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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists XIII . BUT we had heard incidentally of North Conway, and we made a reconnaissance to that place one day "to spy out the land." We decided to go there at once. We had interviewed Mr. Thompson of the Kearsarge Tavern, and he had agreed to take us in for the magnificent sum of $3.50 per week with a choice of the best rooms in the house. It was the middle of August and not a guest in town. "You won't like me," said Mr. Thompson, "I'm a kind of crooked fellow, and you won't like me, but you can come and try it." We did try it, and liked it, too. We were made to feel at home at once, with a generous table of good, old-fashioned cooking. And we did like Thompson as we got acquainted with him. He was always ready to enter into any project for exploring the country, and hunting out new beauties. We were delighted with the surrounding scenery, the wide stretch of the intervales, broken with well-tilled farms, the fields just ripening for the harvest, with the noble elms dotted about in pretty groups. Then beyond the Saco, the massive forms of the ledges rose up, their granite walls covered with forests. But behind these and above all was the broken line of Moat Mt. To the north Mt. Washington and its attendant peaks bounded the view. Then came Kearsarge on the right, and the lesser Rattlesnake range on the cast. The whole formed a scene of surpassing beauty, rarely to be found anywhere. We had seen grander, higher mountains in Switzerland, but not often so much beauty and artistic picturesqueness brought together in one valley. The beautiful little rocky stream, afterwards called "Artists' Brook," fascinated us with: its sparkle, its amber color, and its gray rocks broken with patches of green moss. Many of our first studies were made there. It was a new phase of nature to us, and it suited our mood. Later in the season, Mt. Washington, white with snow, claimed our attention, and we painted it from Sunset Hill. Kensett after his return to New York made a large painting of this view which was purchased by the American Art Union and engraved, and copies given to subscribers. About the middle of October we left North Conway, and made a trip on foot through Crawford Notch, and on to Franconia, making drawings as we went. Of course the two or three mountain houses were all deserted then, but the landlords welcomed us heartily, urging us to come another year. We left the region with the full intention of coming back early, and bringing back with us other artists to enjoy our find. I did go back the next summer (1851), and with a reinforcement of two artists from Boston - Mr. Alfred Ordway and Mr. B. G. Stotie. I found already established at the Kearsarge House, the New York contingent, headed by Casilear. They were: David Johnson, John Williamson, and a nephew of A. B. Durand. We made a jolly crowd. One day, Mr. Thompson, the landlord, said he knew that there was a waterfall behind the White Horse Ledge because he had heard its roar while he was in the logging camp in that neighborhood in winter. He gave us directions for finding it, fitted us out with a mountain wagon, loaned us his son William for a driver and guide. We drove through all the wood roads in vain, and were about to give up the search, when young Durand and myself determined to make a last effort, and after travelling through the dense woods for half a mile we found the stream, and following it down heard the rush of waters, and soon caught a glimpse of the chaotic masses of broken, ledgy rocks. We at once named it Thompson's Falls, and, hastening back to our comrades, we gave them such glowing accounts of our discovery that we all wished to return the next day for sketching, and we did, and every day for a week William drove us over, and we painted the wild scene. It was, however, a hard place to find until we had blazed the trees, and cut away many impediments. It has remained to this day, a mysterious place, and many visitors have failed to find it after making a resolute attempt. One day young Durand, who was sitting at his easel on a flat rock intent upon his work, started up suddenly to view his sketch at a greater distance. In his enthusiasm he stepped too far back, and, to his astonishment and ours, disappeared down a deep chasm. It was equal to a stage trap-door disappearance, and was greeted with shouts of laughter. Fortunately, he was not much hurt, but much mortified. In 1852, after a detour to Moosehead Lake, I came once more to North Conway with Hamilton Wilde, who had just returned from his studies in Europe. There was quite a little knot of artists at Thompson's, and we nearly filled the dining table in the old house. A few devoted lovers of North Conway were in this little village occupying the two or three houses where guests were taken in. Thus every year brought fresh visitors to North Conway as the news of its attractions spread, until in 1853 and 1854 the meadows and the banks of the Saco were dotted all about with white umbrellas in great numbers. The fine old boulders, fallen from the Cathedral Ledge, mossy and gray, were very attractive to the student. The Intervale at Lower Bartlett, drew us often to that part of the valley. Coleman, Hubbard, Gifford and Shattuck of New York, settled themselves at the old farmhouse, now remodelled and occupied by Mr. George Wolcott near the Mt. Moat house. In 1853 I was married to Miss Mary C. Brooks, who was born in Indiana, but of good New England stock, in fact she was a remote relative of mine. After taking a trip to the Catskills by way of the Hudson River, and spending some weeks at Lake Dunmore in Vermont we found ourselves at the Kearsarge House once more. Wilde and Gay were there and other artists, and Thompson's was crowded and more popular than ever. That autumn, before we left the moun-tains, Mr. Lewis Eastman came to see Mr. Thompson, and to inquire if he knew any one who would like to buy his house at the lower part of the valley. We went to look at it. It was an old-fashioned place without any particular attraction as a dwelling, but the whim seized us to buy it, and the bargain was concluded.
My son Kensett was born (December, 1854) in our old new house. He has never ceased to believe North Conway to be the place of all places to be in, as he has grown up, his earliest and pleasantest memories clustering around it. As the years have rolled on, and my studies and sketches have accumulated, I have filled my studio with them until it has overflowed its ca-pacity, but many visitors are attracted there from all parts of the country, and have carried away views from the mountains to distant cities and towns, so that I feel if I have not accomplished anything great in art, I have at least given pleasure to the inmates of many homes through-out the land, by giving them faithful reproduc-tions of local scenes. Starr King was an enthusiastic admirer of the White Mountain region, and his eloquent pen described with great power his impressions. These brilliant descriptions he embodied after-wards in a book for the benefit of visitors and tourists. This book is still the guidebook of the White Hills. In the winter of 1857 I painted a sunset, getting most of my facts from the studio windows. Starr King saw it later in Boston, and was so pleased with it that his parishioners purchased it for him. We all know his history, know his eloquent essays, his keen wit and satire, know how he devoted his life and powers to the reclamation of California from the folly of se- cession. I loved him for all his noble and elevated qualities of mind, and his memory is dear to me. His devotion to the Union was unswerving, and his voice did more to preserve California to the Union than anything else. |
The
condition of the old house gave us plenty of opportunity to plan and speculate how we
should improve and beautify it. We could dream and speculate about it, if we could not
realize all our notions. We occupied the house in 1854, and the summer was passed
very happily. We were still dreaming of changes, and got to know better what we wanted,
and-what was practicable. In the spring of 1855 the carpenters were at work, and we added
piazzas and dormer windows, and finished new rooms. Then, too, the carpenter shop
belonging to the place was transformed into a spacious studio with a top light. Kensett
came to visit us, just as it was completed, and I think painted the first pictures made
there. One of them he presented to my wife, and it is still in my possession. I set out
trees (now grown to be tall and stately,) about the grounds, and every year added to the
beauty and picturesqueness of the home. For it seemed more like home than any other place.
The studio was formally dedicated to artistic uses in 1855 by a reunion of our
friends, and a speech by old Deacon Greeley of Boston.