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44 LIVING AMERICAN ARTISTS

Daniel Huntington, Ex-President N.A.D

As the Army of the Revolution passed through Peekskill Royalists and Republicans were out of doors to see the goodly show. A conspicuous figure among these was that of a pretty young girl who, seated on a garden wall, looked down with measure undisguised at Washington and his generals, and the long files of men who followed after. The graceful pose and charming face of the young beauty did not fail to attract attention; nay, more than that, the pleasing picture became a tender memory to one, at least, of the passersby. This smitten one was Genl. Jed Huntington, then on the personal staff of Washington; the beauty was Miss Anne Moore, the daughter of a wealthy Royalist. But the doors of the Royalist were not inhospitable ones, for the young general of the Republic was ere long his guest, and despite the difference in politics, and in religion too-for Huntington was Puritan, while the Moores were High Church folk-an honored and a favored one, for the beauty of the garden wall, in course of time, ws given to the soldier with her father's blessing.
Of the fruit of this fair union was the mother of the artist, Daniel Huntington, the story of shoes art life is before us. His father was Benjamin Huntington, of Norwich, Connecticut, who cam to New York early in life as a merchant, and here met his namesake, the daughter of the garden-flower of Peekskill, and married her. An enterprising and industrious merchant, he made a handsome fortune, but lost it by the fall of the United States Bank, wrecks at sea, and other unforeseen disasters. When these misfortunes happened, his three sons were being educated with a view to professional life. Although sadly reduced in means, he did not permit his change of circumstances to interfere with the wishes of his sons-they received a liberal education. The three boys were, Jed-named after his grandfather by the mother's side-Daniel, and Gurdon. These in their youth were thrown much into the society of the Moores, and from their great uncle, Moore of Virginia, and their cousin, Thomas W.C. Moore of New York-an accomplished amateur of fine arts-imbibed, each after his fashion, a love for the Church and a passion for Art. The latter feeling was greatly fostered by visits made with their mother to the studio of her relative, Col. Trumbull, who at this time occupied large rooms in the old Alms-House in the Park, where he painted and exhibited his various works, finished and in progress.
The oldest brother, Jed, was skillful in pen drawing, and might have become a successful artist but for a stronger, and may we not say a better love?-impolled by which he entered holy orders, devoting his life to the services of religion and to literature. He was the author of Lady Alice, Alban, Rosemary, and other works. Gurdon the youngest of the three, is  now an Episcopal clergyman, but still finds. a leisure hour of the gratification of the taste which he inherits he has a skillful pencil and a good eye for color. And so this leaves us but the second eldest, Daniel, to dispose of, whose position as a leader, among the most thoughtful and cultured of our people, had been nobly won and diligently sustained by conscientious, painstaking labor, and the modest bearing which, better than great force of character, make friends and fortune-the fortune which is best worth the wearing.
Daniel's love of art was developed early. HIs devotion to the Muse, unlike that of his older and younger brothers, was undivided. His first noticeable efforts were copies which he made from the plates of an encyclopedia. These, with all a loving mother's pride, were shown one evening to Col. Trumbull, who had dropped in for tea. "Better be a teawater man's horse, in New York, than a portrait painter anywhere," said the Colonel, with characteristic gruffness. This was an unwelcome disturber of the for mother's dreams, and fell as a cloud on the hopes of the young artist. They did not then know that Trumbull was a chronic grumbler, and discouraged all aspirants. 
But "hope springs eternal in the human breast," and bubbles joyfully from beneath the shadows that will fall upon the daydreams of the young. Our artist, of a dozen