Some Samples of Sketch Stories

The following texts are samples of an ongoing development in sketching.  By comparing them you will get an idea how authors experiment with different techniques that will later enter into their major works. Some of these sketches are years ahead of their contemporaries, and others will forem building blocks for larger experiments.

The Spectator (J. Addison) 1711

This is an early example of an urban sketch. The spectator role will become central to the art of sketching.

Number 454 [The Richmond - London sketch]

"I lay one night last week at Richmond ; and being restless, not out of dissatisfaction, but a certain busy inclination one sometimes has, I rose at four in the morning, and took boat for London, with a resolution to rove by boat and coach for the next four-and-twenty hours, till the many objects I must needs meet with should tire my imagination, and give me an inclination to a repose more profound than I was at that time capable of. I beg people's pardon for an odd humour I am guilty of, and was often that day, which is saluting any person whom I like, whether I know him or not. This is a particularity would be tolerated in me, if they considered that the greatest pleasure I know I receive at my eyes, and that I am obliged to an agreeable person for coming abroad into my view, as another is for a visit of conversation at their own houses. The hours of the day and night are taken up in the cities of London and Westminster, by people as different from each other as those who are born in different centuries. Men of six o'clock give way to those of nine, they of nine to the generation of twelve; and they of twelve disappear, and make room for the fashionable world, who have made two o'clock the noon of the day. When we first put off from shore, we soon fell in with a fleet of gardeners, bound for the several market ports of London ; and it was the most pleasing scene imaginable to see the cheerfulness with which those industrious people plied their way to a certain sale of their goods. The banks on each side are as well peopled, and beautified with as agreeable plantations, as any spot on the eaith; but the Thames itself, loaded with the product of each shore, added very much to the landscape. It was very easy to observe by their sailing, and the countenances of the ruddy virgins, who were supercargoes, the parts of the town to which they were bound. There was an air in the purveyors for Coventgarden, who frequently converse with morning rakes, very unlike the seeming sobriety of those bound for Stocks-market. Nothing remarkable happened in our voyage; but I landed with ten sail of apricot-boats, at Strandbridge, after having put in at Nine-Elms, and taken in melons, consigned by Mr. Cuffe, of that place to Sarah Sewell and Company, at their stall in Coventgarden. We arrived at Strand-bridge at six of the clock, and were unloading ; when the hackneycoachmen of the foregoing night took their leave of each other at the Dark-house, to go to bed before the day was too far spent. Chimney-sweepers passed by us as we made up to the market, and some raillery happened between one of the fruitwenches and those black men about the Devil and Eve, with allusion to their several professions. I could not believe any place more entertaining than Covent-garden ; where I strolled from one fruit-shop to another, with crowds of agreeable young women around me, who were purchasing fruit for their respective families. It was almost eight of the clock before I could leave that variety of objects. I took ( coach and followed a young lady, who tripped into ; another just before me, attended by her maid. I j saw immediately she was of the family of the Vain- j loves. There are a set of these, who, of all things, j affect the play of Blindman's-buff, and leading men j into love for they know not whom, who are lied they l know not where. This sort of woman is usually a j janty slattern ; she hangs on her clothes, plays her ' head, varies her posture, and changes place inces- ! santly, and all with an appearance of striving at the same time to hide herself, and yet give you to understand she is in humour to laugh at you. You must have often seen the coachmen make signs with their ringers, as they drive by each other, to intimate how much they have got that day. They can carry on that language to give intelligence where they are driving. In an instant my coachman took j the wink to pursue ; and the lady's driver gave the hint that he was going through Long-acre towards St. James's ; while he whipped up James-street, we drove for King-street, to save the pass at St. Martin's-lane. The coachmen took care to meet, jostle, and threaten each other for way, and be entangled at the end of NewporUstreet and Long-acre. The fright, you must believe, brought down the lady's coach-door, and obliged her, with her mask off, to inquire into the bustle, - when she sees the man she would avoid. The tackle of the coach- window is so bad she cannot draw it up again, and she drives on sometimes wholly discovered, and sometimes half escaped, according to the accident of carriages in her *ay. One of these ladies keeps her seat in a hackney-coach, as well as the best rider does on a managed horse. The laced shoe on her left foot, with a careless gesture, just appearing on the opposite cushion, held her both firm, and in a proper attitude to receive the next jolt. As she was an excellent coach-woman, many were the glances at each other which we had for an hour and a half, in all parts of the town, by the skill of our drivers ; till at last my lady was conveniently lost, with notice from her coachman to ours to make off, and he should hear where she went. This chase was now at an end : and the fellow who drove her came to us, and discovered that he was ordered to come again in an hour, for that she was a silk-worm. I was surprised with this phrase, but found it was a cant among the hackney fraternity for their best customers, women who ramble twice or thrice a week from shop to shop, to turn over all the goods in town without buying any thing. The silk-worms are, it seems, indulged by the tradesmen ; for, though they never buy, they are ever talking of new silks, laces, and ribands, and serve the owners in getting them customers, as their common dunners do in making them pay. The day of people of fashion began now to break, and carts and hacks were mingled with equipages of show and vanity ; when I resolved to walk it, out of cheapness ; but my unhappy curiosity is such, that I find it always my interest to take coach ; for some odd adventure among beggars, balladsingers, or the like, detains and throws me into expense. It happened so immediately : for at the corner of Warwick-street, as I was listening to a new ballad, a ragged rascal, a beggar who knew me. came up to me, and began to turn the eyes of the good company upon me, by telling me he was extremely poor, and should die in the street for want of drink, except I immediately would have the charity to give him six-pence to go into the next alehouse and save his life. He urged, with a melancholy face, that all his family had died of thirst. All the mob have humour, and two or three began to take the jest; by which Mr. Sturdy carried his point, and let me sneak off to a coach. As I drove along, it was a pleasing reflection to see the world | so prettily checkered since I left Richmond, and the scene still filling with children of a new hour. This ' satisfaction increased as I moved towards the city ; ! and gay signs, well-disposed streets, magnificent : public structures, and wealthy shops adorned with contented faces, made the joy still rising till we came into the centre of the city, and centre of the world of trade, the Exchange of London. As other men in the crowds about me were pleased with their hopes and bargains, I found my account in observing them, in attention to their several interests. I, indeed, looked upon myself as the richest man that walked the Exchange that day; for my benevolence made me share the gains of ev^ry bargain that was made. It wasnot the least of my satisfaction in my survey, to go up stairs, and pass the shops of agreeable females ; to observe so many pretty hands busy in the folding of ribands, and the utmost eagerness of agreeable faces in the sale of patches, pins, and wires, on each side of the counters, was an amusement in which I could longer have indulged myself, had not the dear creatures called to me, to ask what I wanted, when I could not answer, only " To look at you." I went to one of the windows which opened to the area below, where all the several voices lost their distinction, and rose up in a confused humming ; which created in me a reflection that could not come into the mind of any but of one a little too studious ; for I said to myself with a kind of pun in thought, " What nonsense is all the hurry of this world to those who are above it?" In these, or not much wiser thoughts, I had like to have lost my place at the chop-house, where every man, according to the natural bashfulness or sullenness of our nation, eats in a public room a mess of broth, or chop of meat, in dumb silence, as if they had no pretence to speak to each other on the foot of being men, except they were of each other's acquaintance. I went afterward to Robin's, and saw people, who had dined with me at the five-penny ordinary just before, give bills for the value of large estates ; and could not but behold with great pleasure, property lodged in, and transferred in a moment from, such as would never be masters of half as much as is seemingly in them, and given from them, every day they live. But before five in the afternoon I left the city, came to my common scene of Coventgarden, and passed the evening at Will's in attending the discourses of several sets of people, who relieved each other within my hearing on the subjects of cards, dice, love, learning, and politics. The last subject kept me till I heard the streets in the possession of the bellman, who had now the world ; to himself, and cried, " Past two o'clock." This roused me from my seat ; and I went to my lodgings, j led by a light, whom I put into the discourse of his private economy, and made him give me an account of the charge, hazard, profit, and loss, of a family that depended upon a link, with a design to end my trivial day with the generosity of six-pence, ...

Here is another short story, sent in by a READER:

242

The matter which I am now going to send you, is an unhappy story in low life, and will recommend itself, so that you must excuse the manner of expressing it. A poor idle drunken weaver in Spitalfields has a faithful laborious wife, who by her frugality and industry has laid by her as much money as purchased her a ticket in the present lottery. She had hid this very privately in the bottom of a trunk, and had given her number to a friend and confidant, who had promised to keep the secret, and bring her news of the success. The poor adventurer was one day gone abroad, when her careless husband suspecting she had saved some money, searches every corner, till at length he finds this same ticket; which he immediately carries abroad, sells, and squanders away the money, without his wife's suspecting any thing of the matter. A day or two after this, this friend, who was a woman, comes and brings the wife word, that she had a benefit of 500/. The poor creature, overjoyed, flies up stairs to her husband, who was then at work, and desires him to leave his loom for that evening, and come and drink with a friend of his and hers below. The man received this cheerful invitation as bad husbands sometimes do, and after a cross word or two, told her he wou'dn't come. His wife with tenderness renewed her importunity, and at length said to him, ' My love! I have within these few months, unknown to you, scraped together as much money as has bought us a ticket in the lottery, and now here is Mrs. Quick come to tell me, that it is come up this morning a 500/. prize.' The husband replies immediately, ' You lie, you slut, you have no ticket, for I have sold it,' The poor woman upon this faints away in a fit, recovers, and is now run distracted. As she had no design to defraud her husband, but was willing only to participate in his good fortune, every one pities her, but thinks her husband's punishment but just. This, Sir, is a matter of fact, and would, if the persons and circumstances were greater, in a well-wrought play be called Beautiful Distress. I have only sketched it out with chalk, and know a good hand can make a moving picture with worse materials.

W. Irving. The Sketch book

This is  major step head in constructing a sketch in paragraphs, a model for Hawthorne and Melville:

"The Country Church"


A gentleman!
What o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest?
Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard,
You vend your gentry by?
BEGGAR'S BUSH.

THERE are few places more favorable to the study of character than an English country church. I was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend who resided in, the vicinity of one the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which gives such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient families, and contained within its cold and silent aisles the congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were encrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and highborn dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every side, the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality, some haughty memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust in this temple of the most humble of all religions.

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats and a small gallery beside the organ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles.
....
I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the same time a frank cheerfulness and engaging affability.
....
I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in this country-the unpretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul; but I have remarked, in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others; whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor.

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good-breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation.

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of these thorough Church-and-king men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion "a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up."

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful and pronouncing it "excellent food for the poor."

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspirin family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind.

N. Hawthorne. Twice Told Tales

Hawthorne adds a moving perspective (panorama) and creates the illusion of a live sketching:

"Sights from a Steeple"


SO! I HAVE climbed high, and my reward is small. Here I stand, with wearied knees,
earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me still. O that I could
soar up into the very zenith, where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and where
the ethereal azure melts away from the: eye, and appears only a deepened shade of
nothingness! And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. What clouds are
gathering in the golden west, with direful intent against the brightness and the warmth
of this summer afternoon! They are ponderous air ships, black as death, and freighted
with the tempest; and at intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that unearthly
squadron, rolls distant along the deep of heaven. These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor--
methinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day long!--seem scattered here and
there, for the repose of tired pilgrims through the sky. Perhaps--for who can tell?--
beautiful spirits are disporting themselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the
brief appearance of their curly locks of golden light and laughing faces, fair and faint as
the people of a rosy dream. Or, where the floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the
color of the firmament, a slender foot and fairy limb, resting too heavily upon the frail
support, may be thrust through, and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy follows
them in vain. Yonder again is an airy archipelago, where the sunbeams love to linger in
their journeyings through space. Every one of those little clouds has been dipped and
steeped in radiance, which the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion,
like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright they are as young man's visions, and
like them, would be realized in chillness, obscurity and tears. I will look on them no
more.

In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is this spire, I discern cultivated fields,
villages, white country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid lakes, and here
and there a rising ground, that would fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea,
stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue and calm, except where the passing
anger of a shadow flits across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward a broad inlet
penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the harbour, formed by its extremity, is a
town; and over it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. O that the multitude of
chimneys could speak, like those of Madrid, and betray, in smoky whispers, the secrets
of all who, since their first foundation, have assembled at the hearths within! O that the
Limping Devil of Le Sage would perch beside me here, extend his wand over this
contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber, and make me familiar with their
inhabitants! The most desirable mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized Paul
Pry, hovering invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into
their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity, and shade from their sorrow, and
retaining no emotion peculiar to himself. But none of these things are possible; and if I
would know the interior of brick walls, or the mystery of human bosoms, I can but
guess.

Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south. The stately mansions are placed each
on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from every door to the
pavement. Ornamental trees, the broad-leafed horsechestnut, the elm so lofty and
bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others whereof I know not the names,
grow thrivingly among brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are intercepted by
these green citizens, and by the houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and
pleasant walk. On its whole extent there is now but a single passenger, advancing from
the upper end; and he, unless distance, and the medium of a pocket spy-glass do him
more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty. He saunters slowly forward; slapping
his left hand with his folded gloves, bending has eyes upon the pavement, and
sometimes raising them to throw a glance before him. Certainly, he has a pensive air. Is
he in doubt, or in debt? Is he, if the question be allowable, in love? Does he strive to be
melancholy and gentlemanlike?--Or, is he merely overcome by the heat? But I bid him
farewell, for the present. The door of one of the houses, an aristocratic edifice, with
curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows, is now opened, and down the
steps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, and lightly arrayed for a summer
ramble. Both are young, both are pretty; but methinks the left hand lass is the fairer of
the twain; and though she be so serious at this moment, I could swear that there is a
treasure of gentle fun within her. They stand talking a little while upon the steps, and
finally proceed up the street. Meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, I may
look elsewhere.

Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding street, is a busy contrast to the quiet
scene which I have just noticed. Business evidently has its centre there, and many a man
is wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches, or in gaining
them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village, or shaded
lake in the forest, or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at the wharf, and
precious merchandise strewn upon the ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea,
that market whence no goods return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to
render an account of sales. Here, the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils, and
sailors ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with
cries, long-drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and Luncheons ascend to upper
air. At a little distance, a group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a
warehouse. Grave seniors be they, and I would wager--if it were safe, in these times, to
be responsible, for any one--that the least eminent among them, might vie with old
Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the
company. It is the elderly personage in somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair, the
superfluous whiteness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships are
wafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name--I will
venture to say, though I know it not--is a familiar sound among the far separated
merchants of Europe and the Indies.

But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. On looking again to the long and
shady walk, I perceive that the two fair girls have encountered the young man. After a
sort of shyness in the recognition, he turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanctioned
my taste in regard to his companions by placing himself on the inner side of the
pavement, nearest the Venus to whom I--enacting, on a steeple-top, the part of Paris on
the top of Ida-adjudged the golden apple.

In two streets, converging at right angles towards my watchtower, I distinguish three
different processions. One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in bright uniform,
resembling, from the height whence I look down, the painted veterans that garrison the
windows of a toy-shop. And yet, it stirs my heart; their regular advance, their nodding
plumes, the sun-flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of their drums
ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon piercing through--these things have
wakened a warlike fire, peaceful though I be. Close to their rear marches a battalion of
school-boys, ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a
harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin, and ridiculously aping the intricate
manoeuvres of the band. Nevertheless, as slight differences are scarcely perceptible
from a church spire, one might be tempted to ask, "Which are the boys?"or rather,
"Which the men?" But, leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which, though
sadder in outward show, may excite identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. It is a
funeral. A hearse, drawn by a black and bony steed, and covered by a dusty pall; two or
three coaches rumbling over the stones, their drivers half asleep; a dozen couple of
careless mourners in their every day attire; such was not the fashion of our fathers, when
they carried a friend to his grave. There is now no doleful clang of the bell, to proclaim
sorrow to the town. Was the King of Terrors more awful in those days than in our own,
that wisdom and philosophy have been able to produce this change? Not so. Here is a
proof that he retains his proper majesty. The military men, and the military boys, are
wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face. Immediately, the drum
is silent, all but the tap that regulates each simultaneous foot-fall. The soldiers yield the
path to the dusty hearse, and unpretending train, and the children quit their ranks, and
cluster on the sidewalks, with timorous and instinctive curiosity. The mourners enter the
church-yard at the base of the steeple, and pause by an open grave among the burial
stones; the lighting glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder
rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid. Verily, the shower is near, and I
tremble for the young man and the girls, who have now disappeared from the long and
shady street.

How various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how
diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the
dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many
mansions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desperate, dwell together
within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so
coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden
virtue,--guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be
averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad
thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinctness, they would
make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are descending.

The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hanging heavily, as if
about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals, the lightning flashes
from their brooding hearts, quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling
slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the
darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching
storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all
people hurry homeward--all that have a home; while a few lounge by the corners, or
trudge on desperately, at their leisure. In a narrow lane which communicates with the
shady street, I discern the rich old merchant, putting himself to the top of his speed, lest
the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste. Unhappy gentleman! By the slow
vehemence, and painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but too evident that
Podagra has left its thrilling tenderness in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid
pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty girls and the young man,
unseasonably interrupted in their walk. Their footsteps are supported by the risen dust,
the wind lends them its velocity, they fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the
tempestuous breeze. The ladies would not thus rival Atalanta, if they but knew that any
one were at leisure to observe them. Ah! as they hasten onward, laughing in the angry
face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. At the corner where the narrow lane
enters into the street, they come plump against the old merchant, whose tortoise motion
has just brought him to that point. He likes not the sweet encounter; the darkness of the
whole air gathers speedily upon his visage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally he
thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm of each of the two girls, and
plods onward, like a magician with a prize of captive fairies. All this is easy to be
understood. How disconsolate the poor lover stands! regardless of the rain that threatens
an exceeding damage to his wellfashioned habiliments, till he catches a backward
glance of mirth from a bright eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys.

The old man and his daughters are safely housed, and now the storm lets loose its fury.
In every dwelling I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the
windows, excluding the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery
glare. The large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in smoke.
There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams bubble
majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear
beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the
midst of the tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning
wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I
will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks out in
long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far distant points, like
snowy mountain tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the green
plain, and little hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is striding in robes
of mist, and at the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the
dead: and turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects,.I
prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay! A little speck of azure has
widened in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing through
the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of
another world, and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbow!

E. A. Poe

This sketch is  symbolic construction - a mental drama - which combines portrait, landscape sketch and a tomb scene. It needs footnotes (https://www.eapoe.org/works/info/pt008.htm)

SILENCE - A FABLE. [E]  [[v]]

‘Ενδονσιν δ’ ορεων κορνφαι τε και φαράγγες

Πρώονές τε και χάραδραι. ALCMAN.

The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves are silent. [[v]] [[n]]

“Listen to me,” said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.{a} “The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zäire.(1) And there is no quiet there, nor silence.

“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not onward{b} to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and{c} ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads.(2) And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other.

“But there is a boundary to their realm - the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over [page 196:] the fiery wall of the horizon.(3) But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is neither quiet nor silence.

“It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.(4) And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head - and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

“And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted{d} (5) by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall, - and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraven in the stone; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher them.{e} And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon the characters; - and the characters were DESOLATION.

“And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct - but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.{f} (6)

“And the man sat{g} upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desolation(7) He looked down into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees,{h} [page 197:] and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and{i} observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; - but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

“And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to{j} the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert and{k} observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; - but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar{l} in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth,(8) unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; - but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I cursed the {mm}elements with the curse of tumult; and,{mm} a frightful tempest gathered in the heaven{n} where, before, there had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest - and the rain beat upon the head of the man - and the floods of the river came down - and the river was tormented into foam - and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds - and the forest{o} crumbled before the wind - and the {pp}thunder rolled{pp} and the lightning{q} fell - and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert and{r} observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in{s} the solitude; - but the night waned and he sat upon the rock,

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with {tt}the curse of silence,{tt} the [page 198:] river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up{u} its pathway to{v} heaven(9) - and the thunder died away - and the lightning did not flash - and the clouds hung motionless - and the waters sunk to their level and remained - and the trees ceased to rock - and the water-lilies sighed no more - and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed; - and the characters were SILENCE.(10)

“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was wan with terror. {ww}And, hurriedly, he{ww} raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, {xx}in haste, so that I beheld{xx} him no more.”

* * * * *

M. L. Child

LETTERS FROM NEW-YORK II, 16 (1845)

Some eighteen years ago, when I lived in the dream-land of romantic youth, and thought nothing
of slavery, or any other evils that infest the social system, an intelligent young lady from the South
told me an adventure, which made a strong impression on my imagination. She was travelling with
her brother in the interior of eastern Virginia. Marks of diminishing prosperity everywhere met their view.
One day, they entered upon a region which seemed entirely deserted. Here and there some elegant villa
indicated the former presence of wealth ; but piazzas had fallen, and front doors had either dropped, or
hung suspended upon one hinge. Here and there a stray garden-flower peeped forth, amid the choking
wilderness of weeds ; and vines, once carefully trained on lattices, spread over the ground in tangled con-
fusion. Nothing disturbed the silence, save the twittering of some startled bird, or the hoot and scream
of gloomy wood creatures, scared by the unusual noise of travellers.
At last, they came to a church, through the roof of which a tree, rooted in the central aisle beneath,
sent up its verdant branches into the sunlight above. Leaving their horse to browse on the grass-grown
road, they passed into the building, to examine the interior. Their entrance startled innumerable birds
and bats, which flew circling round their heads, and through the broken windows.
The pews had coatsof-arms blazoned on the door-pannels, but birds had built their nests in the corners,
and grass had grown up through the chinks of the floor. The handsome trimmings of the pulpit
were so covered with dust, as to leave the original colour extremely doubtful. On the cushion lay
a gilt-edged Bible, still open, probably at the place where religious lessons had last been read.
I have before my mind's eye a vivid picture of that lonely church, standing in the silence of the forest.
In some moods of mind, how pleasant it would be to spend the Sabbath there alone, listening to the insects
singing their prayers, or to the plaintive voice of the ring-dove, coming up from the inmost heart of the
shaded forest,

" Whose deep, low note, is like a gentle wife,
A poor, a pensive, yet a happy one,
Stealing, when daylight's common tasks are done,
An hour for mother's work ; and singing low,
While her tired husband and her children sleep."

In the stillness of Nature there is ever something sacred; for she pleadeth tenderly with man that he
will live no more at discord with her; and, like the eloquent dumb boy, she ever carryeth
"great names for God in her heart."

" 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer."

I can never forget that adventure in the wilderness. There is something sadly impressive in such complete desolation,
where life has once been busy and gay—and where human pride has inscribed its transient history with the
mouldering insignia of rank and wealth.
The rapid ruin and the unbroken stillness seemed so much like a work of enchantment, that the travellers named the place
The Hamlet of the Seven Sleepers. At the next inhabited village, they obtain ed a brief outline of its history.
It had been original ly settled by wealthy families, with large plantations and numerous slaves.
They were Virginian gentlemen of the olden school, and would have felt them selves disgraced by the modern business
of breeding slaves for market. In fact, strong family pride made them extremely averse to sell any slave
that had be longed to their ancestors. So the slaves multiplied on their hands, and it soon took
" all their corn to feed their hogs, and all their hogs to feed their negroes." Matters grew worse and worse with these
old families. The strong soil was at last exhausted by the miserable system of slavery, and would no longer yield its increase.
What could these aristocratic gentlemen do for their sons, under such circumstances? Plantations must be bought for them
in the far Southwest, and they must disperse, with their trains of human cattle, to blight other new and fertile regions.
There is an old superstition, that nograss grows where the devil has danced; and the effects of slavery show that this tradition,
like most others, is born of truth. It is not, as some suppose, a special vengeance on the wicked system; it is a simple result
of the universal and intimate relation between spirit and matter. Freedom "writes itself on the earth in growth and beauty;
oppression, in dreariness and decay. If we attempt to trace this effect analytically, we shall find that it originates in landholders
too proud to work, in labourers deprived of healthful motive, in the inevitable intermediate class of overseers,
who have no interest in the soil or the labourers ; but whose pay depends on the forced product they can extort from both.
Mr. Faulkner, of Virginia, has stated the case impressively: "Compare the condition of the slave-holding portion of this
commonwealth, barren, desolate, and seared as it were by the avenging hand of Heaven, with the description
which we have of this same country from those who first broke its soil. To what is this change
ascribable? Alone to the blasting and withering effects of slavery. To that vice in the organization
of society, by which one half its inhabitants are arrayed in interest and feeling against the other half;
to that condition of things, in which half a million of your population can feel no sympathy with society,
in the prosperity of which they are forbidden to participate, and no attachment to a government
at whose hands they receive nothing but injustice."
...

H. Melville