Bohemian Society | Page 9

country air,
a breeze from the meadow, a ramble along a country road, read
Whittier's "Among the Hills."
"Pleasant it was when woods were green And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene Where shadows dark--and sunlight
sheen, Alternate come and go."

If you are weary with brain work and seek repose, read Longfellow.
"And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away."
If in an heroic mood read Milton.
"For with thee Certain my resolution is to die, How can I live without
thee? how forgo Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined."
If fortune has smiled upon you and flattery falls sweet on your ear, and
you are in danger of forgetting the final end of all ambition read "Grays
Elegy."
"Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting
breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust Or flattery sooth the
dull cold ear of death?"
If you wish to be transported to the mystic cloud-land of fancy, read
Hawthorne.
"Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange
things that almost happen. He knew not that a phantom of wealth had
thrown a golden hue upon its waters. Nor that one of death had
threatened to crimson them with his blood, all in the brief hour since he
lay down to sleep."
To a dreamy and poetic mind what can be more exquisite than these
few lines: "The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll into his bosom,
and went his way in search of the Fountain of Oblivion. A few days
brought him to the skirts of the Black forest. He entered, not without a
feeling of dread, that land of shadows, and passed onward under
melancholy pines and cedars, whose branches grew abroad and
mingled together, and, as they swayed up and down, filled the air with
solemn twilight and a sound of sorrow. As he advanced into the forest
the waving moss hung, like curtains, from the branches overhead, and
more shut out the light of heaven; and he knew the Fountain of
Oblivion was not far off. Even then the sound of falling waters was

mingling with the roar of the pines above him; and ere long he came to
a river, moving in solemn majesty through the forest, and falling with a
dull, leaden sound into a motionless stagnant lake, above which the
branches of the forest met and mingled, forming perpetual night. This
was the Fountain of Oblivion. Upon its brink the Student paused, and
gazed into the dark waters with a steadfast look. They were limpid
waters dark with shadows only. And as he gazed, he beheld, far down
in their silent depths, dim and ill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro,
like the folds of a white garment in the twilight. Then more distinct and
permanent shapes arose,--shapes familiar to his mind, yet forgotten and
remembered again, as the fragments of a dream; till at length, far, far
below him he beheld the great City of the Past, with silent marble
streets, and moss-grown walls, and spires uprising with a wave-like,
flickering motion. And, amid the crowd that thronged those streets he
beheld faces once familiar and dear to him; and heard sorrowful, sweet
voices singing, O' forget us not! forget us not!' and then the distant,
mournful sound of funeral bells, that were tolling below, in the City of
the Past."
* * * * *
* * * * *
An artist is speaking:
A person may be a true artist, who has never made a stroke with a
brush. Any one who can blend colors harmoniously or produce
effective contrasts in dress, or even in so trivial a thing as fancy work,
is an artist. Again, one may paint for years without the slightest
knowledge of, or taste for true art. In painting a portrait, something
more is required than the mere likeness, something besides pink and
white prettiness. Perhaps in two or three centuries an artist is born, one
who in painting a portrait produces almost a living, breathing creature;
and is able by his magic touch, to paint in the thoughts which flit
through the brain; the feelings which move the heart, and is able to read
almost the very soul.
Many years ago a poor struggling painter in an Italian studio, conceived

the idea of painting a picture of the Madonna. He shut his doors to
visitors in order to give full play to his imagination. Days and nights
were spent in dreaming and working, until he lost consciousness of the
outer world and only lived for his work, for this picture, he was sure
would make him famous. Days rolled into weeks and weeks