Horace Chauncey Johnson
|Horace Chauncey Johnson was born in
Oxford, Connecticut in 1820.
Alexander Hamilton Emmons; and before World War I in Rome, Italy from 1856 to 1858 with William Page. where he was active as late as 1886.1
He peasant genre, Indian/Native American, portrait and figure.
It is noted that in the early 19th century, before the Civil War, Johnson maintained a figure specialty, changing to a genre specialty after the Civil War.
|19th C. oil on canvas, unsigned, attributed to Horace Chauncey Johnson
(American 1820-1886), full length portrait of two young ladies, period gilt
frame, inscribed verso in yellow paint "H. Johnson/portrait Miss Carrie Johnson
and Frances Anderson/ Mrs. E.J. Gillete/Gift of Dr. Edwin J. Gillete"
ss: 54 3/4" h. x 36 1/2" w.
Provenance: gifted to a New England Museum in the 1940's from a direct descendent of the artist, kept in the museum collection until present deaccessioning.
[PROPERTY FROM A NEW ENGLAND MUSEUM]
See letter below written to the mother of the child in this painting.
|TITLE: [Stephen Salisbury, seated in chair,
REPRODUCTION NUMBER: LC-D416-81 (b&w glass neg.)
MEDIUM: 1 negative : glass ; 8 x 10 in.
CREATED/PUBLISHED: c[between 1900 and 1912]
CREATOR: Johnson, Horace Chauncey, 1820-1890, artist.
RELATED NAMES: Detroit Publishing Co., copyright claimant, publisher.
|19th C. oil on canvas, attributed to Horace Chauncey Johnson (American
1820-1886), European genre scene of a woman wearing a green skirt with a small
infant in a wicker cradle at her feet, most likely executed during or after
Horace Chauncey Johnson stay in Italy from 1856-1858.
Period gilt frame with stylized floral designs, some loss, inscription verso in yellow paint, "The Johnson estate/H. Johnson painted in Rome"
ss: 39 1/2" h. x 29" w.
Letter from Horace Chauncey
He writes from Waterbury, Connecticut, Buck's Hill. 1866 to
Johnson writes as beautiful as he paints.
In writing letters to interest our we must confine ourselves to little home matters to things that surround us, so that they can see us in the imagination as they in reality would see us if present.
If we write from Bucks Hill, and if ourselves and Bucks Hill have a place and real interest in your heart then it is here you would like to come in though and have a chit chat in the Old familiar way.
Now then dear Molly behold me as the evening shades are drawn around us, seated in the bosom of my family a bright and shining light dispensing warmth by stuffing wood into the stove and sunshine by screwing up the kerosene lamp.
Mrs. Johnson - my wife - (next in importance to me in the household) is also writing to you while Polly is stirring up pancakes for the morning and my daughter Caroline is Whittling.
The old cat lies quisled up in a chair dreaming of vast barns and unthrashed grain ad mice.
Now consider yourself here and seated by my side, let us talk.
How is old Curly? Does he still console himself with the belief that there is no hell? no stripes when this life is ended for all his shortcoming in the flesh?
But that other old fellow whom God has blessed as he did Jacob of Old with vast flocks of wondrous Kine (I mean that little heifer we of in the paper)
He is the chap.
He has got the ding in him and stamped with the genuine stamp of earthiness.
We must look to such things here below for bread and butter. The body will put in its chains for attention which cannot be neglected.
I have soared upon the wings of imagination and feasted on subliminal things but I find the stomach craves corn beef and potatoes once a day and I sleep a little better tucked up nicely with Mrs. Johnson than among the stars these cold nights.
Alas Polly has retired, and her vast cares and responsibilities are lost in the sleep of the body and Mrs. Johnson and I are alone. I look at her amiable face and the feelings of old days and first love comes back and warms my heart and quickens the pulse and oozes out through the pores of the skin and stands glad on my face as unctuous as goose-ile
You know how Old Bassett used to look!
We hear of you often through your mother but your words sometimes mystifies the old lady but young girls are mysterious they always puzzle me.
But write some open your heart confession is a relief and their is nothing in the world like sympathy and I a wondrous source of consolation to Mrs. Johnson in that regard she could not spare me.
Your loving and sympathizing friend,
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