Samantha at the World's Fair by Marietta Holley (ebook and pdf reader txt) 📕

I cried and wept in front of it, and cried and wept.

And then there wuz another picter called "Breakin' Home Ties."

A crowd always stood before that.

It wuz a boy jest a-settin' out to seek his fortune. The breakfast-table still stood in the room. The old grandma a-settin' there still; time had dulled her vision for lookin' forwar[Pg 432]d. She wuz a-lookin' into the past, into the realm that had held so many partin's for her, and mebby lookin' way over the present into the land of meetin's.

The little girl with her hand on the old dog is too small to fully realize what it all means.

But in the mother's face you can see the full meanin' of the partin'—the breakin' of the old ties that bound her boy so fast to her in the past.

The lettin' him go out into the evil world without her lovin' watchfulness and love. All the love that would fain go with him—all the admonition that she would fain give him—all the love and all the hope she feels for him is writ in her gentle face.

As for the boy, anticipation and dread are writ on his mean, but the man is waitin' impatient outside to take him away. The partin' must come.

You turn away, glad you can't see that last kiss.

Then there wuz "Holy Night," the Christ Child, with its father and mother, and some surroundin' worshippers of both sects.

Mary's face held all the sweetness and strength you'd expect to see in the mother of our Lord. And Joseph looked real well too—quite well.

Josiah said that "the halos round his head and Mary's looked some like big white plates."

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But I sez, "You hain't much of a judge of halos, anyway. Mebby if you should try to make a few halos you'd speak better of 'em."

I often think this in the presence of critics, mebby if they should lay holt and paint a few picters, they wouldn't find fault with 'em so glib. It looks real mean to me to see folks find so much fault with what they can't do half so well themselves.

Then there wuz the wimmen at the tomb of the Christ. The door is open, the Angel is begenin' for 'em to enter.

In the faces of them weepin', waitin' wimmen is depictered the very height and depth of sorrow. You can't see the face of one on 'em, but her poster gives the impression of absolute grief and loss.

The quiverin' lips seems formin' the words—"Farwell, farwell, best beloved."

Deathless love shines through the eyes streamin' with tears.

In the British section there wuz one picter that struck such a deep blow onto my heart that its strings hain't got over vibratin' still.

They send back some of them deep, thrillin' echoes every time I think on't in the day-time or wake up in the night and think on't.

It wuz "Love and Death," and wuz painted by Mr. Watts, of London.

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It showed a home where Love had made its sweet restin'-place—vines grew up round the pleasant door-way, emblematic of how the heart's deep affection twined round the spot.

But in the door-way stood a mighty form, veiled and shadowy, but relentless. It has torn the vines down, they lay witherin' at its feet. It wuz bound to enter.

Though you couldn't see the face of this veiled shape, a mysterious, dretful atmosphere darkened and surrounded it, and you knew that its name wuz Death.

Love stood in the door-way, vainly a-tryin' to keep it out, but you could see plain how its pleadin', implorin' hand, extended out a-tryin' to push the figger away, wuz a-goin' to be swept aside by the inexorable, silent shape.

Death when he goes up on a door-step and pauses before a door has got to enter, and Love can't push it away. No, it can only git its wings torn off and trompled on in the vain effort.

It wuz a dretful impressive picter, one that can't be forgot while life remains.

On the opposite wall wuz Crane's noble picter, "Freedom;" I stood before that for some time nearly lost and by the side of myself. Crane did first-rate; I'd a been glad to have told him so—it would a been so encouragin' to him.

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Then there wuz another picter in the English section called "The Passing of Arthur" that rousted up deep emotions.

I'd hearn Thomas J. read so much about Arthur, and that round extension table of hisen, that I seemed to be well acquainted with him and his mates.

I knew that he had a dretful hard time on't, what with his wife a-fallin' in love with another man—which is always hard to bear—and etcetry. And I always approved of his doin's.

He never tried to go West to git a divorce. No; he merely sez to her, when she knelt at his feet a-wantin' to make up with him, he sez, "Live so that in Heaven thou shalt be Arthur's true wife, and not another's."

I'll bet that shamed Genevere, and made her feel real bad.

And his death-bed always seemed dretful pathetic to me.

And here it wuz all painted out. The boat floatin' out on the pale golden green light, and Arthur a-layin' there with the three queens a-weepin' over him. A-floatin' on to the island valley of Avilion, "Where falls not hail nor rain, nor any snow."

And then there wuz a picter by Whistler, called "The Princess of the Land of Porcelain."

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You couldn't really tell why that slender little figger in the long trailin' silken robes, and the deep dark eyes, and vivid red lips should take such a holt on you.

But she did, and that face peers out of Memory-aisles time and time agin, and you wake up a-thinkin' on her in the night.

Mr. Whistler must a been dretful interested himself in the Lady of the Land of Porcelain, or he couldn't have interested other folks so.

And then there wuz another by Mr. Whistler, called "The Lady of the Yellow Buskin."

A poem of glowin' color and life.

And right there nigh by wuz one by Mr. Chase, jest about as good. The name on't wuz "Alice."

I believe Alice Ben Bolt looked some like her when she wuz of the same age, you know—

"Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when Mr. Ben Bolt gin her a smile;
And trembled with fear at Mr. Ben Boltses frown."

She ort to had more gumption than that; but I always liked her.

Elihu Vedder's picters rousted up deep emotions in my soul—jest about the deepest I have got, and the most mysterious and weird.

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Other artists may paint the outside of things, but he goes deeper, and paints the emotions of the soul that are so deep that you don't hardly know yourself that you've got them of that variety.

In lookin' through these picters of hisen illustratin' that old Persian poem, "Omer Kyham"—

Why, I have had from eighty to a hundred emotions right along for half a day at a time.

Mr. Vedder had here "A Soul in Bondage," "The Young Marysus and Morning," and "Delila and Sampson," and several others remarkably impressive.

And Mr. Sargent's "Mother and Child" looked first-rate in its cool, soft colors. They put me in mind a good deal of Tirzah Ann and Babe.

And "The Delaware Valley" and "A Gray Lowery Day," by Mr. George Inness, impressed me wonderfully. Many a day like it have I passed through in Jonesville.

"Hard Times," also in a American department, wuz dretful impressive. A man and a woman wuz a-standin' in the hard, dusty road.

His face looked as though all the despair, and care, and perplexities of the hard times wuz depictered in it.

He wuz stalkin' along as if he had forgot everything but his trouble.

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And I presoom that he'd had a dretful hard time on't—dretful. He couldn't git no work, mebby, and wuz obleeged to stand and see his family starve and suffer round him.

Yes, he wuz a-walkin' along with his hands in his empty pockets and his eyes bent towards the ground.

But the woman, though her face looked haggard, and fur wanner than hissen, yet she wuz a-lookin' back and reachin' out her arms towards the children that wuz a-comin' along fur back. One of 'em wuz a-cryin', I guess. His ma hadn't nothin' but love to give him, but you could see that she wuz a-givin' him that liberal.

And Durant's "Spanish Singing Girl" rousted up a sight of admiration; she wuz very good-lookin'—looked a good deal like my son's wife.

Well, in the Russian Department (and jest see how my revery flops about, clear from America to Russia at one jump)—

There wuz a picter there of a boat in a storm.

And on that boat is thrown a vivid ray of sunshine. You'd think that it wuz the real thing, and that you could warm your fingers at it, but it hain't—it is only painted sunshine. But it beats all I ever see; I wouldn't hesitate for a minute to use it for a noon-mark.

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In the German Exhibit wuz as awful a picter as I want to see. It was Julia, old Mr. Serviuses girl—Miss Tarquin that now is—a-ridin' over her pa and killin' him a purpose, so she could git his property.

To see Miss Tarquin, that wicked, wicked creeter, a-doin' that wicked act, is enough to make a perfect race of old maids and bacheldors.

The idea of havin' a lot of children to take care on and then be rid over by 'em!

But I shall always believe that she wuz put up to it by the Tarquin boys. I never liked 'em—they wuzn't likely.

But the picter is a sight—dretful big and skairful.

And in that section is a beautiful picter by Fritz Uhele, whose figgers, folks say, are the best in the world.

"The Angels Appearing to the Shepherds."

Oh, what glowin' faces the angels had! You read in 'em what the shepherds did:

"Love, Good Will to Man."

There wuz some little picters there about six inches square, and marked:

"Little Picters for a Child's Album."

And Josiah sez to me, "I believe I'll buy one of 'em for Babe's album that I got her last Christmas."

Sez he, "I've got ten cents in change, but probable," sez he, "it won't be over eight cents."

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Sez I, "Don't be too sanguine, Josiah Allen."

Sez he, "I am never sanguinary without good horse sense to back it up. They throwed in a chromo three feet square with the last calico dress you bought at Jonesville, and this hain't over five or six inches big."

"Wall," sez I, "buy it if you want to."

"Wall," sez he, "that's what I lay out to do, mom."

So he accosted a Columbus Guard that stood nigh, and sez he—

"I'm a-goin' to buy that little picter, and I want to know if I can take it home now in my vest pocket?"