Mr. Appleton had no intention of palming off doubtful paintings on his friends or the public; but in regard to "_Il Coconotte_" he was confident of its true value, and rightly so. The painting, so called from a head in the group covered very thinly with hair, was the pride of his collection and one of the best of Bassano's works. The other painting looked to me like a Palma, and I have always supposed that it was one.
After this Mr. Appleton branched off on to an interesting anecdote concerning an Italian cicerone, and finally left his audience as well entertained as if they had been to the theatre.
In 1871 he published a volume of poems for private circulation, in which there were a number of excellent pieces, and especially two which deserve a place in any choice collection of American poetry. One is called the "Whip of the Sky" and relates to a subject which Mr. Appleton often dwelt upon,--the unnecessary haste and restlessness of American life, and is given here for the wider circulation which it amply deserves:
Weary with travel, charmed with home, The youth salutes New England's air; Nor notes, within the azure dome, A vigilant, menacing figure there, Whose thonged hand swings A whip which sings: "Step, step, step," sings the whip of the sky: "Hurry up, move along, you can if you try!"
Remembering Como's languid side, Where, pulsing from the citron deep, The nightingale's aerial tide Floats through the day, repose and sleep, Reclined in groves,-- A voice reproves. "Step, step, step," cracks the whip of the sky: "Hurry up, jump along, rest when you die!"
Slave of electric will, which strips From him the bliss of easeful hours; And bids, as from a tyrant's lips, Rest, quiet, fly, as useless flowers, He wings his heart To make him smart. "Step, step, step," snaps the whip of the sky: "Hurry up, race along, rest when you die!"
He maddens in the breathless race, Nor misses station, power or pelf; And only loses in the chase The hunted lord of all,--himself. His gain is loss, His treasure dross. "Step, step, step," mocks the whip of the sky, "Hurry up, limp along, rest when you die!"
With care he burthens all his soul; Heaped ingots curve his willing back; Submissive to that fierce control, He needs at last the sky-whip's crack, Till at the grave, No more a slave,-- "Rest, rest, rest," sighs the whip of the sky: "Hurry not, haste no more, rest when you die!"