Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1886-04-28
A Landscape Painting.
Correspondents of spEcrAToR.)

Correspondence of SPECTATOR.
On the wall of my sitting-room, suspend
ed by thread of wire, hangs piece OF
canvas 1Sx15, surrounded by an unosten-
tatious frame of gilt and walnut; the canvas
is not blank-a gifted artist has placed
upon it touches of his, as he caught the
tints of gold and purple, crimson and blue
of the setting sun, and blended them in soft,
beautiful harmony, restful to the eye, and
touching to the heart. The nearer hills
and distant mountains lend to the charm as
they unroll in gentle undulations from the
plain nearer still. A lonely road seems
creeping in tired stiffness as it peers in and
out amid glen and glade, winding along
the water course, passing on its untiagging,
tired way, past farm-houses, through VII
lagos, across rivers, over mountains; always
winding in and out. The autumn tints of
forest and plain are almost as rich in
tone and color as natures web could
weave them. This is all of that piece of
canvas, 1Sx15 to many. Some will give it
passing glance and ask, "What scene is
that ?'' Another, with an eye for the beau
tiful, will say, 1.-The perspective of that pic
tuse is fine. Another, stThat scene re-
minds me of the slopes along the Hudson"
Others commenting, and much the larger
number will say, 81 never could tell what
you admire, or can see in that picture D
The admiration comes yelling up volunta-
rily from that touch left on the heart, that
sometimes makes us long for Heavep-for
it is a scene from Home! What can see
in it? Ah, very much you wot not Of
That road is a stage road think of this,
with its burdens of joy and suffering. Go
back with me to the merry days of Staging
and we will see from those farm houses the
l-.x L Il
hear "The stage-horn ring from over the
hill, " as it comes numbering by their barns,
past the orchard, over the creek past farm
house, with it's curious lookers-on, at ''the
merry crowd going to the Springs" on past
the meadow where are busy haymakers, on
around ''the beeches' until it is out of
sight; then past the curve, and just under
that nearer mountain it winds over the hills
merry "Tallyhol Tallyho" along the
rude, beautiful drive, so fragrant with the
odor of MOSES and cedar, it rumbles, jolt
ing over the river bed, past 'The Spring."
through the swinging gate down the Save
nue." past the cottages, and it rolls up to
the porch of the hotel and empties itself of
its burden of merry pleasure-seekers and
health hunters, SO closely allied are happl-
ness and misery in this world of ours This
l see Ia that peice of canvas, and more;
amongst those hills, although now far dis
tant, l visit many thrifty, peaceful homes,
and later, see an armed host approaching
from over those mountains, under the lead
ership of "Stonewall Jackson-along that
roadway | see many a wounded soldier
borne In the slowly moving ambulance;
and one day, sad, sad day, one of these
moving hospitals stopped at the farm house
on the hill yonder, and what of its mission
Alas! alas! ask the many homes that have
suffered because nations and empires and
mOnarchies have not such laws so humane
in their meaning and just in their execution
of arbitration, that one nation could not
war with another. Yet more I see, nestled
under that mountain, in the the shade of
the surrounding hills, in hearing of the
murmuring water and splashing of the mill
wheel; across the rustic bridge, peeping
out from the aspen, the cedar, and the ma
pie, see the pure white walls of a home;
l can see the mistress here and there
amongst her flowers, her white drapery in
keeping with the beauty around her-now
look, she bends over q crescent bed of rare
eXotics, at the foot of a mound crowned
with lilies;- there, again, we see her under
the archway of roses, culling her baskets as
they peacefully swing to and fro; now
with her Birds and soon at the arbOr ar
ranging the tea-table-ever and anon we
see her looking up the roadway ''with a
smile in her eye," for the one who is the
working element in this lovely home.
But time gides on so swiftly and thoughts
crowd each other so closely.
take up my needle again, and as it
swiftly flies in and out, the blending of the
colors On the canvas haunts me. 1 go on
and on, weaving in the loom of memory a
web, whose warp and woof are made up of
threads SO mingled with the silver and the
golden, that they would read like fancy,
when, in truth, they are reality. I live
over again the life among those everlasting
hills. l visit homes, not in dreamland, but
in the past, amid the land so doubly histor-
ic. So Art, in its truth and enduring beauty,
creates in many ways. This is why prize
that picture of 1Sx15 that hangs by the
thread of wire against the wall.
April, 1886. L. M. L.