The Knickerbocker | Page 4

Simply by telling us how it appeared to him; introducing those
circumstances which had the greatest effect on his own imagination. He

looks on nature neither as a gardener, a geographer, an astronomer, nor
a geologist, but as a man, susceptible of strong impressions, and able to
describe clearly to others the objects which affected himself. This he
will do in the style which the emotion raised within him naturally
dictates. His imagery, his illustrations, his whole language, will take the
hue of his own feelings. It is in describing accurately the effect, not the
cause, the emotion, not the object which produced it, that the poet's
fidelity to nature consists. Let us illustrate our meaning by two or three
examples. In Thomson we find the following description of a
thunder-storm:
'A boding silence reigns Dread through the dun expanse; save the dull
sound That from the mountain, previous to the storm, Rolls o'er the
muttering earth, disturbs the flood, And shakes the forest leaf without a
breath. Prone to the lowest vale, the aërial tribes Descend: the
tempest-loving raven scarce Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful
gaze The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens Cast a deploring
eye, by man forsook, Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast, Or
seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 'Tis listening fear, and dumb
amazement all, When to the startled eye the sudden glance Appears far
south, eruptive through the cloud And following slower in explosion
vast, The thunder raises his tremendous voice. At first heard solemn
o'er the verge of heaven The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes
And rolls its awful burthen on the wind, The lightnings flash a larger
curve, and more The noise astounds; till over head a sheet Of livid
flame discloses wide; then shuts And opens wider; shuts, and opens
still Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. Follows the loosened,
aggravated roar, Enlarging, deepening, mingling; peal on peal Crushed
horrible, convulsing heaven and earth.'
MR. IRVING describes a similar scene in the following terms: 'It was
the latter part of a calm sultry day, that they floated quietly with the
tide between these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which
prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat; the turning of a
plank, or the accidental falling of an oar on deck, was echoed from the
mountain side, and reverberated along the shores. To the left the
Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over

forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strutted forth the
bold promontory of Antony's nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about
it; while beyond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to
lock their arms together, and confine this mighty river in their embraces.
In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of bright snowy
clouds peering above the western heights. It was succeeded by another
and another, each seemingly pushing onward its predecessor, and
towering with dazzling brilliancy in the deep blue atmosphere; and now
muttering peals of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the
mountains. The river, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the
sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the breeze
came creeping up it. The fish-hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought
their nests on the high dry trees; the crows flew clamorously to the
crevices of the rocks, and all nature seemed conscious of the
approaching thunder gust. The clouds now rolled in volumes over the
mountain tops; their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower parts
of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in broad and
scattered drops; the winds freshened, and curled up the waves; at length
it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the mountain tops,
and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped
from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the rocks, splitting
and rending the stoutest forest trees; the thunder burst in tremendous
explosions; the peals were echoed from mountain to mountain; they
clashed upon Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the
Highlands, each headland waking a new echo, until old Bull Hill
seemed to bellow back the storm.'
We think that no one who attentively reads the foregoing extracts can
fail to see the infinite superiority of the latter over the former, in every
thing that pertains to a faithful representation of nature. Irving has
given us the scene just as he saw it, unmixed with any hue or coloring
with which the mood of his own mind might have invested it. We see
the objects themselves, disconnected from the associations of the
spectator. Had there been a thousand persons looking on, each would
have heard the same