"Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do!" cried the jollycaptain, tapping the log with his rattan. "I bespeak this verypiece of oak for the figure-head of the Cynosure. She has shownherself the sweetest craft that ever floated, and I mean todecorate her prow with the handsomest image that the skill of mancan cut out of timber. And, Drowne, you are the fellow to executeit."
"You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain Hunnewell," saidthe carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of eminence in hisart. "But, for the sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do mybest. And which of these designs do you prefer? Here,"--pointingto a staring, half-length figure, in a white wig and scarletcoat,--"here is an excellent model, the likeness of our graciousking. Here is the valiant Admiral Vernon. Or, if you prefer afemale figure, what say you to Britannia with the trident?"
"All very fine, Drowne; all very fine," answered the mariner."But as nothing like the brig ever swam the ocean, so I amdetermined she shall have such a figure-head as old Neptune neversaw in his life. And what is more, as there is a secret in thematter, you must pledge your credit not to betray it."
"Certainly," said Drowne, marvelling, however, what possiblemystery there could be in reference to an affair so open, ofnecessity, to the inspection of all the world as the figure-headof a vessel. "You may depend, captain, on my being as secret asthe nature of the case will permit."
Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, andcommunicated his wishes in so low a tone that it would beunmannerly to repeat what was evidently intended for the carver'sprivate ear. We shall, therefore, take the opportunity to givethe reader a few desirable particulars about Drowne himself.
He was the first American who is known to have attempted--in avery humble line, it is true--that art in which we can now reckonso many names already distinguished, or rising to distinction.From his earliest boyhood he had exhibited a knack--for it wouldbe too proud a word to call it genius--a knack, therefore, forthe imitation of the human figure in whatever material came mostreadily to hand. The snows of a New England winter had oftensupplied him with a species of marble as dazzingly white, atleast, as the Parian or the Carrara, and if less durable, yetsufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanentexistence possessed by the boy's frozen statues. Yet they wonadmiration from maturer judges than his school-fellows, and wereindeed, remarkably clever, though destitute of the native warmththat might have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As headvanced in life, the young man adopted pine and oak as eligiblematerials for the display of his skill, which now began to bringhim a return of solid silver as well as the empty praise that hadbeen an apt reward enough for his productions of evanescent snow.He became noted for carving ornamental pump heads, and woodenurns for gate posts, and decorations, more grotesque thanfanciful, for mantelpieces. No apothecary would have deemedhimself in the way of obtaining custom without setting up agilded mortar, if not a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from theskilful hand of Drowne.
But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture offigure-heads for vessels. Whether it were the monarch himself, orsome famous British admiral or general, or the governor of theprovince, or perchance the favorite daughter of the ship-owner,there the image stood above the prow, decked out in gorgeouscolors, magnificently gilded, and staring the whole world out ofcountenance, as if from an innate consciousness of its ownsuperiority. These specimens of native sculpture had crossed thesea in all directions, and been not ignobly noticed among thecrowded shipping of the Thames and wherever else the hardymariners of New England had pushed their adventures. It must beconfessed that a family likeness pervaded these respectableprogeny of Drowne's skill; that the benign countenance of theking resembled those of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart,the merchant's daughter, bore a remarkable similitude toBritannia, Victory, and other ladies of the allegoric sisterhood;and, finally, that they all had a kind of wooden aspect whichproved an intimate relationship with the unshaped blocks oftimber in the carver's workshop. But at least there was noinconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attributeto render them really works of art, except that deep quality, beit of soul or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless andwarmth upon the cold, and which, had it been present, would havemade Drowne's wooden image instinct with spirit.
The captain of the Cynosure had now finished his instructions.
"And Drowne," said he, impressively, "you must lay aside allother business and set about this forthwith. And as to the price,only do the job in first-rate style, and you shall settle thatpoint yourself."
"Very well, captain," answered the carver, who looked grave andsomewhat perplexed, yet had a sort of smile upon his visage;"depend upon it, I'll do my utmost to satisfy you."
From that moment the men of taste about Long Wharf and the TownDock who were wont to show their love for the arts by frequentvisits to Drowne's workshop, and admiration of his wooden images,began to be sensible of a mystery in the carver's conduct. Oftenhe was absent in the daytime. Sometimes, as might be judged bygleams of light from the shop windows, he was at work until alate hour of the evening; although neither knock nor voice, onsuch occasions, could gain admittance for a visitor, or elicitany word of response. Nothing remarkable, however, was observedin the shop at those late hours when it was thrown open. A finepiece of timber, indeed, which Drowne was known to have reservedfor some work of especial dignity, was seen to be graduallyassuming shape. What shape it was destined ultimately to take wasa problem to his friends and a point on which the carver himselfpreserved a rigid silence. But day after day, though Drowne wasseldom noticed in the act of working upon it, this rude formbegan to be developed until it became evident to all observersthat a female figure was growing into mimic life. At each newvisit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips and a nearerapproximation to something beautiful. It seemed as if thehamadryad of the oak had sheltered herself from the unimaginativeworld within the heart of her native tree, and that it was onlynecessary to remove the strange shapelessness that had incrustedher, and reveal the grace and loveliness of a divinity. Imperfectas the design, the attitude, the costume, and especially the faceof the image still remained, there was already an effect thatdrew the eye from the wooden cleverness of Drowne's earlierproductions and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery of this newproject.
Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young man and a residentof Boston, came one day to visit Drowne; for he had recognized somuch of moderate ability in the carver as to induce him, in thedearth of professional sympathy, to cultivate his acquaintance.On entering the shop, the artist glanced at the inflexible imageof king, commander, dame, and allegory, that stood around, on thebest of which might have been bestowed the questionable praisethat it looked as if a living man had here been changed to wood,and that not only the physical, but the intellectual andspiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation. But in nota single instance did it seem as if the wood were imbibing theethereal essence of humanity. What a wide distinction is here!and how far the slightest portion of the latter merit haveoutvalued the utmost degree of the former!
"My friend Drowne;" said Copley, smiling to himself, but alludingto the mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariablydistinguished the images, "you are really a remarkable person! Ihave seldom met with a man in your line of business that could doso much; for one other touch might make this figure of GeneralWolfe, for instance, a breathing and intelligent human creature."
"You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr.Copley," answered Drowne, turning his back upon Wolfe's image inapparent disgust. "But there has come a light into my mind. Iknow what you know as well, that the one touch which you speak ofas deficient is the only one that would be truly valuable, andthat without it these works of mine are no better than worthlessabortions. There is the same difference between them and theworks of an inspired artist as between a sign-post daub and oneof your best pictures."
"This is strange," cried Copley, looking him in the face, whichnow, as the painter fancied, had a singular depth ofintelligence, though hitherto it had not given him greatly theadvantage over his own family of wooden images. "What has comeover you? How is it that, possessing the idea which you have nowuttered, you should produce only such works as these?"
The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley turned again to theimages, conceiving that the sense of deficiency which Drowne hadjust expressed, and which is so rare in a merely mechanicalcharacter, must surely imply a genius, the tokens of which hadheretofore been overlooked. But no; there was not a trace of it.He was about to withdraw when his eyes chanced to fall upon ahalf-developed figure which lay in a corner of the workshop,surrounded by scattered chips of oak. It arrested him at once.
"What is here? Who has done this?" he broke out, aftercontemplating it in speechless astonishment for an instant. "Hereis the divine, the lifegiving touch. What inspired hand isbeckoning this wood to arise and live? Whose work is this?"
"No man's work," replied Drowne. "The figure lies within thatblock of oak, and it is my business to find it."
"Drowne," said the true artist, grasping the carver fervently bythe hand, "you are a man of genius!"
As Copley departed, happening to glance backward from thethreshold, he beheld Drowne bending over the half-created shape,and stretching forth his arms as if he would have embraced anddrawn it to his heart; while, had such a miracle been possible,his countenance expressed passion enough to communicate warmthand sensibility to the lifeless oak.
"Strange enough!" said the artist to himself. "Who would havelooked for a modern Pygmalion in the person of a Yankeemechanic!"
As yet, the image was but vague in its outward presentment; sothat, as in the cloud shapes around the western sun, the observerrather felt, or was led to imagine, than really saw what wasintended by it. Day by day, however, the work assumed greaterprecision, and settled its irregular and misty outline intodistincter grace and beauty. The general design was now obviousto the common eye. It was a female figure, in what appeared to bea foreign dress; the gown being laced over the bosom, and openingin front so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat, the folds andinequalities of which were admirably represented in the oakensubstance. She wore a hat of singular gracefulness, andabundantly laden with flowers, such as never grew in the rudesoil of New England, but which, with all their fancifulluxuriance, had a natural truth that it seemed impossible for themost fertile imagination to have attained without copying fromreal prototypes. There were several little appendages to thisdress, such as a fan, a pair of earrings, a chain about the neck,a watch in the bosom, and a ring upon the finger, all of whichwould have been deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. Theywere put on, however, with as much taste as a lovely woman mighthave shown in her attire, and could therefore have shocked nonebut a judgment spoiled by artistic rules.
The face was still imperfect; but gradually, by a magic touch,intelligence and sensibility brightened through the features,with all the effect of light gleaming forth from within the solidoak. The face became alive. It was a beautiful, though notprecisely regular and somewhat haughty aspect, but with a certainpiquancy about the eyes and mouth, which, of all expressions,would have seemed the most impossible to throw over a woodencountenance. And now, so far as carving went, this wonderfulproduction was complete.
"Drowne," said Copley, who had hardly missed a single day in hisvisits to the carver's workshop, "if this work were in marble itwould make you famous at once; nay, I would almost affirm that itwould make an era in the art. It is as ideal as an antiquestatue, and yet as real as any lovely woman whom one meets at afireside or in the street. But I trust you do not mean todesecrate this exquisite creature with paint, like those staringkings and admirals yonder?"
"Not paint her!" exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, who stood by; "notpaint the figure-head of the Cynosure! And what sort of a figureshould I cut in a foreign port with such an unpainted oaken stickas this over my prow! She must, and she shall, be painted to thelife, from the topmost flower in her hat down to the silverspangles on her slippers."
"Mr. Copley," said Drowne, quietly, "I know nothing of marblestatuary, and nothing of the sculptor's rules of art; but of thiswooden image, this work of my hands, this creature of myheart,"--and here his voice faltered and choked in a verysingular manner,--"of this--of her --I may say that I knowsomething. A well-spring of inward wisdom gushed within me as Iwrought upon the oak with my whole strength, and soul, and faith.Let others do what they may with marble, and adopt what rulesthey choose. If I can produce my desired effect by painted wood,those rules are not for me, and I have a right to disregardthem."
"The very spirit of genius," muttered Copley to himself. "Howotherwise should this carver feel himself entitled to transcendall rules, and make me ashamed of quoting them?"
He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw that expression ofhuman love which, in a spiritual sense, as the artist could nothelp imagining, was the secret of the life that had been breathedinto this block of wood.
The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked all hisoperations upon this mysterious image, proceeded to paint thehabiliments in their proper colors, and the countenance withNature's red and white. When all was finished he threw open hisworkshop, and admitted the towns people to behold what he haddone. Most persons, at their first entrance, felt impelled toremove their hats, and pay such reverence as was due to therichly-dressed and beautiful young lady who seemed to stand in acorner of the room, with oaken chips and shavings scattered ather feet. Then came a sensation of fear; as if, not beingactually human, yet so like humanity, she must therefore besomething preternatural. There was, in truth, an indefinable airand expression that might reasonably induce the query, Who andfrom what sphere this daughter of the oak should be? The strange,rich flowers of Eden on her head; the complexion, so much deeperand more brilliant than those of our native beauties; theforeign, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet not too fantasticto be worn decorously in the street; the delicately-wroughtembroidery of the skirt; the broad gold chain about her neck; thecurious ring upon her finger; the fan, so exquisitely sculpturedin open work, and painted to resemble pearl and ebony;--wherecould Drowne, in his sober walk of life, have beheld the visionhere so matchlessly embodied! And then her face! In the darkeyes, and around the voluptuous mouth, there played a look madeup of pride, coquetry, and a gleam of mirthfulness, whichimpressed Copley with the idea that the image was secretlyenjoying the perplexing admiration of himself and otherbeholders.
"And will you," said he to the carver, "permit this masterpieceto become the figure-head of a vessel? Give the honest captainyonder figure of Britannia--it will answer his purpose farbetter--and send this fairy queen to England, where, for aught Iknow, it may bring you a thousand pounds."
"I have not wrought it for money," said Drowne.
"What sort of a fellow is this!" thought Copley. "A Yankee, andthrow away the chance of making his fortune! He has gone mad; andthence has come this gleam of genius."
There was still further proof of Drowne's lunacy, if credit weredue to the rumor that he had been seen kneeling at the feet ofthe oaken lady, and gazing with a lover's passionate ardor intothe face that his own hands had created. The bigots of the dayhinted that it would be no matter of surprise if an evil spiritwere allowed to enter this beautiful form, and seduce the carverto destruction.
The fame of the image spread far and wide. The inhabitantsvisited it so universally, that after a few days of exhibitionthere was hardly an old man or a child who had not becomeminutely familiar with its aspect. Even had the story of Drowne'swooden image ended here, its celebrity might have been prolongedfor many years by the reminiscences of those who looked upon itin their childhood, and saw nothing else so beautiful in afterlife. But the town was now astounded by an event, the narrativeof which has formed itself into one of the most singular legendsthat are yet to be met with in the traditionary chimney cornersof the New England metropolis, where old men and women sitdreaming of the past, and wag their heads at the dreamers of thepresent and the future.
One fine morning, just before the departure of the Cynosure onher second voyage to Fayal, the commander of that gallant vesselwas seen to issue from his residence in Hanover Street. He wasstylishly dressed in a blue broadcloth coat, with gold lace atthe seams and button-holes, an embroidered scarlet waistcoat, atriangular hat, with a loop and broad binding of gold, and wore asilver-hilted hanger at his side. But the good captain might havebeen arrayed in the robes of a prince or the rags of a beggar,without in either case attracting notice, while obscured by sucha companion as now leaned on his arm. The people in the streetstarted, rubbed their eyes, and either leaped aside from theirpath, or stood as if transfixed to wood or marble inastonishment.
"Do you see it?--do you see it?" cried one, with tremulouseagerness. "It is the very same!"
"The same?" answered another, who had arrived in town only thenight before. "Who do you mean? I see only a sea-captain in hisshoregoing clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit, with abunch of beautiful flowers in her hat. On my word, she is as fairand bright a damsel as my eyes have looked on this many a day!"
"Yes; the same!--the very same!" repeated the other. "Drowne'swooden image has come to life!"
Here was a miracle indeed! Yet, illuminated by the sunshine, ordarkened by the alternate shade of the houses, and with itsgarments fluttering lightly in the morning breeze, there passedthe image along the street. It was exactly and minutely theshape, the garb, and the face which the towns-people had sorecently thronged to see and admire. Not a rich flower upon herhead, not a single leaf, but had had its prototype in Drowne'swooden workmanship, although now their fragile grace had becomeflexible, and was shaken by every footstep that the wearer made.The broad gold chain upon the neck was identical with the onerepresented on the image, and glistened with the motion impartedby the rise and fall of the bosom which it decorated. A realdiamond sparkled on her finger. In her right hand she bore apearl and ebony fan, which she flourished with a fantastic andbewitching coquetry, that was likewise expressed in all hermovements as well as in the style of her beauty and the attirethat so well harmonized with it. The face with its brilliantdepth of complexion had the same piquancy of mirthful mischiefthat was fixed upon the countenance of the image, but which washere varied and continually shifting, yet always essentially thesame, like the sunny gleam upon a bubbling fountain. On thewhole, there was something so airy and yet so real in the figure,and withal so perfectly did it represent Drowne's image, thatpeople knew not whether to suppose the magic wood etherealizedinto a spirit or warmed and softened into an actual woman.
"One thing is certain," muttered a Puritan of the old stamp,"Drowne has sold himself to the devil; and doubtless this gayCaptain Hunnewell is a party to the bargain."
"And I," said a young man who overheard him, "would almostconsent to be the third victim, for the liberty of saluting thoselovely lips."
"And so would I," said Copley, the painter, "for the privilege oftaking her picture."
The image, or the apparition, whichever it might be, stillescorted by the bold captain, proceeded from Hanover Streetthrough some of the cross lanes that make this portion of thetown so intricate, to Ann Street, thence into Dock Square, and sodownward to Drowne's shop, which stood just on the water's edge.The crowd still followed, gathering volume as it rolled along.Never had a modern miracle occurred in such broad daylight, norin the presence of such a multitude of witnesses. The airy image,as if conscious that she was the object of the murmurs anddisturbance that swelled behind her, appeared slightly vexed andflustered, yet still in a manner consistent with the lightvivacity and sportive mischief that were written in hercountenance. She was observed to flutter her fan with suchvehement rapidity that the elaborate delicacy of its workmanshipgave way, and it remained broken in her hand.
Arriving at Drowne's door, while the captain threw it open, themarvellous apparition paused an instant on the threshold,assuming the very attitude of the image, and casting over thecrowd that glance of sunny coquetry which all remembered on theface of the oaken lady. She and her cavalier then disappeared.
"Ah!" murmured the crowd, drawing a deep breath, as with one vastpair of lungs.
"The world looks darker now that she has vanished," said some ofthe young men.
But the aged, whose recollections dated as far back as witchtimes, shook their heads, and hinted that our forefathers wouldhave thought it a pious deed to burn the daughter of the oak withfire.
"If she be other than a bubble of the elements," exclaimedCopley, "I must look upon her face again."
He accordingly entered the shop; and there, in her usual corner,stood the image, gazing at him, as it might seem, with the verysame expression of mirthful mischief that had been the farewelllook of the apparition when, but a moment before, she turned herface towards the crowd. The carver stood beside his creationmending the beautiful fan, which by some accident was broken inher hand. But there was no longer any motion in the lifelikeimage, nor any real woman in the workshop, nor even thewitchcraft of a sunny shadow, that might have deluded people'seyes as it flitted along the street. Captain Hunnewell, too, hadvanished. His hoarse sea-breezy tones, however, were audible onthe other side of a door that opened upon the water.
"Sit down in the stern sheets, my lady," said the gallantcaptain. "Come, bear a hand, you lubbers, and set us on board inthe turning of a minute-glass."
And then was heard the stroke of oars.
"Drowne," said Copley with a smile of intelligence, "you havebeen a truly fortunate man. What painter or statuary ever hadsuch a subject! No wonder that she inspired a genius into you,and first created the artist who afterwards created her image."
Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the traces of tears,but from which the light of imagination and sensibility, sorecently illuminating it, had departed. He was again themechanical carver that he had been known to be all his lifetime.
"I hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Copley," said he, puttinghis hand to his brow. "This image! Can it have been my work?Well, I have wrought it in a kind of dream; and now that I ambroad awake I must set about finishing yonder figure of AdmiralVernon."
And forthwith he employed himself on the stolid countenance ofone of his wooden progeny, and completed it in his own mechanicalstyle, from which he was never known afterwards to deviate. Hefollowed his business industriously for many years, acquired acompetence, and in the latter part of his life attained to adignified station in the church, being remembered in records andtraditions as Deacon Drowne, the carver. One of his productions,an Indian chief, gilded all over, stood during the better part ofa century on the cupola of the Province House, bedazzling theeyes of those who looked upward, like an angel of the sun.Another work of the good deacon's hand--a reduced likeness of hisfriend Captain Hunnewell, holding a telescope and quadrant--maybe seen to this day, at the corner of Broad and State streets,serving in the useful capacity of sign to the shop of a nauticalinstrument maker. We know not how to account for the inferiorityof this quaint old figure, as compared with the recordedexcellence of the Oaken Lady, unless on the supposition that inevery human spirit there is imagination, sensibility, creativepower, genius, which, according to circumstances, may either bedeveloped in this world, or shrouded in a mask of dulness untilanother state of being. To our friend Drowne there came a briefseason of excitement, kindled by love. It rendered him a geniusfor that one occasion, but, quenched in disappointment, left himagain the mechanical carver in wood, without the power even ofappreciating the work that his own hands had wrought. Yet who candoubt that the very highest state to which a human spirit canattain, in its loftiest aspirations, is its truest and mostnatural state, and that Drowne was more consistent with himselfwhen he wrought the admirable figure of the mysterious lady, thanwhen he perpetrated a whole progeny of blockheads?
There was a rumor in Boston, about this period, that a youngPortuguese lady of rank, on some occasion of political ordomestic disquietude, had fled from her home in Fayal and putherself under the protection of Captain Hunnewell, on board ofwhose vessel, and at whose residence, she was sheltered until achange of affairs. This fair stranger must have been the originalof Drowne's Wooden Image.
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