New-York Artists Fifty Years Ago [pp. 572-575]

i72NETY-YORK ARTISTS FIFTY YEARS ACO. [MAY 25,
the willing allegiance of all lovers of the beautiful in the kingdom of the flowers.
Violets are among our earliest floral favorites, and every year's experience of their
beauty adds to the tender associations that
connect them with friends that are no more.
Every one loves violets. We have seen little
children rejoicing in their loveliness, and old
persons, beyond the allotted threescore and
ten, with eyes radiant in tearful joy from beholding them once more. The poets cannot
say enough of them; from human birth to
death they form the material for their choicest
metaphors. We tried once to make a collection of poetic allusions to this sweet flower.
We easily found more than five hundred, each
one a gem, and gave up the work as endless,
having by no means exhausted our resources.
Millions of millions of" sweet violets" are
now beautifying lawns and garden-borders.
While we write, the sweet perfume of their
breath comes from the sunny southern bank,
where, year after year, they make their appearance as regularly -as the robins, bluebirds, and golden orioles in the elm-trees
above them. How suddenly they spring into
life! Watch them patiently as you will, and
you see no sign. Let a warm day come, let a
genial breeze blow over them, and there they
are, purpling the greensward, springing forth,
full-grown, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter. They need no care and ask no protection. Throw a root carelessly on the turf,
and presently a colony is established, spreading its borders, and throwing out runners in
all directions.
A mass of them is beautiful, so is a little
clump, and so is a solitary member of the
family found in some unexpected spot. A
heaped basket of rarest exotics cannot draw
forth half the admiration we give to these
sweet intruders, these lovely symbols of the
gentle graces, these touching reminders of
the power of modest worth. What a tiny
world of beauty is enclosed within the boundaries of each unique-shaped corolla! What
delicious shading and blending of purplecoloring tint the tissues of each exquisite
petal, from the deep glow of the edge to the
pure white of the centre! With what wealth
of development the petals in double violets
crowd and lap over each other, from the full
expansion of the outmbst to the artistic folding of those nearest the heart! How gorgeously are the anthers tipped with glowing
orange! What a nondescript figure the whole
flower makes, pleasing every one, and yet
conforming to no laws, and describing no
Hogarthian curve of beauty!
But, after all, it is the perfume of the
violet which gives to it its crowning grace.
The great interpreter of Nature thought it
wasteful and ridiculous excess to add a perfume to the violet, and language is equally
powerless to portray its rare loveliness. And
yet from every infinitesimal atom of perfume
there comes a voiceless message. Is it not a
symbol of the power of a holy life, of the
saintly fragrance which breathes from the
memory of those who, having passed on,
have left behind the record of well-spent
lives? Therefore do we weave violets with
foral harps and crowns and crosses, as the
most perfect tribute affection can give to the
memory of the loved and the lost.
Botanists make the violet speak another
language. "Faithfulness," "I shall never
forget," are the words those skilled in the
language of flowers hear in gentle tones from
every member of the race. But the most
comforting lesson to be learned from the
lowly flower is that which associates it with
the joys of the world to come, for the lavish
profusion of violets, the grace of their refinement, the perfection of their development, the
ineffable breath which betrays their presence,
are like loop-holes through which we catch
glimpses of higher conditions of existence.
Then welcome to the violets now filling
their place in the procession of the flowers,
whether blooming unseen in forest - homes,
purpling the hill-sides, or rejoicing in the
culture of garden and hot-bed! Welcome to
the fragrant atmosphere betraying their presence, whether the simple earthy aroma of the
wild-wood flowers, or the permeating perfume
of exotic training! Glorious in coloring, artistic in outline, fresh as the breath of morn,
countless in abundance, and indescribable in
perfume, let them teach, in floral language,
lessons of the beauty of humility, and of the
sweet fragrance of a holy life. The voice of
God may still be heard in the garden as in
the days of old.
EMMA M. CONVERSE.
NEW-YORK ARTISTS FIFTY
YEARS AGO.
N the first quarter of the present century
there was so little done in New York in
art, as a business, that there was no acknowledged centre where good pictures were necessarily offered for sale. Portraits only were in
steady demand; and the setter, of course, made
his own bargain with the artist at the studio.
The artists were few in' number, and their encouragement was meagre and spasmodic. The
picture-frame stores of the day were places
rather of mechanical merit than of artistic association, for little was brought into them of
more interest than a cheap engraving, or an
elaborate piece of embroidery. The portraits,
as a rule, had no general admirers, and unquestionably attracted little attention beyond
the immediate "family circle" they were intended to adorn.
In the year 1816 a looking - glass and
picture -frame store was opened at No.
180 Fulton Street, in a modest three-story
wooden structure. The ceilings were low,
and there was consequently very little opportunity for the display of the wares inside; but the location proved to be favorable, and its proprietor, Mr. L. P. Clover,
gradually commanded a respectable business.
But this gentleman was destined to do more
than this; of a naturally refined mind, pleasing manners, and strict integrity, he soon
won the esteem of the artists, and the confidence of their patrons, which included our
best men, and, as a consequence, Mr. Clover
permanently identified himself with the development of art in this city.
When Mr. Clover first established himself,
besides the portrait-painters, which included
some well-known names, there were but four
landscape-painters in New York, who were
Ward, Wall, Doughty, and Hoyle. Wall, justly
included in the list, was a water-color artist,
and, except Doughty, none of these named
persons pursued their profession as a regular business. The taste of the public, after
the demand for family likenesses was satisfied, was for the "old masters," whose works
were at that time shipped to New York by the
thousands. The sales were conducted first by
Gourlay, and subsequently by Levy and Harrison, who had their weekly auctions of an immense number of these ancient canvases, mostly of large size, and representing, with almost
unvarying sameness, some religious or mythological subject; and all, with few extraordinary
exceptions, most execrable daubs. This trade
filled the houses of our ambitious citizens
with time-dried and smoke-blackened "horrors," and furnished a precarious livelihood
to those once famous "restorers," Marsiglia,
N. A., and "old Paff," who had always on
hand more genuine Raphaels, Correggios, and
Da Vincis, than can now be found in all the
churches and palaces of Europe!
The prominent portrait-painters of this
period were Trumbull, VTanderlyn, Jarvis,
Frothingham, Morse, Waldo, Ingham, and
Jewitt, who, without any concerted action,
concentrated their patronage on Mr. Clover's
establishment, which increased the tendency
already developed of making his store the centre of art attraction. Dr. Hosack, who lived
in Vesey Street; Philip Hone, whose residence
was opposite the City-Hall Park, Broadway;
Dr. Francis, Major Noah, Mr. Leggett, and
other professional and social celebrities, found
it convenient, in their "evening walks," to
drop into 180 Fulton Street, where they met
each other and the artists, and indulged in
animated discussions, and told pleasant reminiscences; for, in those days more than now,
conversation was esteemed as an accomplishment, and our celebrated men, especially artists, were noted for their wit and varied
attainments outside of matters pertaining to
their daily business. Stuart, Jarvis, and Inman, were remarkable in this particular; each
was wonderful for talent, for story-telling, for
mimicry, and for ability to "set the table in
a roar," and all would have made good actors
if they had chosen the stage, instead of the
studio, for the field of their genius. Mr.
Waldo, however, was singularly gloomy and
taciturn, and Ingham was only remarkable
for telling one story, and that one only at
the regular annual meetings of the National
Academy. And this story, for a long period
of time, was absolutely told every twelve
months with mathematical precision as to
circumstance, manner, and words.
When the steamers Albany and Rip Van
Winkle were built, their owner, Mr. Stevens,
of Hoboken, employed the best artists of New
York to adorn the cabins. To Henry Inman
fell, by accident, the "great work" of painting Rip Van Winkle rising from his long
sleep, for the outside of the wheel-house bearing the old veteran's name. The work was
admirably done, and for years delighted the
thousands who saw it passing day after day up
and down the Hudson River. The artist,
when he had completed his task, went to
.EW-YO-RK ARFTISTS FIFTY YEARS AGO.
572
[MAY 250