Selections from Arctic Voyages. 417 A formidable victim. an immense distance, and it certainly could not have traced in them the least resemblance to animals. These, the hunters stated, were two walruses sleeping on a piece of ice; and we rowed for a little with a view to ascertain how far in among the drift-ice the animals lay. A short consultation was held about the quickest and easiest way of getting at them. We resolved on going by an open channel in the ice, which extended to a point which was about 200 feet from being within range of shot. At first the animals looked like two yellowish-brown shapeless lumps. Suddenly several walruses, quite close to the boat, raised their heads above the water, with a pair of long white tusks projecting from each of their mouths. They lifted a part of their round bodies out of water, looked at the boat, and ducked hastily under, head foremost. After some moments they again came up, but it was thought best not to follow them for fear of frightening the others that were the first objects of pursuit. In the meantime we had come so near the latter that the harpooner stopped rowing, fixed the line to the harpoon, and stuck it on its shaft. He now stood in the fore and made a sign with his hand which way the boat should be steered. Few words, only the most necessary, were spoken, quite silently the eight muffled oars passed through the water, and silently but speedily the boat glided over its surface. The animals did not move. Finally the boat got behind an immense block of ice, against which the sea broke furiously, and thus prevented the noise of the motion of the boat among the ice from being heard. The breakers, however, had to be avoided, and the boat came again in sight of the walruses. It was not long before they began to move, and one of them raised its head. That instant the boat stood still, all bent down as well as they could, and soon it was whispered "They are lying quiet." The harpooner now placed himself with his weapon ready for a throw and a gun close beside him. A few fathoms more and they were within reach, when the animals lifted up their heads, regarding us with unconcern, and raising the anterior part of the body, the thick hide on the neck lying in great folds. "They will dive! Shoot! I this-you that-close behind the ear." The boat stood still, the harpoon whistled through the air, and two shots were heard. Both walruses sank down on the ice, one motionless-the steerman's bullet had hit home-the other showing signs of life. Dunér handed his gun to the steersman. Again a report, and a stream of blood from the neck where the shot had taken effect. The animal raised itself up half its length. "Shoot! I cannot reach the gun," cried Unsimas, a skilful Quane harpooner. I fired; the beast sank down, and a new stream of blood from the breast gave hope that it had got enough, but already part of its body was beyond the edge of the ice, and it sank and disappeared. The boat was now pushed forward to the edge of the low piece of ice, on which we all sprang out. The remaining walrus, a beast of 10 feet in length, was stripped of its skin and a three-inch thick layer of blubber, and deprived of its head with the ivory-like teeth, 18 inches long. EE PAPERS ON VERSE - WRITING. IV.-WORD-PAINTING. UR last paper treated on the necessity of remarks with numerous illustrations culled from the works of distinguished writers. Now, in all narrative verse, there must be some description, however meagre, of the scene in which the story is laid; for, except in such short pieces which are independent of time and place, and which, therefore, hardly come under the head of narrative, there must be a background of tone and colour just the same as in a picture. What charm would there be in a drawing which was composed solely of figures in various attitudes, with a few lines to mark the ground they stood on, and not a trace of trees, rocks, or sky to relieve the dreary outline? Even when he is merely painting a human face, the artist will place it against a "ground-work" of some particular tint, in order to enhance the effect. And so it is with the poet. He knows well enough how bare and meagre his tale would appear if the accompanying scenes and associations were left unnoticed, and, wishing to give vividness to the narrative, he practices what our German neighbours call WORD-PAINTING. What would Charles Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" be like, fascinating as are the details, without those glowing descriptions of Devon scenery and the wild western seas? How should we regard the thrilling incidents in "The Lady of the Lake" if the picturing of heathery hills and pine-hung mountain glens were blotted from the pages? And where, too, would be the charm of Byron's verse without those descriptions of the white-walled ruins that look out over the blue Egean, and the clustered islands sleeping in the golden light? The spell of the poem would be broken, the events described would be but half as interesting, and the verse would degenerate into mere rhythmical prose. Word-painting is, however, deservedly popular, and the present age has furnished many writers who have excelled in the art. Perhaps, of all our English poets, none knew the secret of this art better than Keats, that sweet singer whose verse was the poetry of Nature flowing from a classic and cultured mind. Few read his writings, yet I have no hesitation in saying that for delicacy of expression and for exquisite minuteness of description he stands unsurpassed. Take a verse from his "Ode to a Nightingale: " "I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves." from a pen like his will bring before the reader a scene which a feebler muse would take pages to delineate. Notice the verbal colouring in the following: "The wind out-blows Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion: 'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million Word-painting is, naturally, of many sorts. There is the soft and pretty kind, the stately and majestic, the fierce and terrible, and the sombre and dreary. Each has had its own great master, though some bards have excelled in more than one. A poet should be versatile-able to turn his thoughts from the wonderful to the simple, from the ancient to the modern, from the things of earth to the things of heaven. We find many instances of this in our literature. The bard that sang of "Shocks and splintering spears, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battle-axe on shattered helm, and shrieks After the Christ of those who, falling down, Looked up to heaven and only saw the mist," could yet turn his imagination to tell of the "An empty sky, a world of heather, Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom, Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, Our readers will notice that it is not the profusion of words which make descriptive verse graphic; we enough to please a microscropic student, but for all may multiply simile upon simile, and be minute that the lines may convey but a bare idea of what they are intended to describe. In word-painting brevity and terseness must be studied, and the most expressive adjectives chosen to qualify the things mentioned. Some young writers seem to think that the most high-sounding terms are always the most expressive, and when they wish to give power to their verse select the most striking phrases they can think of. Now this may be all very well at certain times, but the eye and ear soon weary of the pompous long-winded terms, and the latter become, not only out of place, but distasteful to the intelligent reader. We soon get impatient when the lines are made of such expressions as "the everlasting deep," The verse seems to breathe of the still twilight"invulnerable steel," "joy ecstatic," "adamantine and the fragrance of the spring-blossoms closing up for the night; and through all his writings there are the same delicate touches, which tell of an observant eye and a thoughtful mind. A few lines chains;" taken singly there is nothing whatever to object to in them, but when they are crowded into a verse-a series of superlatives without anything to relieve their startling frequency-they Papers on Verse-Writing. begin to pall on the sense, and the effect is altogether lost. Choose for yourself a good simple Anglo-Saxon style, short words and terse ones, only making use of the long Latin-derived phrases when the occasion requires. Such a style will prove doubly effective, and force and power be more easily acquired. In word-painting especially, unless the subject be one needing a majestic style, a simple one seems to be used by most great writers. Note the wonderful picturing in the following: "Behold, from Antres wide, Green Atlas heave his side: His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, The swathing coif his front that cools, And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pcols." And yet there are no ponderous phrases or hyperbolical similes to attract the attention of the reader. The charm lies in the artful disposing of those short, expressive words. It is like the making-up of a bouquet, where the beauty lies in the arrangement of the various colours. Every phrase, like every flower, looks well by itself; but collect them into a verse and their beauty will be either enhanced or destroyed. It needs a masterly hand to excel in real word-painting, just as with the artist's work. But, whereas the latter has to toil arduously with brush and palette, the poet-painter dashes off a picture with a stroke of the pen. Keats drew a harvest landscape in one line of verse, when he spoke of— "Oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun." And Jean Ingelow is almost as realistic in her poem. Honours," where she describes on "The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat." To every mind with a touch of poetry in it such lines as the above must present the scene as vividly as a sketch in oils. Little need for the brush and canvas, when one can present the picture in a single line of print. Byron was a good word-painter, but he is far more elaborate than the last-named writers. Here and there we come upon some sharp, rich passages, such as in the song where he tells how "The mountains look on Marathon, or the descriptions of Portugal-that warm southern land of sunshine and summer, of green vales and bare hills, and "The horrid crag, by toppling convent crowned, * The tender azure of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow." When a particular object is required to be pictured, his power is shown even to greater advantage. Here is an illustration taken from a well-known piece: "And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But thro' it there rolled not the breath of his pride: The foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray on the rock-beating surf.” For another fine specimen of "object word-painting." read the poem on "The Dying Gladiator," by the 419 same writer, where the vivid delineation of the shrinking figure is almost terrible in its distinctness. Shakespeare, as in most other things, excelled in object word-painting. The portrait he draws of Hamlet's father, the ideal of manly beauty, and his description of the hideous imp Caliban, are good instances of his skill. Then there is his far-famed description of Cleopatra's barge, which must be familiar to every school-boy; and the witch-scene in "Macbeth," where the philosophic young Danish Prince comes upon "the three weird sisters," dancing round the boiling cauldron, on the desolate moor. Numberless other illustrations might be quoted from the writings of the great dramatist, but space forbids. What a world of dreariness there is in that one line Tennyson has some wonderful touches in his Idylls. where he describes King Arthur returning to his palace in the evening, glad to escape from the outside world which he leaves shrouded "All in a death-dumb, autumn-dripping gloom." And again when he speaks of Elaine, sitting up in her tower, love-lorn and lonely, mourning for her departed knight, till a dismal cirque Of Druid stones, upon a moor forlorn, Or in "Endymion," where he speaks of the- That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, Our readers, perhaps, will think we are multiplying illustrations to an unnecessary extent, but it is only by presenting the beauties already worked out by others that we can teach the beginner how to study for himself. For just as the artist learns by examining the finished work of his superiors, so every aspirant with the pen should become acquainted with the writings of the fathers of poetry. But, whereas the young painter can watch the work of his master in its course of progress, the disciple of the Muses can only see his pattern when it is finished. The beauties of painting grow slowly into full perfection like the colours of the rising dawn, but the beauties of word-painting are rather to be compared to the lightning-flash, whereof we know not when or whither it comes; we see and admire the brilliance, but we can understand little else about it. So, likewise, the thoughts of a poet are of sudden and mysterious birth. Thomson has many fine touches in his "Seasons;" for instance, in his description of a mountain torrent swollen by winter rains, where he tells how "Between two meeting hills it bursts away, Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream; It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders through." Moore was a good word-painter; in fact, his "Lalla Rookh" is like a gorgeous picture from beginning to end. Here is a specimen, taken from the last-named poem; he is describing a lonely mountain fastness, where "A ruined temple towered so high, That oft the sleeping albatross And again, where he speaks of watching "The moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break "Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the grove.” "When the lake whiten'd and the pine-wood roared." "The poplars, with their noise of falling showers." We hope that the numerous "beauties of verse which have been presented to the notice of the young beginner may serve to quicken his imagination, and to assist him in ornamenting his compositions with the bright hues of nature. For nature it is that he must study, if he would be a good word-painter. Let him keep open the "eye of observation," marking every change both in the sky above or the world around him. Let him make himself familiar with every species of flower. bird, and tree which comes under his notice, with the varied phenomena of the seasons, and the changing beauty of dawn and sunset. His mind will thus become a secret picturegallery, in which his fancy can muse at pleasure, and develop thoughts and ideas worthy of a true poet. LYCIDAS. PRECOCIOUS CHILDHOOD. who never was handsome, said to a child in presence of her PRUDENCE.-A gentleman, who was no longer young, and parents, "Well, my dear, what do you think of me?" The little one made no reply, and the gentleman continued, "Well, so you won't tell me what you think of me? Why won't you?" Two little fat hands tucked the corners of a pinafore into its mouth, and said archly in a timid whisper, 'Cause I don't want to get whipped." SAID a father to his little boy, "Tom, you must be broken of that bad habit." "Papa," he replied, "hadn't I better be mended?" "WELL, Ethel, dear," said an uncle to his five-year-old niece, "if you like your new toy, come and put your arms round my neck, and give me a kiss." The little maid comhow I do spoil you! JUVENILE GALLANTRY.-One cold winter's day, a pretty young lady stopped and bought a newspaper from a little ragged Irish newsboy. "Poor little fellow" she said pityingly, "are you not very cold?"? "I was, ma'am, before you smiled," was the humorous reply. in the street, said, "My dear boy, may 1 inquire where A VERY polite and impressible gentleman, meeting a boy Robinson's shop is?" "Certainly, sir," said the boy, and then there was a pause. "Well, my boy, where is it?" "I have not the least idea," said the urchin. Shelley, who seems to have caught Byron's spirit of plied, but, as she did so, she remarked, “Oh, uncle, uncle, sympathy for the oppressed Greeks, gives vent to those feelings in his "Revolt of Islam." To the more sober-minded students the latter poem may appear sensational and extravagant, but it is characteristic of the writer whose fancy would take wing, whether critics approved or not. There is, perhaps, a certain sameness in the poem, but, nevertheless, it is full of energy and animation, now dwelling on the green woods and waving harvests sleeping in the peaceful sunlight, then picturing the descent of the ruthless soldiery, the vain resistance of the villagers, and the general desolation, where "The wide sky, Flooded with lightning, was ribbed overhead By the black rafters, and around did lie Women and babes and men slaughtered confusedly." From these and other specimens quoted from the poets our readers will see how difficult it is to explain the secret of word-painting. We have chosen to give this lengthy category of illustrations because we believe the beautiful fancies of great writers will not only explain the secret best, but will excite a healthy desire to emulate them. We conclude with five "single-line word-pictures," culled from the writings of our greatest living bard: UNPLEASANTLY SHARP.-"How far is it to Newton?" inquired a gentleman of a boy by the roadside. "Why, about twenty thousand miles if you keep on the way you're going, sir; but about half a mile if you turn round and go the opposite way," replied the matter-of-fact youth. GENEROSITY.-" James, did you divide the chocolate with your brother, as I desired you?" said his mother. "Oh yes, was the reply; "I ate the chocolate, and gave him the motto; he is so fond of reading, you know, ma. ma, "ARE you our new nurse?" asked a spoilt child, eying the new domestic with a scrutinizing glance." Yes, dear," 46 replied the nurse. "Well, then, replied her precocious charge, "I'm one of those boys who can only be managed by kindness, so you had better get me some sponge-cake and oranges at once." To his absent father a little boy writes that his puppies are growing every day, and some times twice a day, little fellow proposed the following: "A boy said, Ar a party, they were proposing conundrums, when a father and mother had a daughter; but she is not my sister." Who can explain that?" After repeated attempts the com pany gave it up. "Oh, it's simple enough," said the youngster, "the boy was telling an untruth." Mblomal teaching all the morning, and felt utterly unfit for the work of looking over the numerous piles of papers which lay scattered on the table before him. "Yes," he murmured to himself, "to-day is Monday, and Thursday is the speech day. All these marks must o be in good order by Wednesday. I am utterly worn out, and am afraid that I shall break down unless I can get some substantial help." At this point in his soliloquy he was interrupted by a knock at the door. |