A few mornings ago, just as the sun had risen above the eastern hills, which look down upon the Thames at Norwich, the prettiest sailboat of the place left her moorings, and with a pleasant northerly breeze started for the Sound. Her passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all equipped in their sporting jackets, and furnished with fishing tackle, and their place of destination was Watch Hill, which is a point of land in Rhode Island, extending into the Atlantic, a few miles from Stonington. We were on a fishing frolic, as a matter of course, and a happier company, I ween, were never yet afloat, for the sport of a morning breeze. What with the story, the jest, the iced lemonade and exquisite cigar, the minutes glided by as swiftly and unobserved as the tiny waves around us. Now we met a solitary fisherman, towing for bass, and as we hailed him with afriendly shout and passed by, he began to talk in an under tone, and his voice did not die away until we had turned a point. Oh, what would I not give for an accurate record of that old man’s life! Anon, we witnessed the soothing picture of a well conducted farm, with its greengirt cottage, spacious barns, neat and flowing fields, and abundance of horses and oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and poultry. Now we saw some noble men, such as Vernet delighted to paint, hauling the seine, and, as the “fruit of all their toil” were thrown upon the sand, their flipping forms reflected back the sunlight, reminding us of the short-lived glory of an earth-born name. Now, we were overtaken and tossed about by a steamer bound to New Haven; and then we sailed in company with a boat, a sloop, and schooner; meeting others, beating up, from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. And the termination of this pleasing panorama was composed of Gale’s Ferry, the commanding town, fort, and monument of Groton, together with the city of New London, among whose anchored shipping floated the saucy Revenue Cutter, and at whose docks were chained a goodly number of storm-beaten whalers.
Having taken in “our stores,” and obtained from the fish-market a basket of bait, we again hoisted sail and put to sea, “bound first to Commit Rock,” and “binding” ourselves to capture all of the watery enemy which might tempt the power or the dexterity of our arms.
When about three miles from New London, all eyes were attracted by a beautiful craft on our lee, laden with a party of ladies and gentlemen. “They’re going toward a reef!” exclaimed our captain; and no sooner had the words escaped his lips, than the stranger struck, and stove a hole through her bottom. We were just in time to save the party from a watery grave; and when we had landed them in safety on the beach, we were well repaid for our trouble by the consciousness of having done a good act, and by the thankful words and benignant smiles of the ladies fair. A dozen minutes more and we were within oar’s length of the fishing rock. “All ashore, that’s coming!” shouted our mate, when we all leaped out, and a plenty of line being given her, the boat swung to, and “like a cradled thing at rest,” floated upon the waves. Then commenced the sport. The breeze was refreshing,and the breath of the salt sea-foam buoyed up our spirits to a higher pitch, and gave new vigor to our sinews. The youngest of the party was the first who threw his hook, which was snapped in the twinkling of an eye. Another trial, and a four-pound blackfish lay extended upon the rock. Another, and another, and another, until fourscore, even-numbered, came following after. Tired of the sport, two of the party entered the boat, and hoisted sail for a little cruize. Half an hour had elapsed, when the steady breeze changed into a frightful gale, capsizing within hailing distance a fishing boat with two old men in it. Hanging on, as they were, to the keel of the boat (which having no ballast could not sink), their situation was extremely dangerous, as there was not a vessel within two miles. The poor men beckoned to us to help them; but as our boat was gone, we could not do so, which of course we much regretted. For one long, long hour did they thus hang, “midway betwixt life and death,” exposed to the danger of being washed away by the remorseless surge, or swallowed up, as we were afterwards told, by a couple of sharks, which were kept away only by the hand of Providence.This incident tended to cool our ardor for fishing, and as we were satisfied with that day’s luck, we put up our gear, during which time the boat arrived, and we embarked for the Hill. We made one short turn, however, towards the boat which had picked up the fishermen, as we were anxious to tell them why we did not come to their relief. We then tacked about, and the last words we heard from our companions were,—“Thank you—thank you—God bless you all,” and until we had passed a league beyond Fisher Island, our little vessel “carried a most beautiful bone between her teeth.”
At sunset we moored our little boat on the eastern shore of Paucatuck Bay. On ascending to the Watch Hill hotel, we found it to be a large, well-furnished house, and our host to be a fat and jolly Falstaff-ish sort of man, just suited to his station. At seven o’clock we sat down to a first-rate blackfish supper, then smoked a cigar, and while my companions resorted to the ten-pin alley, I buttoned up my pea-jacket, and sallied forth on an “exploring expedition.” As I stood on the highest point of the peninsula facing, the south, I found that the light-house stooddirectly before me, on the extreme point, that a smooth beach faded away on either side, the left hand one being washed by the Atlantic, and that on the right by the waters of Fisher Island Bay, and that the dreary hills in my rear were dotted by an occasional dwelling. The breeze had died away, and the bright, full moon was in the cloudless sky. Many sails were in the offing, passing by and being passed by the Providence and Stonington steamboats bound to New York. The scenery around me, and the loveliness of the day, with its galaxy of stars above me, caused me to forget myself, and I wandered far away upon the shore—alone, in the awful presence of the great Atlantic Ocean. No sounds fell upon my ear, save the muffled roar of the ground swell, and the faint whispers of the tiny waves as they melted upon the sand. I traced my name, and beside it that of another, a being beauteous, for whose cabinet of curiosities I gathered many a round, smooth pebble, and many a delicate sea-shell. I wandered on, now gazing with wonder and admiration into the cerulean vault of Heaven, or into the still deeper blue of the mighty sea; and now singing with a loud voice one of the sacred songsof the sweet singer of Israel. Now, a thousand images of surpassing loveliness darted across my vision, as I thought of God—of an eternal life in heaven—and of love, divine and human; and then there came a weight upon my spirit, as I remembered the powers of darkness, the destiny of the condemned, and the miseries engendered by our evil passions. One moment I deemed myself immortal, released forever from the contaminating influence of sin, and then I thought of the valley of death, and trembled. In that communion with the mysteries of the universe, strongly blended as they were, I felt that I could wander on without fatigue, until the whole earth should be trodden by my pilgrim feet. But the chilly air and the fading night warned me to retrace my steps, and in an hour I had reached my home.
When the sun rose from his ocean-bed on the following morning, surrounded by a magnificent array of clouds, I was up, and busily engaged preparing for a day’s fishing,—first, and before breakfast, for bluefish, then for blackfish, and then for bass. While my companions were asleep, I went out with an old fisherman, and by breakfast time had capturedthirty bluefish, weighing about two pounds apiece. The manner of catching these is to tow for them with a long line, the bait being a piece of ivory attached to a strong hook. They are a very active and powerful fish, and when hooked make a great fuss, skipping and leaping out of the water.
At nine o’clock our party were at anchor on a reef about one mile off, and for the space of about two hours we hauled in the blackfish fast as possible, many of them weighing eight to ten pounds apiece. For them, you must have a small straight hook, and for bait, lobsters or crabs. A broiled blackfish, when rightly cooked, is considered one of the best of saltwater delicacies.
But the rarest of all fishing is that of catching bass, and a first-rate specimen I was permitted to enjoy. About eleven o’clock, I jumped into the surf-boat of an old fisherman, requesting him to pull for the best bass ground with which he was acquainted. In the mean time my friends had obtained a large boat, and were going to follow us. The spot having been reached, we let our boat float, wherever the tide and wind impelled it, and began to throw over lines, using for bait the skin of aneel six inches long. Those in the neighboring boat had fine luck, as they thought, having caught some dozen five-pounders, and they seemed to be perfectly transported because nearly an hour had passed and I had caught nothing. In their glee they raised a tremendous shout, but before it had fairly died away, my line was suddenly straightened, and I knew that I had a prize. Now it cut the water like a streak of lightning, although there were two hundred feet out, and as the fish returned I still kept it taught; and after playing with him for about forty minutes, I succeeded in drowning him, then hauled up gradually, and with my boat-hook landed him in the boat safe and sound. The length of that striped bass was four feet two inches, and his weight, before cleaned, fifty-eight pounds. That is a “fish story” worth telling. As a beneficial effect and natural consequence of that triumph, I would state, that I have grown about one inch in height since then,—more or less,—as the saying is,—but probably less. You can easily imagine the chop-fallen appearance of my brother fishermen, when they found out that “the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.” At three o’clock inthe afternoon, a piece of that bass tended to satisfy the appetite which had been excited by his capture, and I assure you it touched therightspot.
Satisfied with our piscatorial sports, we concluded to spend the rest of the day quietly gathering shells upon the beach; but causes of excitement were still around us. No sooner had we reached the water’s edge, than we discovered a group of hardy men standing on a little knoll, in earnest conversation, while some of them were pointing towards the sea. “To the boat—to the boat,” suddenly shouted their leader, when they all descended with the speed of Swiss mountaineers, and on reaching a boat which had been made ready, they pushed her into the surf, and three of them jumped in, and thus commenced the interesting scene of hauling the seine. There was something new and romantic to us in the thought, that the keen and intelligent eye of man could even penetrate into the deep, so far as to designate the course of travel of the tribes of the sea. And when the seine was drawn, it was a glorious and thrilling sight to see those fishermen tugging at the lines, or leap into the surf, which sometimes completely coveredthem, to secure the tens of thousands of fish which they had caught. There was a grace and beauty about the whole scene, which made me long for the genius of a Mount or Edmonds.
A little before sunset, I was again strolling along the shore, when the following incident occurred. You will please return with me to the spot. Yonder on that fisherman’s stake, a little sparrow has just alighted, facing the main. It has been lured away from the green bowers of home by the music of the sea, and is now gazing, perhaps with feelings kindred to my own, upon this most magnificent structure of the Almighty hand. See! it spreads its wing, and is now darting towards the water—fearless and free. Ah! it has gone too near! for the spray moistens its plumes! There—there it goes, frightened back to its native woodland. That little bird, so far as its power and importance are concerned, seems to me a fit emblem of the mind of man, and this great ocean an appropriate symbol of the mind of God.
The achievements of the human mind “have their passing paragraphs of praise, and are forgotten.” Man may point to the Pyramidsof Egypt, which are the admiration of the world, and exclaim, “Behold the symbol of my power and importance!” But most impotent is the boast. Those mighty mysteries stand in the solitude of the desert, and the glory of their destiny is fulfilled, in casting a temporary shadow over the tent of the wandering Arab.
The achievements of the Almighty mind are beyond the comprehension of man, and lasting as his own eternity. The spacious firmament, with its suns, and moons, and stars; our globe, with its oceans, and mountains, and rivers; the regularly revolving seasons; and the still, small voice continually ascending from universal nature, all proclaim the power and goodness of their great original. And everything which God has created, from the nameless insect to the world of waters, which is the highway of nations, was created for good, was created to accomplish some omnipotent end. As this ocean is measureless and fathomless, so is it an emblem, beautiful but faint, of that wonderful Being, whose throne is above the milky-way, and who is himself from everlasting to everlasting. But see, there is a heavy cloud rising in the west, thebreeze is freshening, flocks of wild ducks are flying inland, and the upper air is ringing with the shrill whistle of the bold and wild sea-gull, whose home is the boundless sea; therefore, as my dear friend Noble has somewhere written, “the shortest homeward track’s the best.”
Still in the present tense would I continue. The witching hour of midnight has again returned. A cold rain-storm has just passed over, the moon is again the mistress of a cloudless sky, but the wind is still raging in all its fury.
“I view the ships that come and go,Looking so like to living things.O! ’tis a proud and gallant showOf bright and broad-spread wings,Making it light around them, as they keepTheir course right onward through the unsounded deep.”Dana.
“I view the ships that come and go,
Looking so like to living things.
O! ’tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.”
Dana.
God be with them and their brave and gallant crews. But, again.
“Where the far-off sand-bars liftTheir backs in long and narrow line,The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,And send the sparkling brineInto the air; then rush to mimic strife;Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!”Ibid.
“Where the far-off sand-bars lift
Their backs in long and narrow line,
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,
And send the sparkling brine
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife;
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!”
Ibid.
But I must stop quoting poetry, for as “a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” I shouldbe forever writing about the sea. Heavens! What a terrible song is the ocean singing! with his long white hair streaming in the wind. The waving, splashing, wailing, dashing, howling, rushing, and moaning of the waves, is a glorious lullaby, and a fit prelude to a dream of the sea.
At an early hour on the following day we embarked for home, but a sorry time did we have of it, for the winds were very lazy. We were ten hours going the distance of twenty-two miles. It was now sunset, we were off Gale’s Ferry, and not a solitary breath of air. Ashore we went, resolved to await the coming of the Sag Harbor steamboat, which usually arrived about nine o’clock, and by which we were taken in tow. Snugly seated in our boat, and going at the rate of eighteen miles, we were congratulating ourselves upon an early arrival home, and had already begun to divide and string up our fish. But, alas, at this moment the painter broke, the steamer, unconscious of our fate, still sped onward, while we sheered off towards the shore,almost disgustedwith human life in general—for our boat was large, and we had but one oar. But what matter? We were a jolly set, and the way we gave threecheers, as a prelude to the song of “Begone Dull Care,” must have been startling to the thousand sleeping echoes of hill, forest, river, and glen.
Having crept along at snails pace about one mile, we concluded to land, and, if possible, obtain a place to sleep, and something to eat; for not having had a regular dinner, and not a mouthful of supper, we were half starved. With clubs in our hands, to keep off hobgobblins and bull dogs, we wended our way towards a neighboring farm-house, where we knocked for admittance. Pretty soon a great gawky-looking head stuck itself out of an upper window, to which we made known our heartfelt desires, receiving in return the following answer: “My wife is sick—hain’t got any bread—you can go in the barn to sleep if you want to;” and we turned reluctantly away, troubled with a feeling very nearly allied to anger. “Come, let’s go off in this direction,” exclaimed one of the party, “and I’ll introduce you to my old friend, Captain Somebody,”—and away we posted, two by two, across a new-mown field. Presently our two leaders were awe-stricken by the sudden appearance of something white, which seemed to be rising out of the earthbeside a cluster of bushes, and the way they wheeled about and put for the river, (accompanied by their fellows, whose fright was merely sympathetic,) was “a caution” to all unbelievers in ghosts and other midnight spectres.
At last we halted to gain a little breath, an explanation was made, and our captain forthwith resolved toinvestigatethe matter. He now took the lead, and on coming to the mysterious spot, discovered anold blind white horse; who had been awakened by a noise, and, following the instinct of his nature, had risen from his lair, to be better prepared for danger. I doubt whether the echoes are yet silent, which were caused by the loud and long peals of laughter which resounded to the sky. Being in a strange land, without chart or compass, we could not find the mortal dwelling place of Captain Somebody, and so we changed our course of travel.
We stopt at another house, farther on, but to save our lives we could not obtain an interview, although we entered the hen-coop, and set the hens and roosters a cackling and crowing, the pig-pen, and set the hogs a squealing, while a large dog and two puppies did theirbest to increase and prolong the mighty chorus. If our farmer friend did not deem himself transported to Bedlam, about that time, we imagine that nothing on earth would have the power to give him such a dream. Our ill-luck made us almost desperate, and so we returned to the boat, resolved to row the whole distance home, could we but find an extra oar.
It was now eleven o’clock, and the only things that seemed to smile upon us were the ten thousand stars, studding the clear, blue firmament. Anon, a twinkling light beamed upon our vision; and as we approached, we found it to proceed from a little hut on an island, where the Thames lamplighter and his boy were accustomed to pass the night after their work was done. Having again concluded to land, we received a hearty welcome, as the host proved to be an old acquaintance of our captain and mate. “Have you anything to eat?” was almost the first question of every tongue. “No, nothing but this barrel of crackers and some cheese,” exclaimed the man of light. “And we,” shouted one of our crew, “have plenty of fish,—can’t we have a chowder?” “Aye, aye; a chowder,a chowder it shall be,” were the words which rang aloud to the very heavens. A wherry was despatched to the main-land, to the well known habitation of an old fisherman, for the necessary iron pot and bowls; for the potatoes and onions, which were dug for the occasion; for the pork, the pepper, and salt; all which, added to our biscuit and black-fish, nicely cleaned and prepared, constituted a chowder of the very first water. There was one addition to our company, in the person of the old fisherman; and our appearance, as we were seated in a circle on the floor, each with a bowl of thick hot soup in his hands, constituted a picture rich and rare. After we were done, it was acknowledged by all, that a better meal had never been enjoyed by mortal man. In about thirty minutes from this time the odd one of the company bade us “good night,” and the midnight brotherhood resigned themselves to sleep. The last sounds I heard, before closing my eyes, were caused by the regular opposition steamboats from New York, as they shot ahead almost as “swift as an arrow from a shivering bow.”
The first faint streak of daylight found us on board our boat, homeward bound, waftedon by a pleasant southerly breeze. At the usual hour, we were all seated at our respective breakfast tables, relating our adventures of the excursion just ended.
Sometime ago, when I indited a letter on the paintings of Cole, I partly intended it to be the first of a series, which should include all those of our painters who have established themselves as masters. Since then, however, I have relinquished that idea. I am notsufficientlywell acquainted with all these gentlemen, and the number of their productions, to devote a separate paper to each, and have, therefore, concluded briefly to embody my opinions concerning them in a single letter. I propose to speak of those only who are identified with New York, and who are now in the full tide of successful operation; and my object will be merely to write what would correspond to a letter of introduction. In my list, made without respect to persons, are the following names; Durand, Huntington, Edmonds, Page, Mount, Doughty, Wier, Inman, Ingham, Chapman, and Harvey.
Durand.If you are at all conversant with the history of art in this country, you need not be told that this gentleman has long borne the enviable reputation of being our best engraver of the human figure. It is also a well-known fact, that he has executed some remarkable pictures in the way of portraiture and fanciful history; but as he is now devoting himself principally to landscape, I shall consider his merits in this department alone.
His only imaginative landscapes, are a pair, allegorically portraying the “Morning and Evening” of human life. In one, the monuments of art and the works of nature are in their prime, and a halo of hope seems to surround the brow of every living creature, young men and maidens, and dancing children. In the other, the same monuments and the same nature are falling to decay, and most of earth’s children are trembling under the weary load of life. And here, on a fallen column, is seated an old man leaning upon his staff, and listening, as it were, to a song of memory, as it recalls the unnumbered joys of other days. A saddening subject, in reality, is here portrayed, but how has the genius of the painter endowed it with a spirit of immortality! To the thoughtfulmind, it possesses a world of eloquence, and touches the heart with the thrill of poetry. Considered as a maiden effort in the most exalted branch of landscape painting, it affords abundant reason to believe that Mr. Durand would accomplish great things in this department, if he would but persevere. The only fault I can find with it, is this—in the idea of its design, and in some parts of its execution, it bears too close a resemblance to the Departure and Return, or the Past and Present, of Thomas Cole.
The majority of Mr. Durand’s landscapes I should designate as actual views and fanciful pictures; and here, I think, he is without a superior. In the choice of subjects, he always displays an exquisite taste; and as he paints with great care, and finishes highly, there is an indescribable summer-day charm about his pictures which is peculiarly their own. The three most difficult things in nature for an artist to delineate, are trees, atmospheres, and figures; but all these have been thoroughly mastered by Mr. Durand. His trees are strongly characteristic, and his figures numerous, happily introduced, and accurately drawn. Of his views, I mostly admire “Lake Geneva,”“Shakspeare’s Church,” two “Views in Switzerland,” “Island of Capri,” “Deserted Road-side,” “Farm Yard on the Hudson,” “Oak Tree with horses under it,” and a “View on the Rhine.” Each one of these is a perfect gem, a beautiful and poetical reproduction of the original scene. But the most unique and superb of all his paintings, is a fanciful picture of a large size, exhibiting an extensive lake in a wilderness. The sun is on the verge of the horizon, the sky is studded with an array of most gorgeous clouds, and the surface of the lake is quivering under the pinions of an evening breeze. In one corner of the foreground is a cluster of luxuriant trees, encircled with grape-vines, and in the other, an admirable rock, on which is standing a solitary heron, the only living creature in the whole scene. The great triumph of this picture is in the water—the gold-tipt waves.
The last time I saw Mr. Durand, he was finishing some studies of chestnut trees in blossom, which stand on the margin of Esopus Creek. They are wonderfully true to nature, and will enhance his reputation, even if he should not paint anything more during the coming summer. But I hope that he maynot only live to do this, but to paint a dozen summers more, and a dozen pictures in each summer; for he is a great artist, and an honor to his native country.
Huntington.Although this gentleman is under thirty years of age, he has produced many admirable pictures, which place him on a level with the most gifted artists of any country. He commenced his career by painting landscapes, many of which were wood-scenes and waterfalls on the Rondout. They are remarkable for their rich coloring, and dashing style of execution. But it is as a portrait and historical painter that he is most celebrated. In both these departments his power is wonderful. Eight years ago he was a pupil of Mr. Morse, but now is an acknowledged master, and the pride of his profession. He uses the most glowing colors, and yet there is a perfect harmony in all he paints; he handles the pencil in a fine off-hand style, and yet his flesh possesses the softness of the reality; he can take the most ordinary head, and by his arrangement and his faculty of exalting his subject, make an interesting picture, while at the same time it will be a speaking likeness. Of his portraits, the mostsuperb are those of his father, an uncle and aunt, “The Venetian Girl,” the “Roman Girl,” and “Shepherd Boy of the Campagna.” The last of these, which we think is equal to Murillo’s “Beggar Boy,” was painted in the incredible short period of four hours. If this fact and this picture do not prove Huntington to be a wonderful genius, we do not know what could do so. But even all the pictures just mentioned are eclipsed by his two historical ones, taken from the Pilgrim’s Progress, viz.: “Mercy’s Dream,” and “Christiana and Family passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.” In the first, Mercy is in a reclining position, resting on one arm, with her face raised heavenward, while the angel hovering above her is on the point of placing the crown upon her head. In her position there may be something a little unnatural, and the expression of the angel may be somewhat too earthly; but where, in the whole range of art, is there anything more beautifully designed, more accurately drawn, or more richly colored? In the other picture, Christiana and her family are represented on a rock overlooking a valley of flame. At first we are startled by a feeling of terror, but when the eye falls upon the principal figure,her upraised countenance beaming with holy confidence and hope, the first impulse vanishes, and the heart throbs with peaceful joy. The soul depicted in that countenance, its conception and execution, is a triumph of art which we believe can never be surpassed. But the interest does not stop here. What a world of poetry has the painter portrayed in the eldest son attempting to shield the loved ones from the impending danger, and in the youngest child cleaving to its mother for protection! All, in fact, look to Christiana for safety, while she, with the meekness of childhood, looks calmly up to the Almighty. I should rather be the author of that painting than of any others of superior merit. Oh, it is a blessed thing to see genius consecrating its powers to the promotion of His glory, from whom all genius flows! Huntington possesses both great and good qualities, and we trust that his sojourn in Europe will not be prolonged beyond an extensive tour.
Edmonds.This gentleman, who occupies the responsible station of cashier in a bank, is considered one of the ablest financiers in New York, while, at the same time, he enjoys a remarkable reputation as an artist. His paintingsare comparatively few, owing to his peculiar situation, and to the correct notion which he entertains, that a work of art should not be exhibited to the public until its author has done his best to make it perfect. His style of coloring is warm and glowing, and his drawing exceedingly accurate. As a designer, he is more particular than our artists generally; and very few, I think, understand the principles of composition so well. He is a man of quite extensive reading, and of expansive mind, and his pictures are an index to the humor which it contains. They are of a comical character, and never fail to tell their story at a single glance. They are always intended to make you laugh, and are, therefore, agreeable helpers on to a long life; and sometimes possess an undercurrent of poetry or philosophy, which makes them voiceless preachers to the thinking man. His best pictures are the “Newspaper Boy,” “The Country and City Beaux,” “Sparking,” “The Bashful Cousin,” “Italian Mendicants,” “The Epicure,” and “Stealing Milk.” The first represents a large room thronged with men, women, and children, into the midst of whom a ragged boy has entered to sell his Sunday morning papers. Inthe second we have a charming country lady and her accepted lover, suddenly surprised by the appearance of a city dandy; and while the latter is nettled by the appearance of things, the former, who is rocking himself in an arm-chair, very coolly puffs the smoke of his cigar into the face of his disappointed rival. In the next, a country damsel is peeling apples before a large blazing fire, while a hearty fellow is talking to her, “solemnly and slow,” about his heart and other kindred matters. In the next, a bashful young fellow is taking leave of his friends, who urge him to sit down to tea, which is now ready. The next is a blind old man, led by a little girl, asking alms in the streets of Rome. In the Epicure, we have a butcher displaying his nice things to an old gentleman, almost eaten up in health by rich living. In the last, we have a school-boy in his mother’s pantry, swallowing large quantities of rich cream, who is discovered by his “anxious Ma” in the very act. All things considered, I think Mr. Edmonds one of the most remarkable men of the age, and hope that he may live to make many more additions to the genius-stamped treasures of American art.
Page.Here we come to another honored artist, but one who has been greatly over-rated; not a man of genius, but one of rare, of extraordinary talent. As a mere portrait painter or map-taker, he is without a rival, I believe, in any country. The man who sits to him for a likeness, must expect to have every hair on his face delineated to perfection, but must not expect to have himself exalted or intellectualized. This is a thing which Page has never done, and can never do, and consequently he will never excel as an historical painter. I am warranted in making this assertion by looking at his past efforts in this department? What admirable execution has he squandered on his picture of “The Whistle,” his “Prison Scene,” and lately in his “Ecce Homo.” In coloring and drawing, these pictures cannot be surpassed; but how very inferior are they in conception, and especially the last! Surely, the Saviour of the world could never have borne sophysicala countenance as Page has here conceived! It is understood, that he is engaged on a large picture, to be called “Jephtha’s Daughter.” I sincerelyhopethat he may triumph there, but I cannot but doubt. Parts of it I knowwill be astonishingly fine, but, as a whole, it will be a failure. I have been thus free in my remarks concerning this artist, because he is lauded as a greatgenius, which I am not willing to acknowledge, although I admire him as a portrait painter. His style of coloring is not easily described, for it varies with every one of his subjects, now pale as death or red as a cherry, and now blue as sapphire or green as an emerald. If I desired my children to behold their very Pa long after he is in the grave, I would rather have Page paint me than any other man. His greatest portraits are those of Mrs. Ridner, a single head and with a child, of Lowell the poet, of Mr. Leup, and of himself.
Mount.Three cheers for the laughter-loving and incomparable genius of Stony Brook, whom I know to be a first-rate fisherman, and a most pathetic player on the violin. Here is a man who stands alone in the art of painting, for, in everything he does, he is entirely original. His productions are stamped with an entirely American character, and so comically conceived, that they always cause the beholder to smile, whatever may be his troubles. His coloring is what we call cold,but remarkable for its fidelity; and his power and knowledge of drawing are superior to those of any other man in the country. Unlike Mr. Edmonds, he pays but little attention to designing by rule, but in expression, he always lays himself out, and I know not that he has ever failed, in a single instance, to delineate the character he aimed at. He is peculiar in the habit of tasking his own mind for his subjects, so that you never see him illustrating the pages of any writer, historian, poet or wit. And this is a feature I greatly admire. The man who cannot conceive and execute a picture on his own hook entirely, is nothing but a copyist, whatever may be his knowledge of the art. Thinking and strictly original painters, are the only ones that exert a lasting and salutary influence on the pictorial genius of their country, and Mr. Mount, I am glad to know, is emphatically one of these. But let me glance at those pictures which I believe warrant the foregoing opinions. Their general character may be imagined by their titles, which are as follows: “Cider Making,” “The Raffle,” “Tough Yarn,” “Fortune Telling,” “Bargaining for a Horse,” “Gamesters Surprised,” “Winding Up,” “Ringing aHog,” “Artist showing his Work,” “The last Clam,” “Hoeing Corn,” “Husking Corn,” “Rustic Dance,” and “Rabbit Catching.” In the first, we have a Long Island cider mill, with all the laughable appurtenances thereof. In the next, a company of loafers in a country bar-room are raffling for a goose, illustrating the proverb, that “birds of a feather flock together.” The next picture, a lame old “covey” telling a story to two impatient gentlemen, which has been illustrated by an admirable story from the pen of Seba Smith, Esq. In the next, a couple of farmers, in a barn-yard, are discussing the merits of a “slick looking” horse hitched to a fence, one of them rolling a stone with his foot, and the other whittling a stick. In the next, we have some truant boys, who have stolen into a barn to play “heads or tails,” who are discovered by the farmer; and while he approaches cautiously, with a long stick in his hand and vengeance in his eye, one of the boys is frightened by the approaching step, but another is so absorbed in the game, that a nameless portion of his body is about to sting under the chastising stroke. The next exhibits a gentleman lover holding a skein of yarn for a buxom countrydamsel. The next, is apainted“concord ofsharpsounds.” In the next, an artist is showing a country farmer a picture, which causes him great delight. The next, portrays the garret of a disappointed bachelor, seated before a fireless fireplace, and mourning over the departure of a few clams, the shells of which are on the hearth at his feet. The four remaining pictures are described in their titles. The man who could paint such a variety of subjects, ought assuredly to be a good portrait painter; and Mr. Mount is such. His portraits are only occasionally executed, and for particular friends, and the former only when the spirit moves him, for he is a creature of impulse. And besides, his health has ever been of a delicate nature, which will not suffer him to “bone” down to labor. This fact, I presume, will be a satisfactory answer to those who are continually inquiring, “Why don’t Mount paint more?” The pictures he has produced, admirable and numerous as they are, are but as the bud to the fruit, when we consider his great capacity. I hope that it may be his fortune to enjoy a long and happy life, and that he may make many more additions to American art.
Doughty.This gentleman has long been a favorite landscape painter with the public, and has executed many exceedingly beautiful pictures, principally of a fanciful character. In number they are too great, which is his misfortune and not his fault. He has been obliged to paint at a cheap price, or the public would have let him starve to death, as they would any other artist, or a man of refined and exalted taste. And having painted so much, it is not to be wondered at that many of his productions should have been too hastily done, and that there should be a sameness in his subjects. Finishing, as he generally does, with great care, it always gratifies the eye to behold his pictures; but it is obvious that he has never painted much from nature, for there is a monotony in his touch, which cannot escape the criticism of the attentive student of foliage. There are some, however, and very important features too, in landscape painting, which are completely mastered by Mr. Doughty, and in which he is without a rival, either in Cole, Durand, or Huntington. His skies and water are the most true and beautiful that we have ever seen. A carefully painted waterfall by Doughty, is a picture of rare excellence and greatvalue. His atmospheres, too, are sometimes most exquisitely conceived and executed. Good figures are the principal things wanting in his paintings to make some of them nearly perfect, and his inability to paint them is undoubtedly another reason for the sameness of his subjects. When a man paints without a story or a moral in view, it is difficult to designate his pictures; but our favorites among those of Mr. Doughty, are a large “upright” with waterfall, an autumn scene, owned in Boston, another sold to the Apollo Association, and a scene on Lake George.
Wier.This gentleman is the accomplished teacher of drawing at the Academy of West Point. The majority of his productions, which are numerous, give evidence of his possessing extensive literary acquirements, a refined mind, and brilliant imagination. He is the author of a number of pleasing landscapes, the best of which, “Constable Bourbon’s March to Rome,” has been illustrated by the pen of Gulian C. Verplanck. The amusing pictures, called the “Boat Club,” and “St. Nicholas,” have proven, that if he would attempt it, he might excel in that department of the art occupied by Mountand Edmonds. But it is as an historical painter, that his name will live, and is now mostly celebrated. His drawing is remarkably correct, his coloring rich, and his style of execution highly finished. Another qualification belonging to his works, and one which makes us love the man, is, that they are purely American. Who that has seen it, can ever forget his full-length portrait of “Red Jacket,” the warrior and orator of the Senecas? Aside from the noble subject, it is unquestionably the most faithful and competent delineation of Indian character to be found; and who that has ever seen the “Indian Captives,” by the same hand, has not mourned over the fate of the much wronged Aborigines of our land, even as “brave men mourn the brave?” In this painting, we have an Indian and his squaw, in prison, and an English soldier warning them of their impending fate. Although it is an intensely interesting scene, yet the painter has not availed himself of a single “face divine,” which I fancy to be a beautifully poetic idea, and could not be carried out but by a man of genius. Mr. Wier is one of the four artists appointed by the General Government to execute four paintings for theRotunda at Washington. The subject of his, is the “Departure of the Pilgrims from Leyden;” but as I have not yet seen it, I am unable to express an opinion as to its merits.
Inman.The reputation of this gentleman as a portrait painter is very extensive, and he has ever commanded a higher price than any other in New York. His productions are very numerous, and there is not a single branch of the art in which he has not made some successful attempts. His coloring is rich and life-like, his style of execution exceedingly bold and free. Painting as he does with great rapidity, we find that his drawing is seldom as correct as it should be. He manifests a refined and exalted taste in the arrangements of his portraits, and generally in his miscellaneous designs. But, after all, he has painted some poor pictures, and this is an evidence of the fact, that he is a man of uncommon genius, and not talent. There is a wonderful spirit in his heads, and unlike his rival, Page, he portrays the mind, which, after all, is a greater triumph of art, and far more important in a portrait, than the mere shell of humanity, as delineated by Page. His full-length portraitof Macready, as William Tell, is a masterly performance, well conceived, well colored, and well drawn; and among his miscellaneous pictures, the most remarkable, are—“Rip Van Winkle,” “Bride of Lammermoor,” “Mumble the Peg,” and “News-Boy;” all of them possessing many peculiar beauties, with some glaring faults. Of his plain portraits, I would mention only two as good specimens of his skill in general, namely, those of Nicholas Biddle and Bishop White. I do not deem it within the power of any man to go beyond these in portraying the body of man and the soul within. Mr. Inman is also one of those artists honored by a commission from the Government for a 10,000 dollar painting. I understand that he is very far behind-hand in his great undertaking. I know, however, that he has met with some sad misfortune, which may be the cause; but I trust that he will soon be at work, and may accomplish a national work worthy of his ability and his fame.
Ingham.This gentleman is one of the most celebrated and unique of all our portrait painters. His style is emphatically his own, and may be designated as that of exquisitefinishing. You can never discern the traces of his pencil, and the reason is, he produces his effect by successive glazing. His pictures are distinguished for their transparency, richness of color, and harmony; and being a man of sentiment and delicate feeling, he is the universal favorite among the ladies, and probably the most faultless painter in this country of those charming but incomprehensible creations of Heaven. His best productions are the portraits of “Miss McNevin,” “Mr. Dunlap,” “Dr. Channing,” and the “White Plume;” and as genuine works of art, are inferior to nothing in the whole range of that department. That of Dr. Channing, is one of the best specimens of soul painting that I have ever seen, and any one familiar only with the writings of the great original, could not fail to select this portrait as his, from the midst of a hundred of other men, so full is it of expression, and so perfect and exalted is the effect of the painter. Ingham is a man of genius as well as talent, a friend to young artists, and an honor to American art.
Chapman.All hail to this poetical and ready artist, and accomplished gentleman, who has executed first-rate pictures in almost everydepartment of painting! His coloring is rather gaudy and paint-like, but his drawing, when he takes pains, is correct and vigorous. His knowledge of design is profound, and his conception of a picture is quick, and always in admirable taste. He has been a devoted student of the old masters, and copied more celebrated paintings than any other American. Having been an extensive traveller throughout the United States, and ever being on the lookout for valuable subjects to paint, and a lover of historical lore, he has collected a large quantity of valuable materials, the whole of which I hope he may live to embody in national paintings. It was he who received the commission from Government to paint the third picture (Vanderlyn is at work on the fourth) for the Rotunda at Washington, and he has manfully fulfilled his obligation in the execution of the “Baptism of Pocahontas.” Some of his other prominent pictures, are “Hagar and Ishmael fainting in the wilderness,” full length portrait of “David Crocket,” “Beppo,” “The First Ship,” a large historical landscape representing “The Retreat from Fort Necessity,” and a full length of “Washington in his youth.” These, however, are but a small portionof what he has done, for he is one of the most industrious men living. He is also a complete master of sketching, and as he has a historical mind, his efforts of this kind are very beautiful and very numerous. He is without a rival in this lucrative branch of art, and for the past two years has mostly been devoted to it, and is consequently a favorite among booksellers. He is a lover of the “poor Indian,” and has done much toward perpetuating their personal and national characteristics. Among the many things which now occupy his time, is an American Drawing Book, which is what we very much need in this country, and his I know will be a superb and valuable one in every point of view.
Harvey.This gentleman is a landscape painter of rare merit; but many of his pictures, unfortunately for us, are owned in England. His principal work, and one which places him in a very high rank, is Forty Atmospheric Views in the United States, executed in watercolors, and in a style of uncommon beauty. He is a good draftsman, and possesses a remarkable eye for color, and everything from his pencil teems with sentiment and poetry. His contemplated work of “American Scenery,”when published after his own expensive plan, will be an invaluable acquisition to our treasury of art, and I hope that it may be received by the public with the favor it so richly deserves.
Such is the array of painters, of which the emporium of America may well be proud. Fame must ever attend their names, as surely as it is attending those of West, Copley, Stuart, Allston, Jarvis, Trumbull, and Malbone, among the dead; and Sully, King, Harding, Fisher, Neagle, Morse, Vanderlyn, and Audubon, among the living of other cities;—altogether making a company which would reflect honor on any nation in the world.