio. I have promised
myself much enjoyment in it, and great success in the prosecution of my art. But I ought ever to bear in mind that
" the night cometh, when no man can work." I pray to
God that what I am permitted to accomplish here may be
to his glory. If I produce fine works, I must ascribe the
honour to the Giver of the gift.
*'
*
*
February 1.—My birth-day. How they steal on! one by
one they come. But their coming will cease, and this day no
more be commemorated in this book. Few are the steps
across the fields of life, and there is no return. Eternity
opens before me : how deep, how dark the gulf! 0 God,
be thou my help, my support, when the last step is taken.
" In Thee have I trusted ; let me never be confounded."
This day I have painted the sky in the first picture of the
Cross and* the World.
April 6.—" The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away."
Our infant daughter died yesterday afternoon. Its pilgrimage in this world has been short and sinless. God, in His
great mercy, has taken it unto Himself before the world
could defile its spiritual garments.
September 4, 1847.—On Tuesday last, Maria and I returned from an excursion to Niagara. Niagara I have
visited before. Its effect on my mind was perhaps as great
as when I first saw it. But I am convinced that, sublime
and beautiful as it is, it would soon cease to excite much

376

NIAGARA.

emotion. The truth is, that the mind dwells not long with
delight on objects whose main quality is motion, unless that
motion is varied. Niagara, stupendous and unceasing as it
is, is nevertheless comparatively limited,—limited in its resources and duration. The mind quickly runs to the fountain head of all its waters ; the eye marks the process of its
sinking to decay. The highest sublime the mind of man
comprehendeth not. He stands upon one shore, but sees not
the other. Not in action, but in deep repose, is the loftiest
element of the sublime. With action waste and ultimate
exhaustion are associated. In the pure blue sky is the
highest sublime. There is the illimitable. When the soul
essays to wing its flight into that awful profound, it returns
tremblingly to its earthly rest. All is deep, unbroken repose up there—voiceless, motionless, without the colours,
lights and shadows, and ever-changing draperies of the
lower earth. There we look into the uncurtained, solemn
serene—into the eternal, the infinite—toward the throne
of the Almighty.
The beauty of Niagara is truly wonderful, and of great
variety. Morning and evening, noon and midnight, in storm
and calm, summer and winter, it has a splendour all its own.
In its green glancing depths there is beauty; and also in its
white misty showers. In its snow-like drifts of foam below,
beauty writhes in torment. Iris, at the presence of the sun, at
the meek presence of the moon, wreathes its feet with brighter
glories than she hangs around the- temples of the cloud.
Yet all is limited. It cannot bear comparison with that
which haunts the upper abysses of the air. There is
infinity in the cloud-scenery of a sunset. Men see it,
though, so commonly, that it ceases to make an impression
upon them. Niagara they see but once or so, and then only
for a little while ; hence the power it exerts over their

SCULPTURE AND PAINTING.

3TT

minds. Were there Niagaras around us daily, they would
not only cease in most cases* to be objects of pleasure, but
would, very likely, become sources of annoyance. But great,
glorious, and sublime Niagara—wonder to the eye of man—
I do not wish to disparage thee. Thou hast a power to stir
the deep soul. Thy mighty and majestic cadence echoes
in my heart, and moves my spirit to many thoughts and
feelings. Thy bright misty towers, meeting the vault on
high, and based upon the shooting spray beneath, are
images of purity. Thy voice—deep calling unto deep, with
a might that makes thy hoary cliffs to tremble, leads back
the soul to Him, speaking upon Sinai's smoking summit.
Thy steep-down craggy precipices are the triumphal gate
through which, in grand procession, pass the royal lakes
and captive rivers. The soul is full of thee. Favoured is
the man who treads thy brink. Thankful should he be to
God for the display of one of His most wonderful works.
But they are blessed who see thee not, if they will accept
the gift which God vouchsafes to all men,—which, in beauty
and sublimity, does far surpass Niagara—the sky. 0 that
men would turn from their sordid pursuits, and lift their
eyes with reverential wonder there.
To MR. JOHN M. FALCONER:
CATSKILL, Dec. 29th, 1847.

*
*
* It seems to me that sculpture has risen
above par, of late : painters are but an inferior grade of
artists. This exaltation of sculpture above painting, which
in this country has prevailed, is unjust, and has never been
acknowledged in the past. There is no necessity for insisting upon the superior claims of either, and particularly
upon those of sculpture, for they are the least tenable.
Taking painting in all its departments, its influence is

378

COLE'S LAST LETTER.

certainly more extensive than that of sculpture : and to excel
in painting requires a combination of a greater number of
faculties than to excel in sculpture. Sculpture is more
limited. He who cannot distinguish one colour from
another may be a sculptor. I only intend to say that undue
importance has been given lately to sculpture. *
*
Yours truly, but in haste,
THOMAS

COLE.

January 1, 1848.—I thank God for the blessings of the
past year. They have been manifold. Another year, a
stranger whose face is yet unknown to us, is announced.
Mysterious strangers they are, these years. Pilgrims of
time that wander through eternity to do homage, and sing
praises at the foot of God's throne. * * Of my series,
the last picture of the Pilgrim of the Cross is about finished, and the second of the Pilgrim of the World somewhat
advanced. I am painting a smaller picture from a passage
in the Psalms.
*
*
* • *
'
The epistle below, written upon his birth-day, was Cole's
last letter:
To MR. FALCONER:
CATSKILL, February 1st, 1848.

* * * I assure you that a letter
from you is an incident, a source of great pleasure to us. It
breaks in upon the calm stillness of our country life, which
would, but for such incidents, become too monotonous, perhaps stagnant. Yours is the pebble thrown into the lake,
which hitherto has only reflected fixedly its neighbouring
banks, but now images things far and near, the woods, the
clouds and distant mountain tops and circling ripples along
its shores. But hold! I am forgetting you in thinking
M Y DEAR SIR,—*

HABITS OF ARTISTS.

379

of the lake.
*
'*
*
I have little to say about
myself, only that I have been somewhat ailing of late. I am
busy on the second picture of the Pilgrim of the World, -the
fourth of the series. I have not been able to comply with
my half-promise to write- something for the Art Ee-union.
I would do so; but my time has been so much broken in
upon, by matters out of the art, that I begin to fear failing
in the accomplishment of my large pictures within the time
proposed.
If I had written to them, it would have been on the subject of the mental and moral habits of the artist. The
substance of it would, perhaps, have been this : That on
those habits the success of an artist mainly depends. Genius
has but one wing, and, unless sustained on the other side by
the well-regulated wing of assiduity, will quickly fall to the
ground. An artist should be in the world, but not of i t :
its cares, its*duties he must share with his contemporaries,
but he must keep an eye steadfastly fixed upon his polar
star, and steer by it whatever wind may blow.
There is no doubt that we have fallen on evil days. The
world requires much of us that was not demanded of the
artist of antiquity : the mind of the latter was not dissipated by newspaper indulgences. He probably speculated
little in politics, nor did he theorize much on the sublime
and beautiful. His faith was fixed. He was no cosmopolite in theory, though he worked for all mankind. His
sympathies were concentrated, and the whole current of his
artistic life was shut in by high banks, and like a sacred
stream flowed deep and unruffled. On the contrary, our
stream of life, in this leveling age, flows over a great extent,
and, fretting and rippling over its gravelly shallows, is too
often evaporated in the arid atmosphere of the great world.
The artist must be exclusive, if he would be great, since

380

THOUGHTS, ETC. : LAST NOTES.

art is long and life is short: he must be exclusive in his
tastes, exclusive in his enjoyments, in his society, in his
reading. He must work always: his eye and mind can
work even when his pencil is idle. He must, like a magician, draw a circle round him, and exclude all intrusive
spirits. And above all, if he would attain that serene
atmosphere of mind in which float the highest conceptions
of the_ soul^jn. which the sublimest works have been produced, he must be possessed of a holy and reasonable faith.
AU
TV 1

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Believe me yours, very truly,
THOMAS COLE.

The notes, with which this chapter concludes, were the
last exercise of Cole's pen.
February 1, 1848.—My birth-day. Once more has the
wheel of life revolved, and again advances on the untried road of another year. *
* The past year has
had its afflictions ; but yet they have been light in comparison with its blessings. Amid many interruptions, consequent on the business of the estate, (which business is very
distasteful to me,) I have been able to make considerable
progress in my pictures, and hope to finish them before
the coming year is gone. I have painted several smaller
pictures, one for the Art Union in Cincinnati, two for the
Art Union in New York, Home in the Woods, and Gennesee Scenery, and also a picture for Mrs. Gideon Lee, " The
Lord is my Shepherd," &c. *
* I have myself been
much ailing this year, probably from want of sufficient exercise. This winter has been a very unpleasant one. Last
night it snowed, and we are glad to see the black, unsightly
landscape covered with the pure mantle. The sun shines,
and the heart rejoices in the change.

CHAPTER

XXXVII.

Cole's mental maturity.—Cole, a master.—His great works yet in anticipation.—Feelings with respect to those already accomplished.—The consolation for their moral defects found in his hopes of a future, and his
greatest work.—Pictures preceding it.—Pictures succeeding it.—Conception of the Cross and the World.—The Prometheus Vinctus, and Proserpine gathering flowers in the fields of Enna.

THE powers of Cole had only now reached their maturity
—a proof of their extent and greatness. Whatever may
be said of his poetic, artistic and religious life, prior to his
last two or three years, must be said as of one yet in the
progress of large developments. Pictures, even such as
the Campagna di Roma, the Mill at Sunset, Home in the
Woods, the Mountain Ford, the Hunter's Return, the Arch
of Nero, and others, wakening in his old admirers greater
delight than ever, were productions not of the entirely
unfolded, but still unfolding man. Each one, in some point
an improvement on the picture painted before it, was yet
less than that which succeeded. Whatever the altitude in
his upward progress, it was no more than one of those
shoulders of the mountains he was wont to climb. A height
was yet above him ; his path was still ascending. But
now, to continue the figure, he had reached his summitlevel. To look back was to look below ; forward, was to
see the high plain, the broad table-land of ripening years,

382

COLE, A MASTER.

where the really greater works of his life were yet to be
done. The illustration is no mere fancy of the writer, but
suggested by a conversation of the artist himself. It was
only now that he felt firm upon the stand-point where he
saw himself ceasing to be the learner, and becoming the
master—the master of himself, as well as of the science and
instrumentalities of his art. Musing over the several stages of his career, sinking in the perspective of time behind
him; catching joyful views of great poetic forms, rising
from the expanse bounded by the circle of the future, he
used to say, " I have only learned how to paint.77 After all,
he felt that he had done little more than plume his wings
for the true flight into the skies of art. Cells and chapels he had been constructing hitherto ; now the great temple itself should rise into the air, and its pinnacles and
spires pierce the heavens.
" 0, that I had the Course of Empire yet to paint 1" was
an expression of great earnestness. It was a theme upon
which he felt he should love to exercise his powers, now
ripened and seasoned with the Christian faith. Learned in
the language of art, he felt assured that he could now treat
the subject more skilfully, with greater beauty of artistic
diction, and leave upon its every feature the token that it
was at least painted by a christian man, though the story
itself, as originally conceived, should forbid his making it
decidedly a religious work. It was not wholly a pleasing
thought, that he was leaving behind him a monument bearing his name, but not one symbol of that glorious faith affording the relief and consolation to which all should ever
be pointed amid the crimes and desolations of the world.
He had no such feeling or wish with respect to the Voyage of Life. Although a work evincing less of the plenitude
of his poetic faculty, less of dramatic power, less, also, in

WORKS IN ANTICIPATION.

383

some things, of the real capabilities of his pencil than the
Course of Empire ; it had, nevertheless, the superior virtue
of a Christian character. Whatever its faults might be, it
was dear to him for the reason that it was a memorial of the
time when his heart was moving into the blessed religion of
Jesus Christ. True, it is the work of a man in the infancy
of the divine life, with its dawning only upon him, its noon
far before him, his views of the gospel partial and incomplete, and hence, as a ,work expressive of that, incongruous
and imperfect. Still, as such, he was content to leave it
where he had left it. It would serve to mark the childhood
of his Christian character as later works would mark its
manhood.
Such thoughts were the more consolatory in view of a
great work—in contemplation his crowning work—which
should* have, it may be said, the Voyage of Life, the Cross
and the World, and other purely religious productions,
stand to it somewhat in the relation of episodes, as the
Departure and Return, the Past and the Present may be
said also to stand in the relation of episodes to the Course
of Empire: I mean (what had not yet its settled title, but
which might have been called) the Kingdom of Christ, or
the Course of Sacred Empire,—a grand, divine epic, generalizing, and truthfully relating religious facts with regard
to "many nations," as his great, profane epic does with
regard to one ; opening with the Advent of the Incarnate
Son of God, and closing, not with the decay of ruins and
the sleep of the tomb, but with the repose of Glory and
Immortality.
In the cheering anticipation of these great labours, Cole
went first to the Cross and the World. Sowing and Reaping would have followed it, very likely in the order of execution unbending and refreshing his mind for the grander

384

CONCEPTION OF THE CROSS, ETC.

task of depicting the long march of the church, the spiritual
Israel, under Christ, to the heavenly Canaan. To this
would have succeeded, in all probability, Life, Death, and
Immortality,—a kind of three-fold psalm, in which he would
have sung again his own Christian experience; that experience, though, nearer the unapproachable light than when
he sung of it in the Cross and the World. To this let me
now return.
Upon his first mention of it, it seemed to leap spontaneously into being, no mere outline of a creature, but a
living whole, in good degree complete in all its manifold
parts. No objection, no -suggestion, could change his own
original conception of it, no fancy of another in the least
modify his invention. However lengthy had been its mental
elaboration, when it sprung to view, in his conversation, it
sprung with a wonderful entireness. It was more Ijke the
description of a work completed than the unfolding of
visions yet to be embodied. His studies of it were the rapid
labour of a few hours. A chief mistake was the size of the
canvass upon which he began to paint it. The limits were
too narrow for the lines and spaces in his mind. He proceeded awhile with a painful sense of restriction, and then
gave up.
It was during this season—thrown back from his great
work, his mind teeming with forms of grandeur—that he
found relief in giving sweep to his pencil in the Prometheus Vinctus, and the Proserpine gathering flowers in the
fields of Enna. • The selection of such classical subjects, at
the time, is accounted for on the principle of one occasionally having recourse to recreation after a season of intense devotion. It was a retreat to a moral extreme that
would allow of his returning to the work of his heart with
feelings fresh and unworn.

THE PROMETHEUS.

385

The Prometheus is an image of the physical sublime.
Earth and air—dark blue depths of illimitable ether—vasty
foundations—mighty summits helmeted with the crystal of
eternal winter, glittering under the white cold Jupiter, in
the first golden flashes of the day. It is the huge embodiment of that single thought, haunting the universe, THE
EVERLASTING ; and all is wrapped in solitary, solemn repose. True to the law by which a great poet works, when
he moulds his creations to the measure of the sublime, it
knows little of variety: it is almost utter simplicity—one
and simple as a roll of thunder. It is the product of a
single blow of genius. It is as if the creative voice of the
imagination had said, if one may reverently use the words,
" Let there be light \" It bursts in through the spotless,
awfur space, and smites with fire the icy peaks of the
mighty Caucasus. " Have you seen," said a pupil of his,
kindling with enthusiasm, while the picture was in progress,
" what Cole is doing ? He is putting in the big strokes."
When the Prometheus was yet fresh from the easel, and
without varnish, its sky was one of those marvellous approaches to nature but few times reached by the pencil. It
seemed all but that dark vault itself, known only to those
who, from the tops of lofty mountains, have seen the light
break in, the day-star sparkling in the skirts of night,
where they hang in the rosy breath of morning. Previous
to its exhibition, at Westminster Hall, in London, (where,
by the way, it was hung in a manner that entirely destroyed
its effect,) it was coated with 'a "kind of varnish that has
much injured its depth and purity, and nearly taken away
those subtle qualities, etheriality and moisture, for which
it was really wonderful. It is not impossible, however,
that it may yet, in good degree, be restored.
The failing of the Prometheus—no great, if we choose to
25

386

THE PROSERPINE.

drop the name, and call it the Alps, or Andes in the dawn—
is its deficiency in moral meaning. The sense of suffering
is well nigh hushed in the deep strong voice of visible
nature. The passion of the figure (wisely, if not necessarily, made subordinate on so grand a theatre, but in which
really lies the immense capabilities of the subject) is almost
entirely swept away in the tide of the one mighty expression of the landscape : and would have been so, had that
figure been painted by Michael Angelo himself.
The Proserpine, owing to the unfinished state of a large
foreground, must now be regarded simply as a landscape.
All that portion of it, which should have given it moral
expression, is still crude and imperfect. Incomplete as it is,
it is yet a picture in which the painter has reproduced, for
the third or fourth time, but by far with the greatest
perfection, his impressions of Mount iEtna. At a distance
of forty miles, it appears to rise before you, stupendous and
full of grandeur, with its snowy cone now reddening in the
fine Mediterranean morning. It is the twin brother of the
Prometheus ; the offspring of a mind at home in the contemplation of the vast.
The middle ground, (which he first painted in water
colours, in order to see its effect,) combining the main
features of the picturesque scenery of Sicily, is a masterpiece of land-painting. It is full of boldness, strength and
grace ; abounding in the richest variety; truthful in the
quality of its objects;rich and harmonious in colour ; nature
itself in its aerial perspective ; expansive, perhaps, beyond
all other middle grounds, yet of surface infinitely broken.
It is a broad page of vigorous language, all eloquent with
meaning, heaving with nature's mighty passion, significant
of untravelled paths below—the walks of the earthquake.
There is a power in its lines and surfaces, in its manifold

THE PROSERPINE.

387

swellings and depressions, that tells of a mind rocked with
a sense of the globe's irresistible forces.
The sky is what the Prometheus might have been, just at
sunrise—the lately dark, deep, dewy ether, now all full of
warm light: far away beyond heaven's few ruddy fleeces,
one soft, serene and tender waste of sweet, bright, smiling
azure : the silvery and the rosy fainting into the infinite
blue, and all breathing of expectation, delight and love ;
the very image of the peaceful, the joyous and the beautiful.
Distance, airy luminous space, breadth and grandeur of
masses, are the main characteristics of this unfinished,
though still fine, Sicilian landscape, and its leading sentiment, repose,—repose the more sensible, because just ready
for its flight, on the verge of the lively, sounding day.
When his hand reached the foreground of this picture,
his heart hastened away to the Cross and the World: to
which he went, at once, as one would go from labour to
worship, with reverent step, yet with the enthusiasm of
an earnest, whole soul.

CHAPTER

XXXVIII.

The Voyage of Life, an exponent of his religious faith at the time it was
painted.—The Cross and the World, the exponent of a ripened and true
faith.—Its theology.—First picture of the Cross and the World.—The
second picture, the Trial of Faith.—Its unity.—Feeling with which it
was painted.—Its characteristics

As before intimated, Cole's religious, with his poetic
and artistic life had only now reached its maturity. The
days of the Voyage of Life, even, were only those of
his Christian childhood. But as divine truth opened to
him more and more its inner power and beauty, his
own interior, spiritual life kept growing and unfolding.
"While the first three pictures of the Voyage of Life
tell the story of all his moral experience up to the period,
at which the series was executed, the last may be regarded
as the true exponent of what Christ then was to him,
as an object of faith, and what were his own spiritual
yearnings and Christian experience. Christ, hitherto an
historic personage, and an object of thought rather than
of religious faith, was then a precious presence, overshadowing his soul with real love and sympathy, and shedding
down upon him something of the joy, while it lifted his belief and trust to the glory, of heaven. It was Christ, crucified indeed, but yet without His cross. The cross was lost
in " the excellent glory." The* beauty of Jesus glorified
veiled the anguish of Jesus crucified. .And so, fresh in the

THE CROSS AND THE WORLD.

389

release from long yearnings of the heart, and free from the
shackles of mistake,and at ease from the pangs of doubt and
error, he contemplated the wondrous revelation with faith
indeed, but with the faith of one whose soul the sunrise
of truth is just beginning to expand—a child's faith, and
hoped with his hope, and loved with his love, (in so far as
new faith, hope and love may be likened to those of a
child,) and embraced religion as a joy, without a sense of
its suffering ; speaking, thinking, understanding, with respect to the trying realities of Christianity, as a child in
Christ. With experience, though, came the profound knowledge and sense of the cross. Time brought sorrow to his
joy. " Afflictions abide me," was the voice of his experience,
speaking even from the bosom of "joy and peace in believing." Out of the brightness of Jesus glorified appeared
Jesus crucified. Christ was no more to him without wounds,
without the cross. Not a consolation came from above
without presenting the great symbol of suffering, and imparting its sense. Hence, the precious presence (to whose
pictured pavilion of brightness the guardian angel points
his aged charge, in the last of the Voyage of Life) is, at
length, exchanged for the cross, shining forth from beyond
the mists of the world, and reflected both in nature, and in
himself.
The Christian religion, not only a religion of rejoicing,
but of suffering : the Christian, a sufferer, as well as a rejoicer—with these ideas, in the experience of these, was the
Cross and the World conceived and painted. While it
reflects the religion of the Incarnate Son, it is also a reflection of himself—of Cole, the Christian, including all his
past and future Christian experience. But as every such
experience may be said to have two sides, the spiritual and
the carnal,—this side predominating in one person, that in

390

ITS THEOLOGY.

another, and thus, in all together, presenting the two entire
sides—therefore both sides are represented separately by
themselves in their completeness, making the work, in regard
to Christian experience, of universal, while of individual application. Such we may call the philosophy, the theology
rather, of this fine Christian picture-poem.
It seems proper that it should be stated, as, at the present
time, it may be liable to some misconception. To assume
the persons represented, as sinners up to the time that they
appear,—the one accepting, the other rejecting a gospel, of
which, until they hear it from the evangelist, both have
been equally ignorant and careless,—the former thenceforward unswervingly beating the sacred path, the latter,
the profane path, is a total misapprehension of the artist's
main idea, and a falsification, not only of the painter's own
theology, but of fact, at every turn and stage of the Christian
course. The truth, with respect to them, may be expressed
thus : The two Pilgrims, call them, baptized in infancy, and
now quite unconscious of any time when they passed through
a technical " experience *of religion," enter before us upon
life's journey, at an age competent to assume the vows and
promises made, in their name, at their baptism, and met, as
those henceforth responsible for themselves, by the commandments of God. Hence their way—up to this point one
and the same—ascends from the water, and, although now
dividing, takes its direction across the earth, its spiritual,
divine side symbolized by the cross, its carnal, sinful side
symbolized by objects indicative of the world. It is life's
journey still, equally to both. Both are in time ; both are
creatures of sense ; both have one and the same nature, the
same fallen nature once blessed with the same gift of regenerating grace, only, from the predominance of the spiritual
in the one, and the carnal in the other, their ruling affec-

THE CROSS AND THE WOKLD.

391

tions, aims, motives and objects of pursuit are different.
One pursues the cross ; but, with all his gracious endowments,
still carries with him the burden of his old nature, with its
strong sympathies for the world yet around him : the other
pursues the world ; but, notwithstanding his old nature, still
bears with him a hidden, gracious gift, the principle of a
new nature with its sympathies for the cross, yet shining
upon, and attracting him. Thus both journey forward—the
one, in the abundance of divine light, having his fearful
trials ; the other, in the plenitude of sin, having some manifestations of grace ; until grace, (in the one case forfeited,)
and trials, (in the other case overcome,) are removed,
and the end and reward, meet for each, are revealed.
Again to state a fact with respect to the series, as applicable to the artist himself: while the Voyage of Life is the
expression of his own full conviction of, and conversion to,
the truth of the gospel, this is the manifestation and memento of his regeneration or spiritual birth, and also of his
sanctification, renewal,or spiritual growth.
The'first picture, from its being a common centre to the
other four, was a work of some difficulty. Involving, we
may say, two distinct trains of thought, and therefore necessarily complicated, and requiring a variety of parts and
details, it must still maintain such simplicity of design, and
harmony of expression, as to give utterance, and that with
force and clearness, to but .one voice, rather several voices
in a single concordant volume, like the music of a choir, and
intimating, at the same moment, the two currents of thought,
flowing off from one common fountain or point, in the foreground, at a moral angle, the extremes of whose diverging
lines are as wide apart as heaven and hell. Any thing less
than this would resolve the picture into two, undo its unity,
and thus destroy it as a genuine work of art. But all this

392

THE CENTRAL PICTURE.

is finely done. Whatever would break down the right of
the picture from the left is subordinate to that which is
main and common to the whole. The same land underlays
a l l ; the same "blue sky bends over all." However strong
the earthy and aerial on the one hand differ from the same
on the other, both are embraced in the all-encompassing
arms of one master effect. If they are two sides, they are
as the two sides of one body. All exists in one individual
space. One atmosphere pervades all. One feeling lives
through all. Lightning from its heavens would brighten
the whole : an earthquake in its depths, jar the whole.
Thought has its paths running around and through, coursing from end to end. Within hearing of the same authoritative, holy voice, both pilgrims go ; the waters of baptism
behind them, above them the clouded rocks—the end of a
chain of mountains, separating to the last their respective
roads, although admitting through its inaccessible gorges
some glimpses of the regions peculiar to both. With all
this artistic unity, each side, as intimated before, announces
with proper emphasis a different purpose. What is actual
in the two pictures on the right hand, and in the two on the
left, finds in this its prophecy in the half next to them.
Each half of the central picture is a simple, but eloquent
argument of its own portion of the poem.
To the sensual mind Christianity is not the way for the
aspiring and spirited, but a gloomy by-path, a humble track
for the timid and feeble-hearted ; therefore to the left a
straight and narrow path leads along solitarily kt the foot
of the mountains, and is lost in a rugged pass, ascending
through the broken distance, down which there beams the
pale, pure light of a bright cross in the sky, at once " the
fountain-light of all his day, the master-light of all his seeing," and, in its recent rising, an emblem of his Christian

THE TWO PILGRIMS.

393

morning. The outset of the young pilgrim is through fields
clothed with the common verdure, and spangled with the
usual flowers of spring, the carnation and the lily, intimating the early part of the Christian life neither difficult, nor
uninviting, and signifying, by the naturalness of all, the
truth and reality of religion, in contrast with the falsehood
and hollow show of the world, of which the unreal, exaggerated beauties around his fellow pilgrim are emblematic.
At some distance, a dark shower conceals from the pious
way-farer the approaching difficulties of his journey, and
betokens the sorrows which of necessity befall him.
The prospect of his companion is better suited to the
wild, exuberant fancy of youth. A broad and winding way
leads down to the right to a most beautiful country.
Stretching forward through pleasant landscapes, it is lost,
at last, and leaves the eye to loiter on to the misty domes
and pinnacles of a great city. Far and nigh, the scene is
alike fitted to excite his imagination, and please his senses.
Nature herself has turned flatterer, and ministers, in a-May
all too flush and blooming for her own, deceit and allurement. In their unreal splendour and profusion, the very
flowers lie, and the slant beams of morning impart a golden
hue to the atmosphere unnatural to the hour, and smiles to
rugged cliffs. By-paths, serpent-like, steal up the soft, green
slopes of the mountain, inviting to the waterfall, and the
enjoyment of a wider propect.
It was Cole's intention to paint this side of the series
first. That would enable him to go through with all that
was less acceptable to his feelings, and reserve the pleasing
toil of depicting a vision of holy repose for the last. He
proceeded, accordingly, with the worldling, in the next picture, nearly to its present imperfect state of completion, but
there paused. He did not love his labour. His love had

394

THE SECOND PICTURE: THE TRIAL OF FAITH.

gone out upon the other path. He resolved, therefore, to
follow the leadings of his heart, and pursue first the fortunes of the Child of the Cross.
True to what is intimated in the central picture, those
fortunes are here adverse. The disciple of a suffering, as
well as a rejoicing religion, the pilgrim appears now in the
character of a sufferer. The cross of Jesus is ever both a
burden and a consolation. Now it is exhibited as a burden.
While he hopes in, and follows, he yet bears i t ; breasting
its afflictions while he travels in its light. " Christ himself
went not up to joy, but first he suffered pain : He entered
not into his glory before he was crucified. So truly our
way to eternal joy is to suffer here with Christ." The picture symbolizes that suffering, illustrating the inspired saying, " that we must through much tribulation, enter into the
kingdom of God." It does not, as it was never intended,
symbolize the entire Christian life, but the cross of it. It
is Faith's battle-field, and her knight in the thickest of
" the -good fight of faith.;" going on to victory, but not yet
having won it, not yet wearing the crown ; struggling with
the trials " i n believing," not reposing in its "joy and
peace." Hence we see not, as we should not, but in the
heavenly banner gleaming through the tempest, a solitary
signal of relief or consolation. What we look into is a
gloomy mirror of adversity, reflecting images of fear, forms
of dreadful power. It is nature in wrath, weapons in her
hands, and threatenings in her language. Terrific in its
voice and countenance, storm "has the mastery of" that
horrid wilderness of chasms, crags and mountain precipices,
and sends its fiercest torrent to dash the now manly, though
almost despairing pilgrim into the abyss, along the rocky
verge of which he travels. Lone " prisoner of hope!" where
is " the strong hold" to which he may turn ? Whither

FEELING WITH WHICH IT WAS PAINTED.

395

look for a portal of release ? Sacred light from the symbol
of redemption, now high in the heavens, comes bursting
through " clouds and darkness," opening down the gloom a
track of brightness, impassable, indeed, to the eye of sense,
but easy to faith and affection.
Unlike the middle picture, this has nothing subtle, nor
complicated in its design. I t is perfectly simple, bearing
its great thought, its one meaning upon its surface as visibly
as the ocean, a solitary ship. For unity it is wonderful. It
was painted with a single spring-tide of feeling, and consequently with the greatest freedom, rapidity and vigour.
The pencil swept on, fired with passion, and swiftened by
excitement, emotion in its every touch, spirit in all its
strokes, giving it the fresh, live impress of his own highwrought, imaginative state, almost as completely as if it
had been done in one moment of " fine frenzy/7 and left palpitating in its every extreme as if from one great central
throb.
An incident, trifling in itself, will give a hint, at least, of
the press of feeling under which Cole was now working.
A friend, deeply interested in the progress of the picture,
tapped, one morning, at the door of his studio. With brush
in hand and palette covered with colours, he hastily opened
it. He was trembling with excitement. The slight flush
on his very pale face, the vivid brightness of his eyes, and
the tone of his voice, all spoke the liveliest emotion of mind.
With a quick smile, said he, or in words to the same effect:
" 0, go away 1" An unexpected visit from a gentleman and
some ladies, with whom he could not well take a similar
liberty, actually destroyed the St. John Baptist in the
Wilderness, a first-class sacred landscape. Nothing less
than the fire with which he was darting forward when he
was interrupted, and which the stay of his visitors effect-

396

ITS CHARACTERISTICS,

ually quenched, would enable him to go on satisfactorily.
The face of the canvass is yet against the wall, to which
he sorrowfully turned it.
Cole was better satisfied with a portion of this second
picture than with almost any thing he ever painted. The
part, in particular, alluded to, is the high, woody foreground on the right. It is the perfect rendering of one of
nature's strongest, grandest passages. The artist and the
connoisseur are invited to its study, and then to name, not
its superior, but its equal. As simple, wild landscape, it is
certainly one of the happiest triumphs of the pencil. If
nature could be said to act the tragic, it is pictured here
with that mingled rashness and refinement characteristic
of high genius, and mastership in art. For drawing, composition, quality of objects, colour, light-arid-shade, strength
of expression, power of action, sound and motion, it is consummate,—imaging most vividly those forceful activities
wrhich find their true antithesis in the everlasting, holy repose, depicted on the next canvass.

CHAPTER

XXXIX.

Manner of life in his last days.—Book on art.—A volume of poems.—Life
out of doors.—His conversation.—Favourite topics.—Ripeness of his
Christian Character.—The Triumph of faith, the last of the pilgrim of the
Cross.—Painted in solitude.—Miltonic in its character.—The Lord is my
Shepherd, last pure landscape.—As a work of art.—An Italian pine in the
Proserpine, his last painting.—Death.
BEFORE proceeding with the third and last of the Christian pilgrim, it will be well to note that manner of life and
conversation which, while it shows us more of the man, will
also give a clearer insight into the deep, spiritual meaning
and beauty of his pictures than any mere criticism. Upon
a small writing-table lay, with the authors he was then
reading, a Bible filled with marks, the Book of Common
Prayer, and Bishop Wilson's Sacra Privata, intimating the
fact that his painting-room was likewise a study and an
oratory. What has been told of some few Christian artists
came to be a habit with Cole—he prayed before he painted.
To thoughtful, theological reading, of a practical kind
mostly, and rather choice than extensive, he added the study
of works on art. Among the last read, and with singular
delight and approbation, were the Sketches of the History
of Christian Art, by Lord Lindsay. Whether the effect
upon himself of this excellent author, abounding with a
spirit so congenial to his own, was, in a measure, the cause

398

BOOK ON ART.

of inciting him also to compose a book upon art, it is certain
that he came to the determination of writing one. Of his
entire competency to contribute to art-literature in a way
that would have been most honourable to himself, and of high
value to his countymen, no one, aware of his much and
careful reading, and enjoying his private conversation, could
have doubted for a moment. As a sketch of what, in all
probability, his proposed bopk would have been may not
be deemed unimportant, one is here subjoined.
Art and criticism in America. Encouragement of art by
the government and people. The low state of art, and its
causes. Effects of art-unions and academies. Influence of
foreign opinion and criticism. Until free from their trammels art cannot flourish : it must be independent: to be truly
good it must spring from the genius and character of
Americans. Art, ancient and modern. In what way
modern art is likely to develope itself in this country.
The duty of American artists : the necessity of combination
for the purpose of improving both the people and artists,
and of controlling criticism. Nature and Art. Morals and
habits of artists. Exceptions to English a r t : imitated here
more than any other: that vindicated. Americans have
strong desires for excellence, and a love for nature. Love
of nature more intense and diffused among the moderns
than the ancients. One cause of it—the wilderness passing
away, and the' necessity of saving and perpetuating its
features.
Comparison between painting and sculpture.
Remoteness from the old world is not a disadvantage as
many suppose, but decidedly beneficial. See the effects of
the old masters on modern Italians. Nature is the foundation upon which to build, and not past art. Profit by
the toils of the past, but be not its slave. Visit, and study
in the galleries of the old masters, but do not live in them.

LIFE OUT OP DOORS.

399

A fatal fallacy is it, that we cannot rise but upon the old.
From whence rose art in Greece ? She had no elder Greece
to go back upon. For us to commence anew would, indeed,
be folly, were it possible. We may go, as pilgrims, to the
venerable shrines of a r t : but, if we would triumph, we must
live in nature.
A literary undertaking, like the.aroove, in the midst of all
his artistic labours, shows great mental activity, and versatility of talent. The same qualities are exhibited in another work more imaginative, a volume of poetry. It is
known but to a few that Cole was the author of many and
extensive poems. To some of these the reader has already
been introduced. A person less familiar with his pictures
than his verse might easily make the mistake, and suppose
that his actual vocation was that of the poet rather than the
painter. The volume alluded to was a selection of his
smaller poems. These he was correcting for publication.
Cole's out-door life, corresponding mainly with that of
earlier years, is particularly worthy of mention. He
watched, and sketched the skies, especially at sunset, almost
daily ; walked,and sketched the landscape, snatching as he
walked its choicest details, wandering away through the
rich, broken country of the Catskill river,—through the
cloves, and up to the peaks of the mountains, for the gathering of thoughts, and the kindling of his feelings, as well as
for making fresh studies. Many of the pleasant afternoons,
and now and then a whole day, were spent in this manner.
His last excursion to his favourite mountains, arrayed, at
the time, in the colours of October, occupied two days. He
went to the top of the huge precipice, on the side of South
Peak, a point visible from his house at a distance of some
twenty miles, and commanding a wonderful prospect. From
this dizzy crag, Cole took a long and silent look up and

400

HIS CONVERSATION.

down the beloved valley of the Hudson. He had gazed
upon it, from other points unnumbered times, alone and with
companions, such as Bryant, Durand, Ver Bryck and Huntington. It had filled his heart for years. This was his
last look. A few hundred feet below, by a rivulet, expanding into a small, glassy pool, bordered with moss, and
roofed with the gay foliage of the month, he took his final
mountain repast, a sandwich and an apple, seasoning a cool
and quiet hour with his usual pleasantry. The way to and
from this height was through a steep and tangled ravine,
named, at the time, Helmet Gorge, from a rock resembling
the crest of a helmet, near which he gathered some beautifully-coloured leaves, a favourite amusement with him in
autumn.
To his near friends there were few higher pleasures than
to go with him upon these walks. To every interesting
object and fine view there was added the charm of Cole
himself—something of his own character, or of that of his
profession. While, without designing it, he imperceptibly
impressed one with the greatness of art, it was impossible
not to feel that he himself must be one of its noblest masters,
and that the subjects meditated for the future, together with
the one then in hand, were suited to his pencil.
It is questionable whether his pictures, the real basis of
his fame, after all, show the greater part of the man. It
might be said that they reveal less of his soul than did what
may be called his wood-and-field-talk. At times, his conversation was extraordinary. Not so from any mere brilliancy,
or music, or rapid flow of language, popular requisites of
fine talking ; but extraordinary for its transparent simplicity, as a medium of thought, and for the thoughts themselves. These were given, not unfrequently, in a brief
sentence, startling by their suddenness and exceeding truth-

FAVOURITE TOPICS.

401

fulness, and extinguishing from the memory, by their force
and beauty, often instantly and for ever, the few plain words
in which they were spoken. Many an excellent fancy, if it
does not lose its way altogether, comes to the listener
changed and mutilated in its long travel through a labyrinth of language. Not so with Cole, especially 4n his later
conversations. Beauteous, sublime thought would dart home
to the hearer along the subtle wire of some simple expression with magnetic swiftness. This rare power—rarer than
that which enchants with the mere splendour of words—
coupled with his own earnest, unaffected manner, together
with the lofty character of the topics upon which it seemed
most natural for him to converse, were certain tokens of
what indeed he was, in their noblest sense,—the Poet and
the Christian.
A favourite theme was the Church, in whose welfare his
spirit was fast becoming all absorbed. As an illustration
of this, may be mentioned a single expression, uttered to
his sister Sarah, after one of his last visits to the city : with
a motion of his hands, as if casting all worldly things from
him, he said, with emphasis, "lam going to work for the
Church."
The Christian life was another favourite subject of conversation. His sense of it, now enlivened by experience,
gave to all temporal prosperity a baptism of sorrow, and
the signing of the cross, and to every adversity, in which
the Christian may see himself burdened by the cross, a compensating mercy. Grief and joy—strife and conquest—the
pain of self-sacrifice, and the peace of its rewards, were
familiar themes in the sunny fields and shady woods, by the
quiet brooks, along the noisy torrents, and upon the solitary
mountain cliffs. Speaking of his own religious trials, he
was wont to attribute the most serious of them to ambition.
26

402

FAVOURITE TOPICS.

To win renown had been, from his youth, a ruling passion.
In the light of religion, that passion stood forth as his master
sin. To vanquish it was his most difficult labour. How
aspiring, how unhappy it had often made him he could only
tell, now that he had, after many struggles, mainly overcome
it. How far he had really done so, might have been gathered
from remarks expressive of no impatience at the praise of
any true artist, and of little anxiety with respect to his own,
and from oft-repeated determinations to work no more at
the bidding of the world, but to labour as one living above
i t ; to spend no more time on works merely salable and
popular, but to paint according to the promptings of his
heart, and consign his pictures to the seclusion of his own
private gallery, there to bide their time.
Equally a favourite with these, now mentioned, was the
kindred subject of death and immortality. There was that
of them in his words, at some moments, especially in his
latter months, as of one whose footsteps were consciously
nearing their mysterious presence. An autumn afternoon
is recalled, when this was so to an extent ever to be remembered. The hour was verging towards erne of those marvellous twilights too full of repose and beauty not to lead
the thoughts to the glory and rest of heaven. The Hudson
was bright and glassy, reflecting banks and sky like a mirror—the great eastern slope of the Catskills was losing its
colours in one broad and solemn shade—over a distant summit the eye escaped through an opening of the refulgent
clouds far into the rosy depths—the path was leading down
from an eminence to a wood : with a kind of audible musing, Cole broke the silence of a few previous minutes, in
his simple, sententious way, and then paused, leaving profound impressions of what was, at the moment, in the grasp
of his faith and imagination, viz. the Christian rest—eternal

RIPENESS OF CHRISTIAN CHARACTER.

403

peace, and death their shadowy portal,—The last conflict,
and the final triumph,—The great and awful experiment, at
which we shudder,—The great, immortal experience, for
which we yearn, whose image is unspeakably sublime, and
whose realities must, at the longest, soon burst upon every
living Christian. The whole man, voice, countenance and
mind, seemed fragrant with " good things to come," and
breathing of the holy, everlasting calm, in which his spirit
was so soon to be immersed. The allotted three^score-andten seems requisite for men generally to " perfect holiness."
God, it may be, ripens quickly the religion of some, those
especially whom he designs to call away from the midst of
pious works. The former grow slowly, perhaps, because
they are to grow a long time ; the latter, rapidly, because,
like the arctic plants, their season of growth is soon to close.
Cole appeared to be one of these. Although his Christian
life could number hardly ten years, not ten years old as " a
child of God," yet did he reach the Christian strength and
beauty of a divine old age. The woods of his last autumn
were not more surely touched with nature's brightness than
his own heart with fire from heaven.
In the fulness of such a heart, did Cole follow the Pilgrim of the Cross to his triumph, unfolding a scene that
fulfills all of which the preceding is prophetic, and bears
the mind onward towards the unapproachable light, the
centre and source of which is God, the Glorified Redeemer,
of whom the cross, now refulgent with glory, is the symbol.
Upon this transcendent vision the sight of the Pilgrim, now
venerable with years, and kneeling in devout rapture, opens
from the mountain top, just rising into, and forming the foreground of the picture. Here, as we should, we behold in
all, except in the gloom of rocky pinnacles and dark recoiling mists, behind and below the figure, lively tokens of those

404

THE TRIUMPH OF FAITH.

unseen, unheard, unimaginable " things which God hath prepared for them that love him." What we gaze upon is
glory's dazzling glass, reflecting the Infinite and Eternal.
It is nature transfigured,—her countenance all shining, her
raiment glistering ;—" a new heaven and a new earth,"
" and no more sea." The ocean is gone, and in its place sky—
everlasting, etherial deeps, parted from the heavenly depths
above by a boundless sea of magnificent clouds, threading
immensity like lustrous harp-strings, or, like ruddy breath
of incense, rolling among them majestically in solemn,
awful harmony. It is Faith's victory, and her knight waiting to wear the honours, which by grace he has won. Faith
is all changing into sight, hope into the inheritance itself:
angels approach with the palm and crown. •
Of all his pictures—one might almost say of all pictures—
there is no one of which it is so pleasing, and yet so difficult
to speak as of this ; and for the reason that it was painted
with most difficulty, and with most love. With most love,
because it was his highest approach, in art, to the end and
object of all love : with most difficulty, because the most
spiritual of all thoughts was to be expressed by the most
sensuous of all languages. But yet love has triumphed.
The great spiritual thought is there—The Peace.of God
that passeth all understanding, infinite, eternal, pure,
in the illimitable blue. The Rest that remaineth for the
people of God, in the still, small voice, the musical motion
of the sea of clouds—in all their countenances The Love of
Christ that passeth knowledge, unutterable love in the
sweetness of manifold colours, and the immortal calm. The
life and freshness, youth and beauty of the saints' last days
on earth, in the verdure of the mountain top, springing up
in the warmth of celestial sunshine, with the hues and luxuriance of the Lord's garden. The ineffable repose of the

PAINTED IN SOLITUDE.

405

sanctified heart, in the silence of the luminous path over the
level clouds to the bliss of paradise. The gushes of love
and grace from the Lamb, in the descending angels ; and the
Holiness of the divine presence, in the marvellous light
flowing from the cross, diffusing brilliancy over all, and
inviting and drawing the soul nearer and nearer to Him.
"Whether all this can be better expressed by the painter's
sensuous language, we have yet to see. That he has made
it so powerfully expressive, and spoken through it, not less
than we could have desired, but more than we could have
imagined it capable of conveying, make his work liable to
no criticism from any short-coming, and triumphantly vindicate his claim, that the capabilities of landscape for great
poetic purposes—for the expression of the true and beautiful
—are as high as any other branch of the pictorial art.
Unlike the pictures preceding, this was painted in a devotional solitude. Not even his wife, who used to read much
to him while painting, was permitted to see it until it was
done. Regarding himself as one engaged in a great act of
faith and devotion, he shut out every influence which might
in the least ruffle the repose so needful to that divine exercise, and to the more perfect play of the feelings and the
imagination. The first effect of his work upon the few, who
had been impatiently waiting its completion, was all the
artist himself could have wished. It was then that they
felt it irresistibly, if they had never felt it before, that Cole's
was a great poetic soul, walking high among holy truths,
and working itself out in these visible forms of art. A picture was before them, " which," in the words of Bryant,
" could only have been produced by a mind of vast creative
power quickened by a fervid poetic inspiration." The
Thought, and the forms in which it was embodied, were, as
one expressed it at the time, of Miltonic magnitude and

406

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

beauty,—a remark that recalls what Bryant, in his concluding sentence upon this painting, relates of another :
" * The idea is Miltonic,' said a friend, when he first beheld
it. It is Miltonic ; and it is worthy to be ranked with the
noblest conceptions of the great religious epic poet of the
world."
It was while he was poising in the highly devotional and
imaginative state, to which he had been wrought up by the
execution of the foregoing work, that he painted his last
picture,—that most exquisite and most perfect of all his
simple landscapes, founded upon the opening of the twentythird Psalm, in which he has sought to express, by terrestrial
imagery, the same mind which he had just expressed, by
celestial imagery. It is the spontaneous outpouring of the
soul still possessed of its grand theme, only, instead of thq
heroic, in the simpler form and language of the idyl, standing in the relation of a concluding hymn to the greater act
of faith and worship, and meet for the closing hymn to his
whole artistic life.
'* The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want.
" He maketh me to lie down in green pastures :
" He leadeth me beside the still waters."

The same eye of faith, which, in the Pilgrim of the Cross,
adoringly beholds, from time's last mountain height, the
" new heavens," here, with a loving sense of the divine
tenderness which seeks and saves that which is lost, looks
out, from the edge of life's thorny wilderness, upon the
"new earth." The world's angry floods are crossed, its
desert tracks all passed : a pastoral scene refreshes the
sight: the flock is shepherded in the " green pastures," and
by " the still waters " of the heavenly Canaan. Psyeologi-

AS A WORK OF ART.

40T

cally considered, both works are as twin children, born of
the same poetic state of mind, of one and the same pure
religious passion. By thus understanding the relation
between them, we gain from the former the true key to
what is significant in the latter.
So far, the picture as a divine song, expressive of the
poet and the Christian. As a work of art, it evinces a
pencil at home with excellence, and used to the most
precious grace and beauty. While it is the mirror of a
mind sublime in the contemplation of immortal holiness
and serenity, it shows a thorough knowledge of all the
painter's proper means, and manifests a hand skilful as
well in the most delicate, subtle touches as in all bolder
ways and freer motions, and quickened by an imagination
of the most singular purity and brilliancy.
It was Cole's intention, upon the completion of the left
side of the series, to proceed at once to the right. One or
two vain attempts were made to this effect. Scenes in
which the pleasure, fortune and glory of the world were to
appear in magnificence and vanish in gloom, carrying their
deluded votary from hollow, short-lived joys to his dark
destiny of death, and presenting him, at each step, in strong
contrast with the follower of the cross, required some
change of feeling. The one scene was too earthly and
sensual, the other, too disquieting and sorrowful for hi3
then serene, spiritual frame of mind. From images of
pomp, effeminacy and despair he recoiled, and painted the
simple piece of nature, in which the organic, the solid and
aerial are alike tempered to the tone and quality of his
sentiments, all giving back the purity and tenderness of
his emotions, flowing and breathing in the likeness of his
affections, and whispering the peaceful mind, the still ineffable joy, the quiet happiness of a soul reposing in the confi-

408

HIS DEATH.

dence of divine grace, and hopeful of its acceptance with
God.
Prom this picture he turned again to the series, but with
a reluctant mind, and a body over-worked? and unrefreshed
by his usual recreation. After a few touches, he resolved
to postpone its completion until he had finished the Proserpine gathering flowers in the fields of Enna. The particular object to which he applied himself was an Italian pine,
one of his most perfect and beautiful trees, mingling with
whose outermost boughs is seen the distant outline of the
great iEtna. This was on Saturday, the 5th of February.
He laid his remaining colours under water, cleansed his
palette in his customary way, and left his studio. He
never returned to it again. On Sunday he engaged in
the services of the church, and partook of the holy communion. In the following night he was violently taken
with a disease which terminated in an inflammation of
the lungs. Early in the evening of the ensuing Friday,
the eleventh, he felt the touch of death, and desired with
great earnestness the immediate administration of the
Lord's Supper. At the close of the service, through all
of which he went with a deep, serene devotion, he sank
exhausted upon his pillow, and said, " I want to be quiet."
These were his last words. At eight o'clock he expired,
aged forty-seven years and a few days.

CONCLUSION.
THE personal appearance of Cole, if we except his head
and face, was not particularly striking. A little above the
medium height, and rather spare, he stooped from the labours
of the easel, and walked with a peculiar rising and sinking
motion. In dress he was plain, but always scrupulously
neat. His head was one of the very finest. So well constituted was his brain, as to quantity and balance, as to give
him, according to the laws of phrenology, a combination of
intellectual and moral qualities of the rarest kind. Thought
had, prematurely, so thinned his soft brown hair as to require
it to be brought up from the temples across the head, in order
to cover a partial baldness. His forehead, beautifully proportioned, was much his finest feature when his countenance
was in repose : when enlivened, his eyes. Of a bluish gray,
large, and under rather prominent brows, few were more
completely expressive of thought and emotion. The nose and
chin, somewhat large, indicated less than the rather large
mouth, which spoke force of character. His face, though
pale to whiteness—not a good complexion—was, when animated, one of the most pleasing. The charm of Cole's appearance, when at all engaged in talking, was an earnestness combined with an honestness and simplicity of manner,
that won, at once, the sympathy and faith of his listener.
Then, as he warmed, his countenance was all life, motion, at
times, brilliancy. His usually low, gentle voice became

410

CONCLUSION.

quick and energetic, full of emphasis, thoroughly expressive.
Cole was an admirable listener. His sensitive soul delighted in being touched by the recital of anything capable
of eliciting reverence, innocent merriment, or sorrow. There
was a singular heartiness in his laugh. His eyes were ever
filling with tears at the pathetic. A tolerable judge of
character would, at once, have pronounced Cole, from his
ordinary look and manner, very much what he was : full of
all tenderness and sweet humanities,—one of the most modest,
most feeling, most benevolent of men.
The substructure of the whole head and heart of the man
was faith,—faith always deeply religious—in his latter
years, pre-eminently Christian. To believe and trust—they
were great necessities of his being. He loved the simple
act of them for its own good sake. Will, purpose, patience,
perseverance, were their strong and healthy offspring.
Cole's intellect was one essentially poetic, and ranging
with those that seek the summits of the true, the grand,
and the beautiful, whether in nature, in man, or revelation ;
and so more naturally at home in those regions where pure
affection and the serene mind love to expatiate, than in
those where wit and humour or mere sentiment delight, or
passion plays. Hence Dante, Milton, Wordsworth were
his spontaneous choice, instead of Byron, Hood and Burns.
With a pure fine fancy, and an imagination of great reach
and brightness, he possessed an excellent faculty of invention, or power of finding out new, or selecting and combining old ways of embodying the creations of the fancy
and imagination.
What, therefore, the thoughtful critic would naturally
expect to see in the works of his pencil, he finds—poetic expression. " I wish," he used to say, " my pictures to express
my conceptions and emotions.77 They do express them.

CONCLUSION.

411

They are poems, ranging from the sonnet and song to the
ballad and romance, and so on to the epic. As mere landscapes, aside from all poetic utterance—if it be possible to
view them with that set aside—their grand quality is TRUTHFULNESS TO NATURE—nature, in the shape and qualities of
her countless things and forms,—nature, in the arrangement
and colour of her forms and things—nature, in the accompaniment of light-and-shade, in and by which they are seen ;
in and by which things and forms, colour and arrangement,
(involving what are called composition and perspective,)
qualities and shape or figure are all made visible with
proper force and measure. Hence Cole had an eye true to
the outline and figure of objects and masses, and a hand
obedient to his eye. He drew truthfully—to the life. He
had an eye true to the surface of things, and a touch of the
pencil obedient to his eye. He touched or painted truthfully—to the life. Hence, again, he had an eye true to the
arrangement, the disposition, or placing of objects in a way
conformable to an exquisite sense of the beautiful, as nature
sometimes, but not always, places or disposes objects. He
was a truthful—a judicious, fine composer. He had also
an eye true to the countless hues and tints of the visible
world, and a skill to combine and blend his paints, and
to apply them according to the bidding of his eye. He
was a truthful—a great, and judicious colourist. He was
not always on the stretch to be a splendid colourist, for
that would have been to be false to nature. Splendid effects of colour were not the end of art, but something far more difficult—faithfulness to nature: for art—
true art—high art—is but nature continued by the artist,
and continued conformable to nature. He put colours on
canvass, not to dazzle by their numbers, brilliancy, and
peculiar and striking arrangement, not merely to amuse

412

CONCLUSION.

the superficial spectator, but to affect as nature affects.
His compositions of colour were made conformable to
nature's compositions. His emphasis of colour, her emphasis
of colour. He was therefore, a truthful, and because truthful, a great and judicious colourist. Hence, yet again, he
had a sight familiar with the presence and absence of light
—light-and-shade, and a pencil faithful to represent it, and
a sense correct and acute to temper it to accord and
harmonize with the general scene, to produce the requisite
tone, and to give each part and particular their proper
force or faintness. His light-and-shade was a rare reproduction of light-and-shade in nature. And hence, lastly,
he had a right perception of space, and of the atmosphere
which fills it, and of the magnitude or smallness of objects
immersed in it—their distinctness or dimness according to
their nearness or remoteness to the eye. What he thus
perceived aright he attained the skill of imitating on canvass, in such a manner, that the effect of the imitation corresponded with the effect of the real nature imitated. His
perspectives were true to nature—the perspective of his
lines—the perspective of his air. And because the latter
is most difficult, and but seldom accomplished truthfully, in
aerial perspective, he may be called consummate. It may be
added, Cole had a just apprehension of all the forces and
vitalities of nature—of the warmth and animating principle
wherewith the heavens palpitate and breathe, and things
grow, bloom and fructify on the land—of the motion of the
air, of the winds in the clouds, in the woods, and upon the
waters—of the motion of the waters, the running of the
brooks, the rushing of the torrents, the gliding of river currents and the rolling of the waves—of the explosive power
below, upheaving the earth, and breaking its surface into
infinite irregularities—of the levelling power of attraction,

CONCLUSION.

413

rounding the pointed and smoothing down the rugged—of
the softening, finishing, and beautifying manipulations of
beams from the sun, and of rain from the clouds, of frost and
tempest. To a just apprehension of these forces and vitalities of nature, add that of her sounds" and voices, her silence
and her solemn repose. What he thus justly apprehended
of the material world, moved him like inspiration when he
painted it. The effect of pictures so painted was expressive of the manifold forces and vitalities, voices, silence and
repose of nature.
With regard to the works of Cole, therefore, I say again,
aside from their poetic expression,—expression of human
emotions and conceptions—their distinguishing quality is
TRUTHFULNESS TO NATURE. Bear witness to this, especially
the pictures of his last five years, and more especially the
completed three of the Cross and the World, and the Good
Shepherd. There, earth answers to earth, waters to waters,
woods to woods, and skies to skies. What marvellous
truth to nature in these pictured heavens! What electric
activities, what impetuosity in the stormy clouds of one!
What infinite, endless depths of sky in the others ! Beyond
the clouds lie the illimitable fields of ether, where the light
keeps Sabbath in the blue. What extent! what subtle
beauty! what repose! And here, how cool and b r e e z y there, how genial and warm—and every where and forever,
how elastic, how yielding, and how moist! Go to Claude,
they tell me, for glories of the sky ; but come from Claude,
even from Claude, to Cole, for sweet, refreshing moisture,
without something of which the most glowing heaven is but
brass.
But are there no faults in Cole ? We cheerfully admit
them, since he himself confessed them. Faults are inevitable from the very necessity of the case. Pigments in them-

414

CONCLUSION.

selves are often but feeble means, many times utterly inadequate to express the living glories of God's marvellous
world. "When that world is made the test by which to try
the painted images of it,—and by no other test should landscape art be tried—they will, of course, not endure it. He
who, on the whole, comes near it, is the master. He
who, on the whole, in most points, comes nearest, is the
greatest master. The true question, then, is not one as to
faults, but as to excellencies and virtues: not whether
there are faults, but how many, and how great are the
virtues. That is the true question. Judgment according
to nature, and not according to past art, must determine.
At that tribunal let Cole be arraigned and tried. And
there he shall be tried. I say so fearlessly, because I know
that there, hereafter, he must, and will be tried. He who
walks with nature will not tremble, rather triumph in
anticipation of the verdict.
It is said Cole fails in the human figure. It was not
necessary that he should excel. His figures are only subordinate actors in his scenes. But look, are not his men
and animals painted up to the mark to effect his purposes ?
It is said that some of Cole's landscapes are without air.
They are without dust, smoke, or mist, or coloured rays,
visible accidents of air, but certainly not without the effect
of that invisible element. They are simply true to one of
the aspects of American landscape. Hours there are, at
every season, when the distant Catskills, bathed in pure
white light, are seen through a perfectly transparent atmosphere. It is also said, that some of his pictures, the Dream
of Arcadia, for example, are crowded. Nature itself, in
which he lived, was crowded. He was only in such cases,
if the point be yielded, too true to nature. The fault was
the excess of virtues—the usual error of a fertile genius.

CONCLUSION.

415

While, though, we may, with Cole himself, confess to
faults, let us be mindful, if one might thus express it, that
he had the rare grace of repentance and amendment of
pictorial sins ; and would have given us works manifold,
had he lived to common old age, in which he would have
exchanged his faults for more virtues, new and fresher
beauties ; and multiplied the proofs, as he drew near and
more near the glory of the works of the GREAT ARTIST, that
landscape may be raised to the dignity of the historic ; and
that, not only as a great designer, but as an originator of a
new school of painting, he deserves, to-day, what the future
will certainly award him—a place among the Spencers and
Miltons of poetic art.

THE END,