Letters from a Landscape Painter

by Charles Lanman

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, wafted on 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.

OUR NEW YORK PAINTERS.

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 not sufficiently well 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 thoughtful mind, 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 may not 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 most superb 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 paintings are 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. In the 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.