SOUTHERN AND WESTERN

MAGAZINE AND REVIEW.

VOL. II.]

CHARLESTON, S. C., SEPTEMBER, 1845.

[No. 3.

THE EPOCHS AND EVENTS OF AMERICAN HISTORY, AS SUITED TO THE PURPOSES OF ART IN FICTION.

POCAHONTAS; A SUBJECT FOR THE HISTORICAL PAINTER.

CONCLUSION.

We have already dwelt so long upon the events of the previous periods, that we shall be compelled to hurry somewhat rapidly over those which remain. It will be conjectured, from what has been already said of the characteristics of this epoch, that we regard its materials, not only as decidedly superior, at present, to those which follow, but as being quite as much adapted, even now, to the purposes of fiction as those of any other history. The events are equally curious and copious, full of vivacity, and glowing with the most various and striking traits of human passion and performance. Leading personages may be found in their development, endowed with all those attributes of character which constitute the moral of the heroic. Their deeds provide as noble and imposing action as romance has ever esteemed the most proper upon which to build her inventions of "lofty rhyme" and "stately tragedy," and there is quite enough, in the detail, of that facile obscurity, which we have insisted upon as so necessary to the full exercise of all the privileges which are asked by the original artist. We commend the study of this period, down to the date of English settlement in Virginia, to the peculiar care of the American student-satisfied, as we are, that he cannot fail to find among its chronicles, a body of crude material, virgin and fertile, fresh and blooming with the beauty of its dawning youth, and susceptible to all the maternal uses which grow naturally from the embrace of the prolific genius.

The epoch which follows is one of more narrow privileges, circumscribing our progress by the absolute and well known in those facts, which are of value in proportion to their obscurity, quite as much as because of their intrinsic capabilities. Its aspects are sharper and more repulsive-its outlines more decisive and angular-its incidents too clearly defined upon the record, and abridged by those definitive boundaries of the real, which impair the courage of him

VOL. II.-NO. III.

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But

who seeks after the ideal. The softening effects of distance-and the mellowing influence of time, are equally needed to reconcile us perfectly to the beautiful in its aspects, and the pliant and the graceful in its forms. There are intrinsic deficiencies also We feel, as we examine the moral of its history, that a harsher and a severer judg ment has made its way among men, lessening their faith in the fancies of the past, disparaging authority and tradition, and disturbing that repose among ancient things in which the meditative and endowing genius takes most of its delight. Chivalry had given way to more mortal politics, and, standing in the presence and beneath the freezing countenance of the bigoted Philip of Spain, or wearied with the caprices of one quite as selfish, if less bigoted-Elizabeth of Englandwe feel those frigid influences which were destined to pass like a blight over the social character of Europe. Not that we mean, now, to indicate any preference, except in a simple reference to the objects of art in fiction, for the condition of the social world in the days of chivalry over those of the reformers of the Christian Church. On the contrary, the study of the middle ages, obliges us to conclude with Sismondi, in disregard of Burke-"Cet heroism universel, nous avons nomme la chevalerie n'exista jamais commes fictions brillantes." it is precisely because of the paralysing influence of these and other powers, upon the habits and condition of the world, then and afterwards, that we are made conscious of the want of the proper materials for a fiction as brilliant as was found, the spontaneous production of society, in the previous epochs of its history. We have now reached a period when commerce begins to assert a claim to be an estate among those long before acknowledged among the powers of Christendomhelped wonderfully in the assertion of this claim by the sudden and surprising progress of maritime discovery. We are on the eve of those great social and moral changes which led to the catastrophe in the career of Walter Raleigh-to the heartless and senseless profligacy of the Stuarts to the substitution in England of French for English poetrythe clinquant of a false, for the hearty ring of the genuine metaland-not to class things so utterly dissimilar in every point of view— the anomalous growth of the demure and sly, the daring but calculating ambition of the Puritans. Virginia has been discovered, named and colonized-inadequately colonized, as were all of the settlements in America;- -a fact which led to that deplorable waste of blood and treasure, that prolonged struggle in arms, which naturally ensued from the painful contest for ascendancy, between the red men of the country and their pale invaders. But this, which provokes the censure of the philosophical statesman, as the very last of social misfortunes, is hailed as a source of invention and exercise, by the professor of art in fiction. A vast store-house of material is laid open to us by the struggles between these warring races; and over its heaps the future genius of our romance shall hang with the fond avidity of him who gloats over the discovery of an unknown treasure. Our limits will not suffice to enable us to indicate more than a single topic in the history of our sister State; but this shall be one admirably adapted to the purposes of poetry and art. This story is that of Pocahontas,

with which every native is familiar. It is one which has been frequently attempted, and, unhappily, in most cases, by very feeble hands. It has never been put to proper use by the pen or pencil of any; yet there is scarcely one, in all our history, at this second period of which we speak, which seems to us better adapted to the equal purposes of the painter and the poet. Let us endeavor to sketch from it a single scene for each. The painter, it must be remembered, has but a moment of time for his delineations-but a single moment-and if he fails so to select this moment, as to compel the picture to tell its own story, the subordinate merits of exquisite elaboration will not avail to maintain his claims as a builder and a master. The dramatic requisitions of his art-which are the most stringent, for the just reason that the department which delineates human passion is necessarily the most noble-require that he shall seize upon that moment in the event he seeks to celebrate, which, because of the intenseness of the interest felt by the several parties to his group, shall present the spectator with the most impressive and intelligible action. It is when the struggle is at its height, when face and form, and eye and muscle, in each of the dramatis personæ, are wrought upon by the extremity of the action-when the crisis is reached of human hope, or fear, or endurance, and nothing that follows, can, by any possibility, add to the acuteness of that anxiety with which the beholder watches the scene that the artist must snatch the occasion to stamp the story in life-like colors upon the canvass. It is the judgment which he exhibits in this particular-in thus choosing his moment-in the sensibility and the imagination which prompt him to catch the vivid emotion and the hungry passion, ere they subside into the repose which follows from natural exhaustion-that he establishes his pretensions as the poet of his art. To show his story at the extreme and doubtful instant, when hope can no longer admit of increase, when fear can bear nothing more without pain, and both, in the spectator, begin to merge in that anxiety to behold an issue, the approaches to which he can no longer endure without suffering too deeply for any sentiment of pleasure-this is the great merit which places the dramatic painter far above all other professors in his art. That moment, in the history of Pocahontas, is when Smith is rescued by her interposition from the stroke of the Executioner. Our artists, generally, have shrunk from this subject. We know not one, endowed with any of the necessary attributes of genius, taste and imagination, by whom it has been attempted. Mr. Chapman, a southern artist, whose large and peculiar merits it gives us pleasure to acknowledge and assert, has given us a lovely picture of the reception of the Indian princess into the bosom of the Mother Church; but it is to the reproach of this gentleman* that he has avoided the nobler event which first brought us

* Mr. Chapman is one of our best artists. He has a vivacious and an abundant fancy, an exquisite taste, and more industry than half of our artists put together. We are indebted to him for several Indian pictures, in all of which he has been singularly successful. But his genius inclines him rather to the pleasing than the passionate-rather to the soliciting and the sweet in nature, than the stern and terrible. Pocahontas, entering the English settlements at night to warn the colonists of the intended massacre-or the same lovely creature made cap.

to the knowledge of her character. Certainly, it is one of singular difficulty, demanding the highest powers of art, and an imagination equally warm and courageous, to say nothing of the inevitable requisites of the exquisite colorist and draughtsman; but it is this very difficulty, and the danger which attends it, which commend the subject to the affections, and stimulates the ambition of the proper genius. He, therefore, whether painter or poet, who shrinks from the task because of its hardships or its dangers, has a better reason for his timidity in the absence of his capacity. He is not the genius to obtain a mastery over the grand-not the soul to conceive what belongs to the sublime and the majestic-not that seer who alone carries the true divining rod-upon whose eye the dim creation of the mind irresistibly fixes itself, not only as the unavoidable presence, but as one which can be treated only in one manner. It is when the subject forces itself, with all its particular aspects, unchangeably, before the eye of the imagination, that we can be altogether sure of its grandeur, its efficacy, and the propriety of that attempt which seeks to embody it in physical material before eyes to whom its beauties never came before, even in their dreams.

Let us now endeavor to suggest this event by a skeleton draught of its deeper outlines-to sketch this picture, feebly of course, and very faintly-in crayons rather than in oil-but sufficiently, we trust, to commend it to those by whom the elaborate achievement may yet be wrought. We trust, in what we say, to make good the assurance with which we set out, that the subject of Pocahontas, rescuing Smith from the executioner, is worthy of the great historical painter.

Our back ground is one familiar to you all. It lies in the unbroken forest, yet undishonored by the axe. Great oaks, moss-bearded and grand, like Hebrew prophets and patriarchs, stretch their shadowy arms above the scene. Gigantic pines group themselves behind them, and tower up and away in emulation of the hills. There you may see the green vine gadding from bough to bough;-the green thickets are burdened with the weight of blossoms which persuade us that the atmosphere is faint with a sweetness all its own. The sward is similarly rich beneath our feet-a carpet of emerald with tiny flowers, purple and yellow, here and there saddening into brown under the melancholy smiles of autumn. Such is our landscape, the still life present, unavoidably perceptible, but not in its details, and only as subordinate to the human action. That fixes and fascinates the glance. There we see, crowding the intervals beneath the trees of the forest, a thousand human forms-the wild people of the woods-stern and dark, proud and fiercely frowning warriors, armed after their own fashion, looking the more terrible, perhaps, because of the absence of all armor-with-only half seen among the groups some less dusky visage which heaven has benignly touched with features of more human sweetness. Woman appears upon the scene, half shrinking

tive by the artifice of Argall and the treachery of Japazaws-would be subjects more agreeable to his genius, than the terrible scene in which she rescues Smith. Still, we should like to see the attempt, made by his hands, upon this difficult but noble subject.

back, even while she advances, as fearing to be seen while anxious to see; and boyhood stands forward, eagerly, before all the rest. Curiosity is in all-anger and exultation in many faces. All eyes turn to one centre, where, conspicuous in the fore-ground-the sunlight streaming down through a broad opening of that natural amphitheatre upon the spot-lies one

"Destined to make an Indian holiday."

It is the pale, the European face, that lies beneath that oppressive sunlight. The captive is bound and prostrate upon the earth-the strong man, conscious of all his strength, in the same moment in which he feels all its impotency. He constitutes the centre of that eager group that fascinates every glance-to whom every eye addresses itself-some with hate and eager ferocity, some with curiosity simply, and possibly, some few with pity and regret. Perfectly helpless, quite hopeless, his face turns upward to that sun which is about to set forever on his sight Such, at least, is his conviction. The pity which has power to save rises not in that dark assemblage; and he has prepared himself with the courage of the soldier, and the patient confidence of the Christian, to await the cruel death which hangs above his head. His manly cheek does not pale with apprehension. His eagle eye makes no appeal for mercy; and when his lips unclose, it is only to utter themselves in the language of defiance. His muscular form, though fettered with gyves from the neighboring vines, subsides nevertheless into an attitude of grace, consistent with the reputation of the courtier. Patiently he awaits the stroke of death. A jagged rock sustains his head. The executioner stands above him with his mace-a stalwart savage, who has no shrinkings of the heart or muscles—who will be only too happy when bade to strike-who will drink in, with a fierce phrenzy, the groans of the victim-nay, bury his hand within his bosom and pluck the heart from its quivering abode, while life yet speaks in the pulses of the dying man! He waits he looks with impatience to the savage monarch for the signal when to strike. That signal is made-the word is spoken!— "The arm that holds the mace is bending,

The heavy stroke of death descending."

What arrests the blow? Why does the eager savage, anxious for blood, panting for vengeance, forbear to execute the bidding of his cruel sovereign? Lo! the miracle, at once of loveliness and mercy! What has arrested the stroke of the murderer, so frequently and in all lands and ages! What, but the interposition of an angel! form of light-that loveliest creation of mortal beauty, a young girl just budding into womanhood-is this interposing angel. With what a sinking, terror-stricken heart, has she sat at her father's feet, watching the whole dark proceedings. What a strife has been in progress

the while, between her timid sex and years, and the holy strength of maternal nature in her heart. The maternal nature is at last triumphant. She darts from her seat-voiceless-gasping with new and convulsive emotions, which lead her, she knows not whither, while she flings herself between the captive and the blow. One arm is thrown