Here's BALCH'S. Let us step inside--
Your artist's eye be gratified.
See what a youthful sculptor can
Achieve, if "wit is in the man;"
"The Dying Indian" yet shall live,
His own, true evidence to give,
That the town, though passing slow in art
Can furnish, ne'ertheless, its part
Of talent. Why is it thus, when
Boston so abounds in men
Who'll tell their tens of thousands o'er,
Most sure of making ten times more;--
Why is it that the fine arts here
Are not encouraged? In a year,
Or little more, all saving two
Or three, who artists can be named,
With Boston have all part disclaimed.
"This city is indeed so new,
What can you think that men will do
For fine arts, when," so it is said,
"They're toiling for their daily bread?"
Their bread, indeed! In former days
Bread was a mixture plain of maize,
Or any other grain; it meant
One kind of food. But different
Is now the case. We understand
By modern bread--house, horses, land,
And furniture, and equipages
Enough to shock all ancient sages;
Servants, and rich luxurious boards,
Laden with all the land affords;
And men with this quite uncontent,
And what they have, are quite as bent
On making money, as if they
Lived on six-and-nine per day!
Some, too well, like their gold to view,
To keep their bank-notes clean and new,
Which, as they've found, by calculation,
Is accomplished by non-circulation.
Or if they spend their cash, they know
That's cheapest which will make most show;
A picture three feet long by two
Painted as but a Claude could do,
To fill such space upon the wall,
Is a poor investment, after all,
For any sum, however small;
Man thinks (it's for his interest, sure)
'T is best to six per cent. secure.
For "light and shade" what can he care?
All he knows is light pockets are
Indeed depressing, and he'll rate
An empty purse a thing of weight.
Aspiring to some office, he
Perhaps may disappointed be,
And then will know, without the aid
Of paintings, though with skill displayed,
What's meant by "putting in the shade."
Loves real life--ideal, shocks,
And studies in perspective--stocks;
With care and toil, anxiety,
And want of proper quiet, he
Becomes in disposition sour;
And if any painting had the power
To please--I think that all must see--
One in distemper it would be.
In sober guise, is it quite true
Bostonians have not power to
Encourage art? The town can boast
Her merchants, as a princely host;
Her lawyers find it no hard case
To live; the tradesmen in the place
Enjoy the goods of earth, nor feel
With hardships they have much to deal.
With all their calls, physicians may
Be sure the calls of hunger they
Will never know, or ever knew;
They purge the purse, and stomach too.
They've toiled with patience, I allow,
For riches, but possess them now.
The ministerial portion, too,
Of the city, sure, are "well to do;"
But are they free from love of gain?--
No! Love of gain, and love of gold,
Their places most supreme will hold,
As long as Yankees, are, allow,
True Yankees, nothing more, as now.
I ne'er will speak of them with scorn--
Thank God, I am a Yankee born;
Industrious they--more enterprise
In one poor little brain there lies,
Than forty in another land
Could ever, all combined, command.
Ingenious, energetic, free--
Most of them famed for honesty;
He's surely a sporadic kind,
Such in no other land you find;
He's independent--feels he can,
Far better than another man,
Make his own laws; and so he will,
And act thereon, far better still.
"Hope on, hope ever," is his text--
Is always "wondering" what next
He'd better do; his head e'er filled
With plans forever unfulfilled--
Thus can contingencies defy,
Quite sure of doing if he'll "try;"
"Guesses" that few can equals be,
Or ever were so smart as he.
If, like a witch that's made of reed,
You turn him up-side down--with sdpeed,
As he he could not help it--he
Comes up again as he should be!
Or like a cork that's thrown with force
Beneath the water, turns its course
And bobs up from another source!
Straight onward he his course pursues,
Utilitarian in his views;
All must be useful in his sight,
Or what completely can delight?
But wait till he is rich, and see
How lavish for his tastes he'll be;
What endless rows of books he'll buy!
The fine arts then shall gratify
His own, and every other eye.
But ne'er that happy time appears,
And if it should, ah! what ideas
Can he possess of art?--His years
All passed amid the joust of trade,
Dwelling on happy bargains made,
Reflecting on each loss or gain--
What love of aught else can remain?
Such, O Bostonians! is your case.
Deplore the arts in such a place!--
Their growth would be esteemed disgrace!
Ye may, when opposites shall meet,
When bitter is the same with sweet,
When oil and water shall unite,
When day shall be all one with night,
When the eastern and the western shore
Shall touch each other--not before. (pp.20-250)