The life in the hut, together with the botanical studies and the

formation of the herbarium, suggested the plan of the "Sylvan Year," and

thereby lent additional interest to these pursuits, though at that time

his main work was the prosecution of "The Intellectual Life," now that

he had finished the correction of the handbook on etching. [Footnote:

Contributed to the "Portfolio," and afterwards published separately.]

This last work brought him many pleasant letters from brother artists,

but I shall only quote what Mr. Samuel Palmer said about it, because it

was his praise, and that of Mr. Seymour Haden, which gave the author the

greatest satisfaction, coming from authorities on the subject.

"REDHILL. _January_, 1872.

"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--Had I thanked you earlier for your 'handbook,'

which came long ago, I could not have thanked you so much: for it is the

test of good books, as of good pictures, that they improve with

acquaintance. I had a little 'Milton' bound with brass corners, that I

might carry it always in my waistcoat-pocket--after doing this for

twenty years it was all the fresher for its portage. Your invention of

the positive process is equally useful and elegant; useful because the

reverse method lessens the pleasure of work, elegant because the

materials are delicate and the process cleanly and expeditious."

In this letter Mr. Palmer expressed his desire to publish a translation

of Virgil's "Eclogues" in verse, and asked for his correspondent's

advice about it. Another source of satisfaction to Gilbert was the

increasing success of his works in America. In January, 1872, he had a

letter from Roberts Brothers, in which they said:--

"We have mailed you a copy of 'The Unknown River.' It has proved a

success, and has been generally admired. It is a charming book, and we

should like to bring out a popular edition. 'Thoughts about Art' is

selling better than we expected--it has given a start to the 'Painter's

Camp,' which we are now printing a second edition of.

"We think you are getting to be well known and appreciated in this

country."

Enclosed in the letter was a remittance for £49 8_s_., which proves that

an author has need of a good many successes to pay his way; still, these

remittances from America made a difference in Mr. Hamerton's

circumstances, and were exclusively devoted to the education of his

boys. Though unambitious, he was not indifferent to the increase in his

reputation, for he had written in "The Intellectual Life," "Fame is

dearer to the human heart than wealth itself." He certainly cared

infinitely and incomparably more for his reputation--such as he wished

it to be, pure, dignified, and honored--than for wealth; his only desire

about money, often expressed, was "not to have to think about it."

CHAPTER XII.

1873-1875.

Popularity of "The Intellectual Life."--Love of animals.--English

visitors.--Technical notes.--Sir F. Seymour Haden.--Attempts to resume

railway-travelling.

The dedication of "The Intellectual Life" was a perfect surprise to me

when I first opened my presentation copy: the secret had been well kept.

I felt grateful and honored to be thus publicly associated by my husband

in his work, though my share had been but humble and infinitesimal--more

sympathetic than active, more encouraging than laborious. Our common

dream had been to be as little separated as possible, and he had

attempted soon after our marriage to rouse in me some literary ambition,

and to direct my beginnings. I first reviewed French books for "The

Reader," and he was kind enough to correct everything I wrote; then he

induced me to try my hand at a short novel, reminding me humorously that

some of my father's friends used to call me "Little Bluestocking." He

took a great deal of trouble to find a publisher for my second novel,

and was quite disappointed to fail. He wrote to encourage me to

persevere:--

"The reviews of your first novel have all been favorable enough, but the

publishers told me they had _never_ published a one-volume novel that

had succeeded, and that they had now made up their minds _never_ to

publish another, no matter who wrote it. I rather think they would

publish your new novel, but I earnestly recommend you to try ... _I am

quite sure_ you have something in you, but you want wider culture,

better reading, and more of it, and the difficulty about household

matters is for the present in your way, though if I go on as I am doing

now we will get you out of that."

A copy of "The Intellectual Life" was sent to Aunt Susan, who received

it just as she was going to visit her sister, Mrs. Hinde, whom she

found in failing health, and who died shortly after. It was a new grief

for my husband, to whom she had always been very kind. As soon as

tranquillity was re-established in France, after the war and Commune,

Mr. Hamerton had renewed a regular correspondence with his friends, and,

being greatly interested in the technique of the fine arts, consulted

those friends whose experience was most to be relied upon. Mr. Wyld's

letters are full of explanation about his own practice, as well as that

of Decamps, Horace Vernet, Delaroche, and Delacroix. In one of them I

find this interesting passage:--

"I very much doubt if the talent of coloring can be _learnt_. I think it

is a gift like an ear for music, which if not born with you can never be

perfectly acquired (I, for instance, _I am sure_, could never have

_perfectly_ tuned a violin). Doubtless if the faculty exists

intuitively, it may be perfected, or at all events much improved by

study and practice, but he that has it not from birth, _I_ think, can

never acquire it."

Mr. S. Palmer, in a long letter also devoted to the technical part of

painting and etching, turns to literature to say:--

"My pleasure in hearing of the success of 'The Intellectual Life' is

qualified only by the comparative apathy of the English. Of such a book

one edition here to three in America is something to be ashamed of."

The sale of the book was rapid, both in England and in America, but the

American sale continued to be incomparably the larger. As early as

February, 1874, Roberts Brothers wrote:--

"'The Intellectual Life' is a complete literary success in America; it

has been the means of making you almost a household god in the most

refined circles. We are now selling the fifth thousand. Our supply of

the English 'Chapters on Animals' [Footnote: Contributed to the

"Portfolio," and afterwards published separately.] is all sold, and we

are now stereotyping the book. We hope to sell a good many."

The motive which prompted my husband to write these "chapters" was

purely his love and pity for all dumb creatures. He never could do

without a dog--and the dog was always the favorite, being even preferred

to the saddle-horse; and when out of compassion for its infirmities it

had to be out of pain, his master never shirked the painful duty, but

performed it himself as mercifully as he could. One of his dogs, which

had long been treated for cancer, was at last chloroformed to death, his

master helping the veterinary surgeon all the time. Another, who became

suddenly rabid, and could not be prevented from entering the house, to

the imminent peril of us all, he met and stunned at a blow with a log of

wood, having no weapon ready. Poor Cocote was not sold when she became

useless, but allowed to divide her old age peacefully between the

freedom of the pasturage and the comfort and plenty of the stable, till

her master asked the best shot of the place (a poacher) to assist him in

firing a volley, which quickly put an end to her life, as she was

unsuspectingly coming out of the field. And he only came to this

decision when we left the country. Out of love or pity my husband was

interested in all animals, and I believe that animals were instinctively

aware of it. Dogs always sought his caresses; he used to remove _with

his hands_ toads from the dangers of the road, and they did not seem

afraid. He never was stung by bees, though he often placed his hand flat

in front of the opening in the hive, so that they were obliged to alight

upon it before entering. Of the rat only he had a nervous horror, but it

remained unconquerable; he disliked the sight of one, and if he met one

accidentally, he always experienced a disagreeable shock. When he tried

to find out the reason, he was inclined to attribute it to the

disquieting rapidity and restlessness of its movements.

In 1874 Mr. Hamerton began to write for the "International Review,"

principally on the fine arts, and continued his contributions till 1880.

Roberts Brothers expressed a wish that he would reserve the publications

in book form to their firm, which had done so much for his reputation.

At the beginning of April he heard from Boston that they were printing

the sixth thousand of the "Intellectual Life," and had written to

Messrs. Macmillan that they were willing to unite in bringing out a new

edition of "Etching and Etchers." In October the seventh thousand of the

"Intellectual Life" was being printed; the second edition of "Chapters

on Animals" and the second of "Thoughts about Art" were about half gone,

and "A Painter's Camp" was going off quite freely. About the last

Roberts Brothers added: "This book ought to sell better. We have reason

to congratulate ourselves that it so fascinated us that we ventured to

republish it. We are Nature lovers, and delight to keep the company of

one who loves her and is able to tell of it as you can."

Of course we cheered Aunt Susan with the list of these successes, and

she answered: "I wish, my dear P. G., that all your admirers would be as

generous with their money as they are with their flattery, for flattery

is not a commodity to supply a family with means of subsistence." In the

same letter she told of Mr. Hinde's death and funeral, and of her hopes

of seeing her nephew, Ben Hinde, succeed to his father's living.

Early in 1874 Mr. Hamerton had the pleasure of becoming personally

acquainted with one of the most distinguished of the contributors to the

"Portfolio,"--Mr. Sidney Colvin, who now came to pay a visit to the

editor, after nursing his friend R. L. Stevenson through one of his

dangerous attacks of illness. My husband esteemed highly Mr. Colvin's

knowledge and acquirements. During his short stay this esteem expanded

into personal regard, and in after years, whenever a meeting with him

was possible, it invariably afforded gratification.

In the summer our house was turned into a sort of temporary hospital by

an epidemic of measles brought to it by the boys from their college.

Having had it in my youth, I luckily was spared to nurse in succession

the three children and my husband, whose case was by far the most

serious. However, he would not take to his bed, but remained in his

study with a good fire at night, sleeping upon an ottoman or in an

arm-chair, wrapped up in his monk's dress, and the head covered with an

Algerian chechia. In due course he got through the distemper without

accident, but for fear of chills he continued to wear the chechia and

monk's dress in the house some time after his recovery, and he was so

discovered by Mr. and Mrs. Mark Pattison when they paid us an unexpected

visit. It happened thus. I had driven my sister and her youngest boy to

Autun, where he had been invited to stay a few days at his godmother's,

and as we alighted in the courtyard of the hotel I was told that an

English gentleman and his wife had ordered an omnibus to call upon Mr.

Hamerton, and were on the point of starting. On learning that I was at

the hotel they came to propose that I should go back to La Tuilerie with

them, which proposition I accepted with pleasure. I left the

pony-carriage, told my sister that I would fetch her in the evening, and

drove off with Mr. and Mrs. Pattison, the latter very much interested by

what I could point out to her on the way,--the Temple of Janus, the

Roman archways, the double walls of the town, and Mont Beuvray.

The drive from Autun to La Tuilerie is a short one, and we soon arrived

at the garden gate. As we stopped, the study window was quickly, almost

violently, thrown open, my husband's anxious face appeared through it,

and he shouted to the bewildered coachman, "What has happened?" At the

sight of an omnibus he had been afraid of an accident (not at all

unusual with Cocote's tendency to take fright, run away, and upset

carriage and all), and had fancied me hurt, and brought back laid upon

the cushioned seat. But as soon as he saw me safe and sound, and noticed

my companions, he hastened down to receive his visitors. We spent the

afternoon very pleasantly, but as it was getting cooler and a little

damp after sunset, my husband, who was not fully recovered, had to

excuse himself from accompanying Mr. and Mrs. Pattison back to Autun,

and to let me go instead. I had the pleasure of a second meeting with

them on the following morning at the hotel, when we took leave of each

other.

I have always remembered an incident in connection with this visit that

Mr. and Mrs. Pattison never knew of. There had been in our entrance hall

for the last four months at least, a manuscript notice written very

legibly by Mr. Hamerton, and carefully pasted up with his own hands, in

a very good light by the side of the drawing-room door, to this effect:

"English visitors to this house are earnestly requested not to stay

after seven o'clock p.m. if not invited to dine; and when invited to

dine, not to consider themselves as entitled to the use of a bedroom,

unless particularly requested to remain."

This had been done in a moment of legitimate anger and vexation (of

course without consulting me), and I had thought it the best policy to

ignore it for some time--particularly during winter, when it was put up,

for there was little probability of English visitors at that time. As to

French visitors, it was unlikely that they could make out its meaning,

and if they did, as it did not concern them, they would consider it as a

humorous _boutade_. After a fortnight, however, I begged my husband to

remove the "notice;" but his anger had not cooled a bit, and he said in

a tone that I knew to admit of no opposition that the "notice" was meant

to remain there _permanently_. And there it remained, at first

partially, and by degrees almost entirely, covered up by the shawls or

mantles that I artfully spread as far as possible over the obnoxious

manuscript, till, emboldened by non-interference, and under pretext that

the wall-paper about the door was soiled, I got leave to have a new

piece hung, and took care to have it laid _over_ the notice. This took

place on the very day that Mr. and Mrs. Pattison paid their friendly

visit.

I must now explain the cause of my husband's temporary ukase. As I have

said before, M. Bulliot, President of the Société Eduenne, was a friend

of his, and on one occasion, a Scotchman having applied to him for

permission to see a precious book kept in the archives of the learned

society, M. Bulliot, finding him well-bred and interesting, took the

trouble of bringing him to La Tuilerie, in the hope that Mr. Hamerton

and Mr. W---- would derive pleasure from the meeting. It was so, and Mr.

W----'s researches at Autun requiring a few days only, he was invited to

dinner for the morrow. He duly arrived and dined, but as he gave no sign

of going away, I asked him a little before ten if he was a good walker,

as the hotels at Autun closed at eleven. He merely answered, "No

matter." Looking already like an old man, and weak besides, I felt

certain that he could not possibly reach the town in time for a bed, and

I quietly retired to mine. My husband told me in the morning that he had

shown Mr. W---- to the spare room, unwilling to turn an old man out in

the cold and mist of an early morning. I foresaw a repetition of what

had happened at Pré-Charmoy. And so it proved, for Mr. W---- quartered

himself upon us for two days, and it is impossible to say how much

longer he would have stayed if my husband had not at last insisted

peremptorily on driving him back to Autun.

On reaching home Gilbert immediately went up to his study to write his

"Notice to English visitors," and without saying a word securely pasted

it up at the entrance. A few days later he heard from the proprietor of

the Hótel de la Poste, that before leaving Mr. W---- had said, "Mr.

Hamerton will settle the bill."

It was a good thing for my husband that he gave so much consideration to

the bringing up of his children, for indirectly he derived from it some

benefit to his own health; for instance, not wishing them to be always

confined to college, he used often to drive them to and from Autun; and

in the summer, as he came back, he would just stop the pony for a few

minutes at our gate to pick up the rest of the family and a hamper, then

take us to a cool and shady dell divided from a little wood by the river

Vesvre--the coldest water I ever bathed in; and as soon as Cocote was

taken out of harness and left in the enjoyment of the fresh grass, we

all tumbled into the icy water, and swam till our appetites were

thoroughly sharpened for a hearty dinner in the lingering twilight.

The children were also taken by their father to the hills, where they

climbed about whilst he sketched; his little daughter Mary liked nothing

better than to spend a day "au Pommoy" above the beautiful valley of the

Canche, where the parents of our servant-girl lived. They were farmers

in a very humble way, but they offered us heartily the little they

possessed,--the new-laid eggs, the clotted cream, which the children

delighted in, thickly spread upon black bread, and which the mother

prepared in perfection; also frothy goat's milk, with walnuts and

chestnuts in their season. Cocote, too, had free access to the dainty

grass and crystal spring of their pasturage in the hollow behind the

cottage. Whilst my husband painted and I read to him, we watched the

children, who, bare-footed and bare-legged, turned up the stones in the

river-bed seeking for trout and crayfish. In the course of these

pleasant excursions Gilbert entered into conversation with every one he

met--farmers, shepherdesses, cow-boys, and even beggars, learning what

he could of their lives and thoughts, sympathizing with their labors and

their wants, often conveying useful information to their minds,

frequently on politics, sometimes on geography or science. He tried to

explain to them the railways and telegraph, for many of the dwellers in

these hilly regions had never seen a railroad, especially the old folk,

who could no longer walk any great distance, and remembered Autun only

as it was in the time of the diligences. He liked the polite,

deferential manners of the French peasants and their quiet dignity; and

they felt at ease with him because of his serious interest in what

concerned them, and total absence of pride in the superiority of his

station or learning. Wherever he went he liked to see the parish church,

and generally found it worth his while, either artistically or

historically. The cure was frequently to be met with, and not sorry to

talk with a person better informed than most of his parishioners: it was

for Gilbert another field to glean from, and on such occasions he

generally managed to bring home a sheaf with him. It was most remarkable

to see how well he got on with the Roman Catholic clergy, although his

religious opinions were never hidden from them, and his attitude by no

means conducive to hopes of conversion; but on the other hand, he was

not aggressive, and did not turn into ridicule ceremonies or beliefs to

which he remained a stranger. Perfectly firm in his own convictions, he

respected those of other people, because his large sympathy understood

the different wants of different natures, even when he had no share in

them. He was always on visiting terms with _our_ curé (the one

officiating at Tavernay--the nearest village to La Tuilerie), and on

friendly terms with the Aumônier de l'Hôpital and the Aumônier de

Collège (although the boys were not under his spiritual direction, their

father considering it as a duty to let them choose their own religion

when they were of age); later on l'Abbé Antoine, professor at the

seminary, became a faithful and welcome visitor to La Tuilerie; even

Monseigneur the Bishop of Autun gave a signal proof of his respect for

Mr. Hamerton's character, which will be related in due course, and

visited him afterwards so long as we remained in the Autunois.

The technical difficulties of painting, which were giving my husband so

much trouble to conquer, led him to speak not unfrequently of the

advantages formerly afforded to students by the privilege of working in

the same studios with their masters, and even of having some portions of

the masters' pictures to execute under their personal and invaluable

direction. He realized what a gain it would be, not only for beginners,

but even for artists, to be acquainted with the best methods of the best

artists, and at last, counting upon their well-known generosity, he

resolved to make a general appeal to their experience. They were almost

unanimously favorable to the idea, and furnished valuable notes, the

substance of which was published in the "Portfolio." The letters are too

technical, though very interesting, to be quoted here, but the eminent

names of the writers will be a proof of the importance attached to the

subject. I find those of Sir Frederick Leighton, Sir John Gilbert,

Watts, Holman Hunt, Samuel Palmer, Calderon, Wyld, Dobson, Davis,

Storey, etc., etc., in the notes still in my possession.

My husband was himself in the habit of making experiments in painting

and etching, though he deplored both the time and money so spent, and

repeatedly resolved not to meddle any more with them; but he could not

keep the resolution. His mind was so curious about all possible

processes and technicalities, and his desire of perfection so great,

that not only did he experiment in all the known processes, but invented

new ones. Entries in the note-book like the following are of frequent

occurrence:--

"Experiments with white zinc did not succeed."

"This month tried sulphur with success. I discovered also that the

three-cornered scraper is excellent for obtaining various breadths of

line in the background."

"I made a successful experiment in sandpaper mezzotint."

"M. de Fontenay and I made _crême d'argent_ very cheaply indeed."

"To-day I tried experiments on grains: the grains given by the sandpaper

and rosin. That given by the fine glass-paper was the best."

"Quite determined to put a stop to all experiments, in view of

typographic drawings."

Here is an important entry, August 19, 1875:--

"RESOLVED in future to confine myself exclusively to oil-painting and

etching in all artistic work done for the public, except the designs for

the bindings of my books, which may be done in water-colors.

"RESOLVED also that there shall be as little as possible of copying and

slavery in my artistic work, but that Etching shall be Etching, and

Painting Painting."

He had been working very hard, copying etchings for the new edition of

"Etching and Etchers," and was thoroughly tired of it. I see in his

diary:--

"Finished my plate after Rembrandt. N.B.--Will never undertake a set of

copies again."

"Felt it a great deliverance to be rid of plates for 'Etching and

Etchers.'"

A later note:--

"There is no technical difficulty for me in etching. I ought therefore

to direct my energies against the artistic difficulties of composition,

drawing, light and shade. Haden's 'Agamemnon' is the model for the kind

of work I should like to be able to do in etching. Comprehensive

sketching is the right thing."

Meanwhile our boys were growing, and giving great satisfaction to their

father by their application to and success in their studies; they always

kept at the head of their class, and carried off a great number of

prizes at the end of every scholastic year. The younger boy, Richard,

evinced an early taste for the pictorial arts, and was gifted with a

sure critical faculty and a natural talent for drawing. Although he had

never taken regular drawing-lessons, he had often watched his father at

work, had occasionally sketched and painted under his direction, and was

receiving a sort of artistic education by what he saw at home of

illustrated periodicals, engravings, and etchings sent for presentation

or criticism. He was early tempted to try etching, and of course

received encouragement and help; the first attempt was a success, as far

as it went, and Mr. S. Palmer wrote about it:--

"Your son's etching has given pleasure to other than 'parental eyes.'

'What a sweet little etching,' said my wife, who saw it lying on the

table; 'it is like an old master.' There is something touching in the

sight of a beginner, full of curiosity and hope. My yearning is, 'O that

he may escape the rocks on which I split--years wasted, any one of which

would have given a first grounding in anatomy, indispensable anatomy, to

have gone with the antique. The bones are the master-key; the marrowless

bones are the talisman of all life and power in Art. Power seems to

depend upon knowledge of structure; all surface upon substance; knowing

this, and imbued with the central essence, we may venture to copy the

appearance, perhaps even imitate it."

Mr. Seeley also wrote, with sly humor: "Your boy's etching is capital.

It would be interesting to know what processes this remarkable artist

employs."

Richard frequently expressed his intention of being a painter; but his

father, though much pleased to notice in the boy a real tendency towards

art, did not at all feel certain that there were in him the gifts

indispensable to the making of an artist. I was often told that, despite

the cleverness of his copies, and even of his caricatures, he seemed to

lack invention and originality. However, it was understood that he would

be allowed a fair trial,--but only after taking his degree of "Bachelier

ès-lettres," for his father was of opinion that perhaps more for artists

than for men in other professions, a liberal education was necessary to

the development of the finest aptitudes. He also thought that the boys

might now appreciate English poetry, and selected short passages from

the best poets, which he read aloud in the evenings, whilst they

followed with books in their hands; it accustomed them to the rhythm and

to the music of the language, and the peculiar qualities of each piece

were explained to them afterwards. Little Mary Susan also received

encouragement in the practice of her music, for I see this entry on

March 7, 1875: "My little daughter and I played piano and violin

together to-day for the first time."

Very slowly and gradually his health had improved, and he was in 1875

almost free from nervousness, but he had not yet dared to attempt

railway travelling; he had occasion to write to Mr. Seymour Haden, and

here is part of the reply:--

"First, I am delighted to hear that the improvement in your health

maintains itself; next, that I shall be very happy to do you a plate for

the 'Portfolio.' I was with Macmillan the other day, and heard from him

that you were at work upon a new edition of 'Etching and Etchers.' He

spoke so well of you and of your work, that I am _empressé_ to report

him to you in this. It must be a great satisfaction to you, after the

extraordinary life you have led, to find that it is producing such

satisfactory results. May it and the good effect which attends it

continue! And this brings me to speak of your railway malady. It does

not differ from other cases of the kind in any one particular. It is an

idiosyncracy. It is not to be got over by medicine (certainly not by

chloral), but by time--or rather, by the difference induced in the

constitution by age. A man may be subject to all you describe at forty,

and actually free from such symptoms at fifty--and I should advise you

to _test_ yourself, after so long an abstinence from this mode of

travel, by a short journey now and then. No accumulative mischief could

arrive--and you _may_ find, to your great satisfaction, that you have

entirely lost your enemy. If you do, by all means come, pay us a visit,

and see what we are doing in England. I have done an etching of Turner's

'Calais Pier,' 30 _inches square_, which is by many degrees the finest

thing (if I may be permitted so superlative an expression) I have done

or ever shall do. I mean to publish it about the close of the year. I

have _built_ a press for printing it, and am having paper _made_

expressly, and real sepia (which is magnificent--both in color and

price) got from the Adriatic for the ink! so that great things ought to

_result_."

And the result was certainly by far the finest of modern etchings,

according to Mr. Hamerton's opinion; in some particulars he preferred

the "Agamemnon," but the size of "Calais Pier" as an increase of

difficulty was to be considered, and if the "Agamemnon" was an original

conception, it cannot be said that "Calais Pier" was a copy--so much

being due to interpretation. Later on, when my husband was in possession

of this _chef-d'oeuvre_, it always occupied the place of honor in the

house.

Following Mr. Haden's advice, he now tried short railway journeys at

intervals, by slow trains, so that he could get out frequently at the

numerous stations,--not to allow the accumulating effect of the

vibration,--and generally in the night. There are some short entries

about it in the diary:--

"October 7, 1875. Went to Laisy in boat with M. de Fontenay; the day was

most lovely. Came back in the train without feeling any inconvenience."

"October 12, 1875. Went from Laisy to Etang by the river. Dined there;

returned by train in the evening all right. We had no accidents, except

on a little sunken rock after Chaseux, when M. de Fontenay's boat was

upset."

In this manner he used to go to Chalon (there was rather a long stoppage

at Chagny for change of train) to stay two or three days with my mother

and brother, who lived there. He was still anxious and uneasy, but he

nerved himself to bear the discomfort, in the hope that he would get

inured to it in time, and he used to close his eyes as soon as he was in

the carriage, and to draw the curtains to avoid seeing the objects that

we passed on the line.

In the summer of 1875 he received from the new owner of Innistrynich an

invitation to revisit the dear island. Nothing could have given him more

pleasure. Mr. Muir gave him all the details of the improvements he had

effected, but said:--

"I retained the old cottage, with its twelve small apartments, and added

a new front, containing five rooms.

"I saw Donald Macorquodale [whom my husband often had in the boat with

him]; he was much pleased to hear that you had been inquiring about him.

He is now getting frail, and not very able to work. He requested me to

say that he was very glad to hear of you, and would be delighted to see

you at Loch Awe. He sold the boats you were so kind as to give him, but

he only received a small sum for them, having kept them too long."

My husband never forgot his old servants, and showed his interest in

them whenever he could; they had great affection and respect for him,

mingled with awe, well knowing that, although he gave his orders kindly,

he meant to be obeyed. There was a very trusty widow, who came to our

house twice a week, and I remember finding her in tears, and asking what

was the matter. "Ah! c'est Monsieur qui m'a grondée," she sobbed

desperately. "But what has he said to put you in such a state?" "Oh! he

did not say much; only, 'Lazarette, why will you scratch off the paint

with the matches?' ... 'Mais quand Monsieur gronde,'" ... and there was

a fresh explosion.

It was well that my husband's health was better, for it enabled him to

bear the saddening news of his uncle Thomas's approaching end; he had,

for the last few months, grown weaker and weaker, till his sister

wrote:--

"WEST LODGE. _September_ 1875.

"The loss of my dear worthy brother is indeed a sad blow to me, and I

was not able to attend the funeral.... I am better now, though the

doctor is still in attendance upon me. I should indeed have liked you

both to have been here, but I could not press you, or even expect you to

run such a risk.... Still, I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you

all at West Lodge before the winter sets in."

It may be here briefly explained that Miss Susan Hamerton greatly needed

her nephew's advice about money matters; they had been hitherto managed

by her brother, and she had had no care about it; but now, after

entrusting what she possessed to a person recommended by Mr. T.

Hamerton, she had become aware that it was not safe, and was afraid of

losing the savings she had been able to make, for she had no control

over the capital.

It was difficult to explain all this by letters, and she was anxious to

give all the details by word of mouth, consequently she grew more and

more pressing in the expression of the desire that her nephew should

attempt the journey; he was not to be detained by the consideration of

expense, for she intended to make him a present of some bank-shares

which she no longer wanted, since her brother had left her an increase

of income for her life.

My husband resolved to undertake the long journey in the course of 1876,

and to arrange his work in view of it. Besides his contributions to

different periodicals, he had in the year 1875 entirely written "Round

my House," prepared the new edition of "Etching and Etchers," got the

notes necessary for the "Life of Turner," and given much consideration

to a plan mentioned thus in the note-book: "December 28, 1875. Feel

inclined to write a book on remarkable Frenchmen, such as the Ampères,

Victor Jacquemont, the Curé d'Ars, and a few others who interest me."

CHAPTER XIII.

1876-1877.

"Round my House."--Journey to England after seven years' absence.

--Friends in London.--Visit to Mr. Samuel Palmer.--Articles for the

"Encyclopaedia Britannica."--Death of my sister.--Mr. Appleton.

The note-book for 1876 opened with the following rules, written by my

husband for his own guidance:--

"Rise at six in winter and five in summer. Go to bed at eleven in winter

and ten in summer. There must be two literary sittings every day of two

hours each. The first to be over as soon as possible, in order to leave

me free for practical art work; the second to begin at five p.m., and

end at seven p.m.

"_Something_ really worth reading must be read every day, the quantity

not fixed.

"I must go out every day whatever the weather may be.

"Time may be taken, no matter when, for putting things in order. The

best way is to do it every morning before setting to work. It is better

to try to keep things in order than to accumulate disorder.

"Keep everything _quite_ in readiness for immediate work in literature

and art.

"When tired, rest completely, but never dawdle. Be either in harness or

out of harness avowedly. Special importance is to be given to painting

this year. Pictures are to be first painted in monochrome, in raw umber

and white. Read one thing at a time in one language. All rules suspended

during fatigue."

At the beginning of the year Roberts Brothers had asked for a photograph

of the now popular author of "The Intellectual Life." In April they

acknowledged the receipt of two, and were sending some copies of the

engraving from them. They also said:--

"Suppose we should wish to bring out an edition of 'Wenderholme' this

autumn, would you abridge and rewrite it? Condensation would be likely

to make it more powerful and more interesting. Or perhaps you would

rather write an entirely new novel? We think such a novel as you could

write would have a large sale.

"The accompanying letters will interest you as proofs of your growing

popularity. We mail you to-day, by request of Miss May Alcott, a copy of

her father's clever little volume, 'Concord Days.' A fine old gentleman

he is, the worthy father of the most popular of American authoresses."

Here is Miss May Alcott's letter:--

"MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--I am pleased and proud that you should have

considered my letter worthy an answer, and I am still more gratified to

be allowed the satisfaction of selecting the best pictures of Concord's

great man for you. Mr. Emerson has been for more than thirty years the

most intimate friend of my father, as also Mrs. Emerson and mother; the

daughters and myself growing up together. And as father is thought to

know and understand the poet perhaps better than any other contemporary,

I venture sending by post one of his books, which contains an essay on

Mr. Emerson, which may interest you. It was thought so fine and true on

its first appearance that it was published in illuminated form for

private circulation only; but as there is not a copy of the small

edition to be obtained, I send 'Concord Days' instead. This morning, on

receipt of your very kind reply to my letter, I went to Mr. Emerson's

study and read him the paragraph relating to himself, which pleased him

exceedingly; and while his daughter Ellen stood smilingly beside him, he

said, 'But I know Mr. Hamerton better than he thinks for, as I have read

his earlier works, and though I did not meet him while in England, I

value all he writes.' Then I showed him the two pictures which father

and I thought the preferable likenesses, which I enclose by mail to you,

though he produced a collection taken at Elliot and Fry's, Baker Street,

London, from which we find none better on the whole than this head,

which gives his exact expression, and the little one giving the _tout

ensemble_ of the man we admire so much."

Few things could have given greater pleasure to Mr. Hamerton than to

learn that his works were appreciated by such a writer and thinker as

Mr. Emerson, whose books he studied and enjoyed and quoted very

frequently. But he was quite put out by the engraving of his portrait,

which, indeed, could not be called a likeness. He wrote as much to

Roberts Brothers, who replied: "We are not a bit disappointed to hear

that you don't like the head, for we have come to consider the dislike

of all authors to similar things as chronic." They offered, however, to

have the plate corrected according to the victim's directions, and

added: "But take heart upon the fact that nine hundred and ninety-nine

out of a thousand who look upon it believe it to be a facsimile of

yourself, and where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

In another letter, they say again:--

"The head, which to you is an insurmountable defect, is favorably looked

upon by everybody. If Mrs. Hamerton should hear the praise from fair

lips she would certainly be jealous. However, the engraver will see how

nearly he can conform to your wishes, and perhaps we may be able to

please you yet."

No praises from lips however fair would have induced me to put up with

the portrait, and I said so frankly, without being at all influenced by

jealousy, for in my opinion the original was far handsomer in expression

and bearing than the likeness; but Roberts Brothers, who had never seen

the original, still clung to the obnoxious engraving, and wrote again:

"If _we_ are deluded, and happy in that delusion, why should _you_ care?

Mrs. Hamerton, she must confess it, is jealous of our fair

countrywomen." Nevertheless it was withdrawn in deference to our wishes.

Mr. Powers was now and then discreetly reminding Mr. Hamerton of his

promised pictures, and after hearing from the painter that they were

_safe_ (whatever that may have brought to his mind) sent these verses:--

"MY PICTURES.

"A famous artist over the sea

Promised to paint two pictures for me.

"He wrought, but his colors would not show

His pure ideal and heart's warm glow.

"And so the paintings are still unsent,

Though years ago their spirit went.

"Two pictures hang in my treasured thought--

My dream of those the artist wrought.

"They are sweet and fadeless, and soothe my sight,

When weary and sad, with a strange delight.

"But the light which shows their marvellous art

Is the generous glow of the painter's heart.

"This is the way that there came to me

The gift of pictures from over the sea."

"ANSWER.

"There's a parson out West in Chicago,

To whom I did promise--long ago--

A couple of pictures,

Not fearing strictures

Of the critical folk of Chicago.

"Time passed, and the works were not finished;

Time passed, yet with hope undiminished,

That parson he wrote,

And my conscience he smote,

And so was I greatly punished.

"For a promise is not a pie-crust,

And 'I will' is changed to 'I must'

When you say to a friend--

'Two pictures I'll send,'

And he orders the _cadres_ in trust.

"Then the parson he sighed in despair--

'Where are my two pictures?--O where?'

In regions ideal

Far, far from the real,

Like cloudscapes that melt into air.

"And then I thought--'Now it grows serious,

For deferred hope is most deleterious;

Yet how can I toil

In color and oil

In a world where the publishers weary us?'

"Ah me! for a month with the flowers,

And the sweet April sunshine and showers.

To paint with delight

From morning till night,

For my dear friend, Horatio N. Powers!"

It may be said here that the pictures were completed and packed off in

the beginning of October, 1876.

In view of a series of large etchings Mr. Hamerton went to Decize, on

the Loire, where he hoped to find material for several subjects. He made

twenty sketches of the town, river, boats, etc., and then called upon M.

Hanoteau, the painter, who had expressed a desire for his acquaintance.

There is a short note relating the visit:--

"April 21, 1876. Arrived at ten a.m., and had a pleasant day watching

him paint. I also saw the interior of his atelier, and the things in

progress. He only paints in the immediate neighborhood. Always from

nature. When we had finished _déjeuner_ we went together to a little

_étang_ in the wood, near to which were some old cottages. He painted

that bit on a small panel. After completing his sitting he showed me

part of the road to Cercy-la-Tour, and a gentleman with him showed me

the rest.

"Had a deal of art talk with Hanoteau, also with a young sculptor called

Gautherin."

This young sculptor was poor, but energetic and courageous; he rapidly

made his way to fame, but unfortunately died too soon to reap the

benefit of his remarkable talent.

The idea of an abridged "Wenderholme" had been accepted by the author,

who had written to Messrs. Blackwood about it, and who received the

satisfactory answer that, "though they had sustained a loss with the

first publication, they thought that the reputation and popularity of

the writer having considerably increased, 'Wenderholme' would sell well

in their 'Library Series of Novels.'" In consequence the revision was

begun at once, for Roberts Brothers had also written, "Whenever you feel

inclined to take up 'Wenderholme,' we shall be glad to comply with your

demand." And there followed a new proposition in the same letter:--

"Since writing you about a new novel, we have had an inspiration, and

have already acted upon it--a series of novelettes, to be published

anonymously, the secret of authorship, for a period, to rest entirely

with the author and publisher. We shall call it the 'No Name Series,'

and issue it in neat, square 18mo volumes of about 250 pages, to sell

for one dollar.

"Those to whom we have suggested the idea are mightily pleased, and we

are even tickled with the great fun we expect to have--something like a

new experience of the 'Great Unknown' days of Sir Walter Scott. We have

several promises from well-known authors, and we all agree that you must

write one of them. Take your own time to do so, and when you send us the

'copy' we will advance £50 towards the copyright. People say it will be

impossible to keep the secret, for an author's style cannot be hidden;

but though it may be easy enough to say, 'Oh! this is Hamerton; anybody

can tell his style,' _if it is not admitted_, there will be uncertainty

enough to make it exciting, and create a demand--we hope a large one."

Although my husband had not been so well in the spring (it was the worst

time of the year for him), he decided to start for England early in June

to see the Paris Salon and the English Academy. He did not ask me to go

with him, for our daughter had had quite recently a bad attack of

bronchitis--at one time we had even feared inflammation of the

lungs--and the greatest care against the possibility of colds had been

recommended. However, he thought he would be equal to the journey, and

gave me a promise to stop whenever he felt unwell. He reached Paris all

right, did his work there, and had a kind letter from Mr. Seeley, who

said:--

"I was greatly pleased to receive your card this morning, and learn that

you had had a successful journey. Now you will certainly come and see

me, won't you? Brunet-Debaines is here, and will remain till the end of

next week. If you are with us then, we will get him to Kingston, and

have a day on the Thames together, and all of us shall make sketches."

It was very tempting. But the next news was not so good, and Mr. Seeley

wrote again:--

"If you have lost your appetite in a big town the remedy is plain. Come

to Kingston at once. You will not be much troubled with noise there, and

you can paddle about on the river and get hungry, or go flying madly

about on a bicycle, if you have kept up the practice. There is a big

bedroom empty, and waiting for you."

The journey was resumed as far as Amiens, but the enemy proved too

strong to be overcome by courage and resolution, and after resting two

days my husband came back home by easy stages, having only told me the

truth after leaving Amiens, to prevent my going to him at any cost. He

reached La Tuilerie on the first of July, and I see in the diary:

"Rested at home. Very glad to be there." The attempt was not attended by

any lasting bad effects; he immediately regained his appetite and usual

health; but his Aunt Susan was sorely disappointed. He tried to soothe

her by explaining what he believed to be the combined causes of his

breakdown: first the intense heat, which had made his stay in Paris very

trying; the fatigue he had undergone there; and lastly the weakness

supervening after the loss of appetite, also due to the abnormal heat,

which was causing several sunstrokes every day, even in England. He

announced his intention of making another attempt with me in the autumn,

when the chances would be more in his favor.

Since the beginning of the year the study of painting had become

predominant, and had necessitated rather a heavy outlay, because

Gilbert's schemes were always so elaborate and complex--drawing-boards

of different sizes, every one of them with a tin cover painted and

varnished; some for water-colors, others for charcoals; canvases for

oils and monochromes, wooden and porcelain palettes, pastilles, tubes,

portable easels, sunshades, knapsacks, stools, brushes, block-books,

papers for water-colors and chalk studies, tinted and white, numberless

portfolios to class the studies, and--a gig, to carry the paraphernalia

to greater distances and in less time than the four-wheeled carriage

required. I was against the gig, but the boys were of course delighted,

and declared with their father that it had become "absolutely

necessary."

I see in the diary: "July 30, 1876. In the evening went to Autun on

Cocote; enjoyed the ride considerably. Brought back the gig. Wife

sulky." The expenses of the year had been very heavy, owing to several

causes; first some house repairs had become inevitable, and the landlord

offering us only the option of doing them at our own cost or leaving the

house, we had to order them. The roofs were in such a state that in

stormy weather we had our ceilings and wall-papers drenched with

rain-water, and indeed it had even begun to make its way _through_ the

ceilings into the inhabited rooms. The diary for March 12, 1876, says:

"A very stormy day, the wildest of the whole year. We arranged the tents

(Stephen and I) in the attic, to prevent the rain from coming into our

bedroom." Then there had been boats made for the boys (cheap boats, it

is true, made by common joiners). They were well deserved, I

acknowledge; the boys had had each an accessit at the "Concours

Académique," and both were mentioned with praise by the Sous-Préfet at

the public distribution of prizes. Besides, what was still more

important, Stephen had successfully passed his examination for the

"Baccalauréat." Lastly, there had been an expensive and unproductive

journey, and there was the prospect of another. All this in the same

year somewhat alarmed me. The gig was not an important concern, being

made, like the four-wheeled carriage, from designs of my husband's, by

ordinary wheelwrights and blacksmiths; but though admitting its

usefulness, and even desirableness, I thought we might have done without

it.

In the beginning of August my husband told me the plan of "Marmorne"

(for the "No Name Series"), and I had been afraid that it would be too

melodramatic; however, I was charmed when he read me the beginning, and

my fears were soon dispelled by the strength and simplicity of the

narrative.

On October 4 we started for England, leaving my mother in charge of the

house and children; we stopped at Fontainebleau in the morning, and

after _déjeuner_ visited the forest pretty thoroughly in a carriage.

After dinner we went on to Paris, where we stayed only four days for

fear of its effects, and proceeded to Calais by a night-train. Luckily

for Gilbert, he could sleep very well in a railway carriage, and

sea-sickness was unknown to him. We crossed in the "Castalia," in very

rough weather indeed, the waves jumping over the deck, and covering

everything there with foam; at one time there came a huge one dashing

just against my husband's block as he was sketching, and drenched him

from head to foot. However, he took a warm bath at Dover, changed his

clothes, and felt only the better for the passage.

Mr. Seeley's house was reached at midnight, and very happy was Mr.

Hamerton to meet his friend again, and to be once more in England after

an enforced absence of seven years. On the morrow our kind host and

hostess took us to Hampton Court Palace, thence to Richmond Park by

Twickenham, and altogether made us pass a most pleasant day. The

following day was reserved for the National Gallery, and I find this

note in the diary: "I was delighted to see the Turner collection again,

and greatly struck by the luminous quality of the late works. This could

not possibly have been got without the white grounds."

On the Sunday we went to Balham to dine early with Mr. and Mrs.

Macmillan, and met Mr. Ralston and Mr. Green, the historian. It was

noted as a very interesting day by my husband.

On the sixth day we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Seeley, and took a

night-train for Peterborough, where we visited the cathedral and town to

await the dusk; then on to Doncaster and Knottingly. From Knottingly we

did not see clearly how to reach Featherstone, and were greatly

embarrassed, when a coachman, who had just driven his master to the

station, foresaw the possibility of a handsome tip, and offered to take

us--without luggage--in his trap. It was pitch dark, he had no lamps,

the road was all ruts, and the horse flew along like mad. We only held

to our seats--or rather kept resuming them, in a succession of bumps,

now on one side, now on the other, and up in the air--by grasping the

sides of the trap with all our might, till a sudden stop nearly threw us

all out; at any rate it did throw us in a heap over each other at the

bottom of the trap--unhurt. It was with a sense of immense relief that

we plodded the rest of our way to the vicarage, where we arrived at

eleven. The diary says: "October 17, 1876. Saw my Aunt Susan again for

the first time since 1869, at which time I hardly hoped ever to see her

again."

It was a great comfort to Gilbert to witness the affectionate care taken

of his aunt by her niece, Annie Hinde, and her brother Ben, with whom

she lived. He had always entertained a great liking for these cousins,

but it was increased during his stay at the vicarage by their hospitable

and friendly ways, and by his gratitude for their having given to his

dear relative as much of peaceful satisfaction as it was in their power

to do. Miss Susan Hamerton was aged, no doubt, but she was still able to

do everything for herself, and to occupy her time usefully in

housekeeping, sewing, reading, writing, and going out. She still

retained her strong will, and manifested it in a way which nearly

destroyed all the pleasure of the meeting with her nephew--and would

have done so, had he not yielded to it by consenting to a transfer of

bank-shares (in his favor) which involved great liabilities. She would

not listen to an explanation of the risk, and considered it ungracious

to look the gift-horse in the mouth. "It had been a capital investment,"

she said, and she remained absolutely opposed to the sale of the shares.

Her nephew had to accept the gift as it was--so that instead of

relieving anxiety it created a new one. However, having come to give her

a little of the sunshine of happiness, he decided not to let it be

clouded over. We stayed a month in happy and cordial intercourse, my

husband spending the intervals of work in long talks and walks with his

aunt, and when the time for our departure arrived, the sadness of

parting was soothed by the hope of meeting again, now that Gilbert

seemed to have recovered the power of travelling.

On our return to London we lunched with Mr. Seymour Haden, who took

my husband to the room in which he kept his collections, where they

had a long talk on art matters, and where he gave him a proof of the

"Agamemnon," whilst I was having a chat over family interests, children,

and music with Mrs. Haden.

In the afternoon we called upon George Eliot and Mr. Lewes, who were

very friendly indeed. I was greatly struck by George Eliot's memory, for

she remembered everything I had told her--seven years ago--about our

rustic life, and her first question was, "Are your children well, and do

you still drive them to college in a donkey-chaise?" She was gravely

sympathetic in alluding to the cause of our long absence from London,

and when I said how great was my husband's satisfaction in being there

again, she seized both of my hands softly in hers, and asked in the low

modulations of her rich voice, "Is there no gap?" ... "Thank God!" I

answered, "there is none." Then she let go my hands, and smiling as if

relieved she said, "Let us talk over the past years since you came;" and

then she told me of the growing interest manifested by the "thinking

world" in the works of my husband. "We are all marvelling at the

_maturity_ of talent in one so young still, and look forward hopefully

for what he may achieve."

The day after we saw Mr. Calderon in his studio, painting two beautiful

decorative pictures; there was a garland of flowers in one of them--the

freshness of their coloring was admirable. We missed Mr. Woolner, who

was out, and thence went to Mr. Macmillan's place of business, and with

him to Knapdale, where we dined and stayed all night.

As soon as dessert had been put on the table, Mrs. Macmillan begged to

be excused for a short time, as she wished to see that Mr. Freeman (who

was on a visit, but not well enough to come down) had been made

comfortable. On hearing of Mr. Freeman's presence at Knapdale, my

husband expressed his regrets at not being able to see him, and these

regrets were kindly conveyed to the invalid by Mrs. Macmillan, who

brought back his request to Mr. Hamerton for a visit in his bedroom.

I heard with satisfaction that Mr. Freeman had been very cordial, and

had shown no trace of resentment at what had passed at a former meeting

at Mr. Macmillan's house. The conversation had then turned on Ireland,

and Mr. Macmillan was, like my husband, for granting autonomy. This set

Mr. Freeman growling at the use of a Greek word, and he exclaimed, "Why

can't you speak English and say Home Rule, instead of using Greek, which

you don't know!" My husband flushed with anger, and recalled the

irritable historian--not without severity--to a proper sense of the

respect due to their host, at the same time paying a tribute to Mr.

Macmillan's remarkable abilities. Later in the evening the word "gout"

was mentioned. "There again," Mr. Freeman exclaimed, "why can't we call

it toe-woe!" But this was said in a joke, and accompanied with a laugh.

Wherever we went, we heard praises of the "Portfolio." Throughout his

life Mr. Hamerton remained, not only on good terms, but on friendly

terms with every one of his publishers; and whenever he went to London

he looked forward with great pleasure to meeting them in succession.

There were, of course, different degrees of intimacy, but the

intercourse was never other than agreeable.

For many years he had wished to know Mr. Samuel Palmer personally, and

the wish was reciprocated. Now an opportunity presented itself, and one

afternoon saw us climbing Redhill in pleasant anticipation; but when

after admiring the view we rang the bell of the artist's secluded abode,

we were told that Mr. Palmer had been very ill lately, was still keeping

his bed, and could see no one. It was a great disappointment, and some

words to this effect were written on a card and sent up to the invalid.

Soon after Mrs. Palmer came down and feelingly expressed her husband's

sincere regrets; she told us of his illness, which had left him very

weak and liable to relapses, and of the pleasure he would have derived

from a long talk with Mr. Hamerton on artistic topics. We had been shown

into the dining-room, which evidently, for the present, was not used,

though it was warmed by a good fire, but darkened by the blinds being

down and the curtains drawn. The rays of a golden sunset diffused

through the apertures a strange and mysterious glow, which suddenly

seemed to surround and envelope an apparition, standing half visible on

the threshold of the noiselessly opened door. A remarkably expressive

head emerged from a bundle of shawls, which moved forward with feeble

and tottering steps--it was Mr. Palmer. His wife could not trust her

eyes, but as soon as she became convinced of the reality of his

presence, she hastened to make him comfortable in an arm-chair by the

fire, and to arrange the shawls over his head and knees with the most

touching solicitude. "I could not resist it," he pleaded; "I have looked

forward to this meeting with so much longing." His eyes sparkled, his

countenance became animated, and regardless of his wraps, he accompanied

his fluent talk with eloquent gestures--to the despair of his wife, who

had enough to do in replacing cap and rugs. He put all his soul and

energy (and now there was no lack of it) into his speech. The art-talk

kindled all the fire of enthusiasm within him, and he told us anecdotes

of Turner and Blake, and held us for a long time fascinated with the

charm of his conversation. He could listen too, and with so vivid an

interest and sympathy that his mere looks were an encouragement. My

husband was afraid of detaining him, but he declared he felt quite well

and strong--"the visiting angels had put to flight the lurking enemy;"

he had even an appetite, which he would satisfy in our company. Nothing

loath, we sat down to an excellent tea with delicious butter and

new-laid eggs, with the impression of sharing the life of elves, and of

being entertained by a genie at the head of the table and served by a

kind fairy. This feeling originated no doubt in the small stature of Mr.

and Mrs. Palmer; in the strange effect of light under which our host

first appeared to us, and lastly in the noiseless promptitude with which

the repast was spread on the table, whilst the darkness of the room gave

way to brightness, just as happens in fairytales.

It is curious that my husband and myself should have received exactly

the same impression, and a lasting one.

The journey to Paris was resumed by slow night-trains without

disturbance to his health, and the day after his arrival he had a long

talk about etching with M. Leopold Flameng, who encouraged my husband's

attempts, and even offered to correct his defective plates rather than

see them destroyed; but this was declined, though the valuable advice

was gratefully accepted. M. Flameng looked very happy; he was in full

success, very industrious, and fond of his art; married to a devoted

wife of simple tastes, and already able to discern and foster in his son

the artistic tendencies which have made him celebrated since. They were

a very cheerful and united family. Two days after we had _déjeuner_ with

M. Rajon. Of all the French etchers who, from time to time, went to

London for the "Portfolio," I believe M. Rajon was the one best known in

English society, where his liveliness and amiability, as well as his

great talent, found appreciators.

Like almost every other artist, he did not attach so much importance to

what he could do well, as to what he could never master. His ambition

was to become a celebrated painter, but his pictures gave little hope of

it; they were heavy and dull in color, and entirely devoid of the charm

he lent to his etchings. He showed himself very grateful for what Mr.

Hamerton had done for his reputation. Accidentally, as he was admiring

the design of some very simple earrings I wore, I said that I did not

care so much for jewels as for lace, on which he answered he was

extremely fond of both--on women--and invited me to go and see a

collection of old laces he was forming. I was obliged to decline, for

our time was running short; but he made us promise to pay a long visit

to his studio during our next sojourn in Paris.

We reached home safely, and found my mother and the children all well.

There had been a great step made in the possibility of travelling this

year, though it had been attended by many returns of anxiety and

nervousness; still, it was a not inconsiderable gain to know that in

case a journey became absolutely necessary it might be achieved, and our

stay in London and Paris had been of importance in allowing my husband

to study seriously in the public galleries.

Mr. Powers had been delighted to receive his long-delayed pictures, and

wrote his thanks in terms of enthusiasm; he said that many people had

been admiring them, and that a well-known painter had exclaimed, "Now I

swear by Hamerton." About the growing popularity he wrote: "As I said

before, you win the hearts of men, and your name is now a household word

in many quarters of this country." It was exactly, in almost identical

words, what Roberts Brothers had already written. And this was true not

only in America, for many English letters echoed it.

"Round my House" was very well received. There was an important and

favorable review in the "Times," and one in the "Débats" by Taine.

In the beginning of the year Gilbert had undertaken the painting and

decoration of the staircase and lobby, which occasioned a great amount

of labor and fatigue, and interfered with his other work. He gave it up

at my entreaty, and only directed the painter, being thus enabled to

devote more time to the articles on "Drawing" in preparation for Messrs.

Black's new edition of the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," which were

finished in February.

Soon after he told me of a plan for a new book, the title of which he

meant to be "Human Intercourse," and which would require a large number

of memoranda. We all liked the idea in the family circle when it was

explained, and he began immediately to gather materials. At the same

time he continued his readings for the biographies of remarkable

Frenchmen, and he contemplated the task with deep interest and

earnestness. The year 1877, which had begun so auspiciously, had in

store for my husband one of the lasting sorrows of his life. On the

morning of March 11 he received a telegram announcing the death of his

beloved sister-in-law, Caroline Pelletier, who had died at Algiers of

meningitis, leaving three young children to the care of their desolate.

father. It was a heavy blow, an irreparable loss. She had been like both

a daughter and sister, and her affection had always been very sweet to

him. The shock was so great that his health suffered in consequence, and

the nervousness reappeared. It was of Caroline he was thinking when he

wrote in "Human Intercourse" this passage about a wife's relatives:

"They may even in course of time win such a place in one's affection

that if they are taken away by Death they will leave a great void and an

enduring sorrow. I write these lines from a sweet and sad experience.

Only a poet can write of these sorrows. In prose one cannot sing,--

"'A dirge for her the doubly dead, in that she died so young.'"

M. Pelletier still continued with his children to spend the vacations at

La Tuilerie, but the joy fulness of these holidays was now replaced by

sorrow and regrets; the evenings were particularly trying, for of late

years they had been very merry. Our children having taken a great fancy

to acting charades, we all took part in them by turns. Their Aunt

Caroline and their father were the stars of the company, and to this day

they recollect her irresistible sprightliness as a coquettish French

kitchen-maid attempting the conquest of their father, in the character

of the typical Englishman of French caricatures. She smiled, curtsied,

and whirled about him, handling her brass pans so daintily, tossing them

so dexterously, that the bewildered and dazzled islander could not

resist the enchantress, and joined enthusiastically in the chorus of the

song she had improvised,--

"La femme que l'on préfére

C'est toujours la cuisiniére,"

while she played the accompaniment with a wooden spoon upon the lids of

the pans.

Her brother-in-law achieved unqualified success in the part of the

Englishman. He had kept on purpose an immense chimney-pot hat and a

tartan plaid which he used to perfection, and his "Oh's!" and "Ah's!"

were of such ludicrous prolongation, and his gait so stiff, and his

comical blunders delivered with so much of haughty assurance, that he

"brought down the house."

It was seldom that my husband consented to take an active part in games:

he generally preferred being a spectator; but whether acting or

listening, charades were one of the few pastimes for which he had a

taste,--it seems the more strange since he did not care for the theatre,

though he liked plays to be read to him. I suppose that the feeling of

being penned in a crowded place was insupportable to him.

After the death of my sister, some years had to elapse before we could

bear to see charades again.

On May 25 my husband had the pleasure of bringing home from the railway

station Mr. Appleton, editor of the "Academy," for whom he had a great

regard. His notes say:--

"We passed a very pleasant evening, and did not go to bed till after

twelve.

"26th. Walked with Mr. Appleton to Pré-Charmoy in the morning. In the

afternoon took him to Autun and showed him the Roman arches, the Gothic

walls, the cathedral, the Chemin des Tours, etc., etc. A very pleasant

day. We got home in time for dinner, found the boys at home, and talked

till one in the morning.

"27th. Took Mr. Appleton to the railway in the morning, with regrets,

and a certain sadness on account of his health."

Mr. Appleton was on his way to Egypt by his doctor's advice. He was

singularly amiable and sympathetic. He thought, and said simply, that

very likely he had not long to live, and dared not marry on that

account, though he often felt solitary. He suffered from asthma, and

could only sleep with the windows of his bedroom wide open, and a bright

wood fire burning in the chimney.

He had promised to pay us another visit if he were spared, but alas! we

never saw him again.

As the biographies advanced, the author grew uncertain about the title

he would give them. It could not be "Celebrated Frenchmen," because some

of them would not exactly answer to the qualification. He had thought of

"Earnest Frenchmen," but Mr. Seeley objected, and said, "The word

'earnest' has got spoilt. It was used over and over again till it got to

sound like cant, and then people began to laugh at it. How would 'Modern

Frenchmen' do?" It was deemed a perfectly suitable title, and given to

the book.

At the end of the summer Mr. Seeley and his wife paid us a flying visit

on their way back from Switzerland. It was a great pleasure to see them

again.

Shortly after them M. Brunet-Debaines came, and I could not help

directing my husband's attention to the simplicity of his arrangements

for working from nature; a small stool, upon which was fixed a canvas or

a drawing-board, and a color-box, were all he required; however, I was

told that "wants varied with individuals."

Hitherto Mr. Hamerton's plan about painting had been to begin several

pictures at once, to allow them to dry; but now he was sick of remaining

so long over the same pieces of work, and he decided to paint only two

pictures at a time, and to use drying materials.

He had succeeded in mastering the technicality of charcoal drawing, and

had made an arrangement with the Autotype Company for the reproduction

of some drawings in this medium.

CHAPTER XIV.

1878-1880.

"Marmorne."--Paris International Exhibition.--"Modern Frenchmen."

--Candidature to the Watson Gordon Chair of Fine Arts.--The Bishop of

Antun.--The "Life of Turner."

The important literary works undertaken by Mr. Hamerton in the year 1878

were "Modern Frenchmen" and a "Life of Turner."

The artistic work remained unsatisfactory to the severe self-criticism

of the artist, who kept destroying picture after picture,

notwithstanding his serious studies and experiments in various modes and

methods of painting. He succeeded better with charcoals and monochromes,

and sent several finished subjects to be reproduced by the Autotype

Company. Mr. S. Palmer wrote about it: "If I had twenty years before me,

I should like to spend them on monochromes and _etching_."

In the same letter he went on:--

"Life being spared, your 'Marmorne,' the fame of which had already

arrived, is the next reading treat on my list. You call it your 'little

book,' a recommendation to me, for, with few exceptions, I have found

small books and small pictures the most beautiful, and I doubt not that

you know better than myself how much almost all three-volume novels

(including Scott's) would be improved, _as works of art_, by

condensation into one.

"Both yourself and Mrs. Hamerton are often mentally present with us

here: the evening of our first, and, alas! only meeting is among the

vivid pleasures of memory, and a repetition is a cherished pleasure of

_hope_. I will only add that I fear you are killing yourself with

overwork, and that you should put yourself under a repressive domestic

police."

Some time before, my husband had received from G. H. Lewes a letter with

this address: "Mr. Adolphus Segrave, care of P. G. Hamerton, Esq.,

Pré-Charmoy, Autun." George Eliot and Mr. Lewes had been reading

"Marmorne," and had never entertained the slightest doubt about the

authorship, though the book was published under the assumed name of

Adolphus Segrave. The story had been greatly appreciated by both of

them, and especially the style in which it was told. Such high praise

was in accordance with what Mr. Palmer had previously said to Mr.

Seeley; namely, that "he considered Mr. Hamerton as the first

prose-writer of his time."

It may be remembered that a cousin of my husband's, Mr. H. Milne, had

called upon us at Innistrynich, and had since bought his little

property. He heard of our last visit to Yorkshire, and, not aware of his

relative's trouble in regard to railway travelling, had felt hurt at his

apparent neglect. Luckily my husband heard of it through his Aunt Susan,

and immediately wrote to explain matters. Mr. H. Milne, who had known

all about the pecuniary situation, now answered:--

"I can assure you that it is very pleasing to me to know that your

career has been so successful as to enable you to give your sons an

education to fit them to grapple with the difficulties people have to

meet with nowadays to make them comfortable, and to do so is all the

more satisfactory when accomplished by their own exertions. My mother

[the lady who served as model and suggestion for Mrs. Ogden in

'Marmorne'] still retains unimpaired all her faculties, and looks much

the same as when you were here. We shall celebrate her eighty-sixth

birthday on March 15. She really is wonderful, and a marvel to every

one, and particularly so to her doctor, who on no occasion has ever

prevailed on her to take one drop of medicine, notwithstanding he

persists in coming to see her twice a week--for what reasons seems quite

past my mother's comprehension."

The pecuniary situation had certainly improved, which was a relief to my

husband, for his children were growing up, and losses due to non-

remunerative work and ill-health had to be gradually made good. There

seemed to be a fate adverse to his making money, even by his most

successful works. Here is "Marmorne" as an example, published in

America, in England, in France, both in Hachette's "Bibliothèque des

meilleurs Romans Étrangers," and as a feuilleton in the "Temps," also in

the Tauchnitz collection, unanimously well received by the press; said

to be "_le_ roman de l'année" by the "Revue des Deux Mondes," and still

bringing considerably less than £200 to the author's purse. It was a

great disappointment to the publishers also. Roberts Brothers wrote: "Of

'Marmorne' we have only sold 2,000 copies; there ought to have been

10,000 sold;" and Mr. Blackwood said: "The sales have been rather

disappointing to us after the attention and favorable impression the

work attracted; we had looked for a larger and more remunerative

demand."

The character of the scenery in the Autunois pleased Mr. Hamerton more

and more, though it lacked the grandeur of real mountains. He was

particularly sensitive to the beauty of its color, which reminded him

sometimes of the Scotch Highlands, and was said to be very like that of

the Roman Campagna in summer-time. Such notes as the following are

frequent in his diary:--

"January 11, 1878. Went to Fontaine la Mère; beautiful drive the whole

way. Was delighted with the Titian-like quality of the landscape. Much

of the sylvan scenery reminded me of Ruysdaël. Took five sketches."

Throughout this year my husband gave a great deal of his time to his

aunt's affairs, which were in a deplorable state, owing to the

dishonesty of her lawyers; accounts for several years past had to be

gone over, cleared up, and settled, and at so great a distance the

proceedings involved a heavy correspondence. However, the help given was

efficacious, and Miss Hamerton's independence was secured in the end. In

the summer Gilbert had to relinquish the river-baths that he enjoyed so

much. In the two preceding years he had remarked that he was often

unwell and agitated after a swim, but had kept hoping that the effect

might be transitory; it was, however, now renewed with growing intensity

every time he took a cold bath, so that, with much regret, he had to

give them up. He used to say with a shade of melancholy, that we must

resign ourselves to the gradual deprivation of all the little pleasures

of existence,--even of the most innocent ones,--but that the hardest for

him to renounce would be work.

Having borne the journey to England in 1877 without bad results to his

health, he now decided to attempt a visit to the Paris International

Exhibition. He was very anxious to ascertain the present state of the

fine arts all over the globe, and if possible to make the best of this

opportunity. On the day appointed for starting, and whilst he was

packing up, Mr. R. L. Stevenson just happened to call without previous

notice. What a bright, winning youth he was! what a delightful talker!

there was positively a sort of radiance about him, as if emanating from

his genius. We had never seen him before; we only knew his works, but he

seemed like a friend immediately. Listening to his fluent, felicitous

talk, his clear and energetic elocution, his original ideas and veins of

thought, was a rare treat, and his keen enjoyment of recovered health

and active life was really infectious. He could not remain seated, but

walked and smoked the whole of the afternoon he remained with us.

Knowing that he had lately been dangerously ill, I ventured to express

my fear that the smoking of endless cigarettes might prove injurious.

"Oh, I don't know," he said; "and yet I dare say it is; but you see,

Mrs. Hamerton, as there are only a very limited number of things

enjoyable to an individual in this world, _these_ must be enjoyed to the

utmost; and if I knew that smoking would kill me, still I would not give

it up, for I shall surely die of _something_, very likely not so

pleasant." Although the shutters were closed in all the rooms that were

not to be used in our absence, they were opened again to let him see the

etchings on the walls; for he had a fine taste, not only for the

beauties of nature, but also for artistic achievements. We felt it most

vexatious to be obliged to leave that very evening, but my husband

managed to remain with Mr. Stevenson till the last available minute, by

asking me to pack up his things for him. I remember that after reading

the "Inland Voyage" I had told my husband how I had been charmed by it,

and had begged to be given everything which came from the same pen; but

at that time we were afraid that such a delicate and refined talent

would not bring popularity to the author; happily we were

mistaken,--perhaps only to a certain extent, however,--as his most

successful works belong to a later and quite different genre.

At the recommendation of M. Rajon, we went to a quaint little hotel in

Paris, near La Muette, well known to artists and men of letters, and

patronized, for its quietness, by some of the most famous, being usually

let in apartments to persons who brought their own servants with them.

Its situation, close to the Bois de Boulogne, made our returns from the

exhibition easy and pleasant--so easy, indeed, that when we had to spend

the evening in Paris, and could find no carriage to take us there, we

merely went back to our headquarters, where we had the choice of

railway, tramways, and omnibuses for every part of Paris.

According to our promise we went to meet M. Rajon at his studio, and

amongst other things saw a beautiful portrait of him, which, however,

was so much flattered that for some time I hesitated about the likeness.

He was represented on horseback, with a long flowing cloak, and a

sombrero casting a strong shadow over one of his eyes, which was

afflicted with a weakness of the eyelid, which kept dropping down so

frequently that the pupil was seldom seen for any time; the horse was a

thoroughbred; two magnificent greyhounds (the originals we could admire,

at rest upon a raised platform of carved oak and red cushions) ran

alongside of him, and this tall-looking, dignified, romantic rider

was--little, spare, merry M. Rajon. Gossip whispered that he had been

somewhat intoxicated by his sudden fame, and had been, for a while,

desirous of showing off, so that he had brought back from England the

thoroughbred and the greyhounds to be noticed in the "Allée des

Cavaliers," but that not having been accustomed to sit a horse before,

his thoroughbred had flung him against a tree so severely that the taste

for equitation had gone out of him for ever. Be this as it may, M. Rajon

was far from being vainglorious; he knew his value as an artist, frankly

and openly enjoyed his success, but remained simple, urbane, and

courteous. He told us that he could only give _two hours_ a day to

original work, and that his mother (a simple woman for whom art remained

an incomprehensible mystery) could not admit this limitation. At that

time he was spending money rather lavishly--giving _fêtes_ in his studio

to celebrated actors and actresses, musicians, singers, poets, and

artists, and the expenses were sometimes a cause of momentary

embarrassment; then his simple mother would say: "Why need you trouble

yourself about it? You work very little--then work twice as much, which

won't tire you, and you'll have twice as much money." She could not, he

said, be made to understand that this prolonged labor would be

worthless, because the inspiring flame would be burned out.

Mr. Woolner arrived in Paris a few days after Mr. Hamerton, and they

spent a whole day together in the sculpture galleries of the Louvre. Mr.

Woolner remembered that old Madame Mohl, having read my husband's works,

had expressed a wish to renew the acquaintance of former days, and would

be glad to see us both at tea-time--any day that might suit us.

A week later we called upon the wonderfully preserved old lady, who was

delighted to receive a visit from a rising celebrity--though a host of

celebrities had passed through her drawing-room. She complained of being

_délaisée_ by the young generation. Still, she remained lively and

gracious; her quick intelligence and ready memory were unimpaired by her

great age, and it was with eagerness that she seized upon another

opportunity for narrating her treasured-up stories of renowned people,

particularly of the two Ampères, whom she had known intimately. She was

still living in the same house that they had inhabited together, when

Mr. Mohl kindly gave them the benefit of his more practical sense in

household management. Madame Mohl was rather severe about Jean Jacques

Ampère, whom she called a "young coxcomb," and "an egotist." She was not

sentimental, and had no sympathy with or pity for the love so long

faithful to Madame Récamier; nay, I thought I could detect in her

strictures the unconscious feminine jealousy of a lady whose salon had

been forsaken by one of its "lions" for a more attractive one, and who

had resented it bitterly. But André Marie Ampère she praised

unreservedly, with the warmth of most exalted admiration.

It was very funny to see the little lady curled up on a couch, propped

by cushions, running over her strings of memories with pleased alacrity,

then jumping down in her stockings to pour out tea for her guests in

utter disregard of her shoes, which lay idly by the sofa, even when we

took leave of her; and as she accompanied us to the door, the white

stockings conspicuously displayed themselves at every step, without the

slightest attempt at concealment. (At that time black stockings would

have been thought an abomination.)

Almost every morning saw Mr. Hamerton in the exhibition before the crowd

of visitors arrived, so that he was able to study in peace and

profitably. He had had a card-case, and cards of a convenient size and

thickness, made especially to take notes upon, and he devoted a separate

card to every picture worth studying. It was a very convenient plan,

with alphabetical classification for references; every time he went he

took with him a fresh supply, and was not encumbered with those he had

already filled up.

Generally some etcher met him by appointment, and together they selected

pictures to be reproduced for the "Portfolio." His evenings were mostly

taken up by invitations; and it was well for his wife that she had been

mercifully exempted by nature from jealous tendencies, for the ladies

paid the author of "Marmorne" such a tribute of admiration that he was

sometimes abashed by their fervor, yet never intoxicated. Friends had

repeatedly told him that he could win the hearts of men, and if women

dared not say as much of themselves, they let him see that he exercised

a great and healthy influence over them too; he also enjoyed their

society, and though he did not mean it to be a flattery, they accepted

it as such.

Amongst artists and men of letters he was acknowledged as a writer of

genuine worth and extensive acquirements. There is a proof of it in a

letter addressed to him by M. Véron, editor of "L'Art," on merely

_guessing_ that Mr. Hamerton must be the writer of a criticism of his

"Esthétique" in the "Saturday Review."

"PARIS, 11 9_bre_, 1878.

"CHER MONSIEUR,--On me communique une revue très remarquable de la

'Saturday Review' sur mon 'Esthétique.' Ce qui distingue cet article

c'est une sérieuse connaissance du sujet et une puissance d'analyse des

plus rares. Cela ne ressemble en rien à ces généralités vagues et

flottantes dont se contentent la plupart des écrivains qui font de la

critique dans la revue des journaux. Aussi ai-je éprouvé à être loué par

un pareil homme une jouissance infiniment plus vive que celle

qu'auraient pu me procurer des éloges beaucoup plus hyperboliques, mais

moins compétents.

"Cet homme, je suppose que c'est vous. Si je ne me trompe pas,

permettez-moi de vous dire que je me sens singulièrement heureux de me

rencontrer en fait d'esthétique avec un écrivain capable de raisonner

sur ces questions comme l'a fait l'auteur de l'article de la 'Saturday

Review.'"

More acquaintances amongst artists were made during his stay in Paris,

including Bracquemond, Protais, Feyen-Perrin, Waltner, Lhermitte, and

Munkacsy.

Having finished his work in the exhibition, my husband went home to

write a notice of it for the "International Review." In the course of

November his eldest son Stephen passed a successful examination for the

second part of the Baccalauréat-ès-Lettres, and as the boy was now to

study at home, his father frequently employed him to write letters under

his dictation. It was very good practice for Stephen, and spared his

father's time for painting and drawing.

At the beginning of 1879, Mr. R. L. Stevenson had sent a manuscript to

Mr. Hamerton, with a request that he would read it, and recommend it to

a publisher if it were thought worth the trouble. It was appreciated,

and a successful sale expected. In the interest of Mr. Stevenson, my

husband advised him to sacrifice the idea of immediate payment, and to

retain the copyright, hoping that it would prove more advantageous.

However, the young author preferred the ready cash, which he may have

been in need of; nevertheless acknowledging afterwards that it would

have been preferable to have acted according to the sound advice given

at the time.

As our daughter was fast developing a talent for music, her father felt

tempted to resume the practice of the violin regularly, and they often

played duets and sonatas together; but the difficulty--nay, the

impossibility--of finding time for the prosecution of all the studies he

had undertaken was a source of oft-recurring discouragement, because

unavoidably he had to replace one by another now and then, it being

impracticable to carry them on _de front_. Sometimes he complained,

good-humoredly, that I rather discouraged than encouraged him about

music--which was certainly true, for well knowing that to become a

violinist of any skill involves years and years of regular and steady

practice, I was adverse to this additional strain, leading to no

adequate reward. I well knew it could not be sustained, and would have

to give way to pressure from other quarters--writing, painting, etching,

or reading. The study of Italian had also been vigorously resumed, so

that in the diary I see this note regularly: "Practised Spohr and

Kreutzer, or Beethoven. Read Dante." I also find the following in April:

"Spent the greater part of the day in planning my new novel with Charles

(his brother-in-law). Worked on plan of my novel, and modified it by

talking it over with my wife," I did not like the plan, which, in my

opinion, went too much into the technicalities and details of a young

nobleman's education; I feared they might prove tedious to the reader;

in consequence there is a new entry a week later: "Improved plan of

novel with wife. Now reserve mornings exclusively for it, or it will

never be finished at all. Make this a fixed rule."

At the end of April some monochromes had been sent for reproduction, but

he was greatly disappointed with them, as may be seen by the diary:--

"May 31. Had a great deal of trouble this month about reproductions of

drawings in autotype. Dissatisfied with the reproductions of the oil

monochromes, which came coarse, with thousands of false specks of light.

The surface of a drawing should be _mate_ for autotype reproduction.

This led me to make various experiments of various kinds, and the latest

conclusion I have arrived at is something like drawing on wood; that is,

pencil or chalk, going into detail, and sustained by washes of Indian

ink, and relieved by touches of Chinese white. The whole business

hitherto has been, full of difficulties of various kinds."

"June 11. The proofs of the autotypes on white paper with brown

pigment arrived to-day. Determined to have second negatives taken

of all of them, and to repaint them on the positives."

To turn his thoughts away from his repeated disappointments in artistic

attempts, and to a greater disappointment in his novel--which he had

entirely destroyed after bestowing upon it two months of labor--Gilbert

began to scheme a boat, a river yacht. It was the best of diversions for

him, as he took as much pleasure in the planning of a boat as in the use

of it. This new one was to be a marvel of safety and speed, but

especially of convenience, for it would be made to carry several

passengers for a month's cruise, with means of taking meals on board,

and of sleeping under a tent. Of course Mr. Seeley had been informed of

the scheme, and wrote in answer: "Don't fail to send me notice when your

boat may be expected on the Thames, that I may rouse the population of

Kingston to give you an appropriate reception."

Another novel was begun, but it was still to be the story of a young

French nobleman's life, spent alternately in France and in England,

and in the manner of "Tom Jones." Meanwhile "Modern Frenchmen" was

selling pretty steadily, but slowly, the public being mostly

unacquainted with the names, though Mr. G. H. Lewes, Professor

Seeley, Mr. Lockhart, and many others, had a very high opinion

of the work. Mr. Lockhart wrote about the biography of Régnault:--

"I have by me at this moment your life of Henri Régnault. I trust you

will not consider it an impertinence if I tell you how it has delighted

me, both as a man and a painter. I have the most intense admiration for

Régnault, and in reading his biography it has rejoiced me to find the

author in such thorough sympathy with his subject. Biographies of

artists, as a rule, are the most disappointing of books to artists. This

is indeed an exception, and I most heartily congratulate you on your

very subtle and delicate picture of a noble life.

"I was in Granada with Fortuny when the news of Régnault's

death came. I shall never forget the impression it made on us all. The

fall of Paris, the surrender of Napoleon, all the misfortunes of France

were as nothing compared to this.

"When I first had the book I thought you a little unjust to Fortuny, and

was prepared to indorse Régnault's estimate of him. Since then I have

seen the thirty Fortunys at the International Exhibition, and they have

moderated my enthusiasm, and brought me back to sober orthodoxy, to

Velasquez and Rembrandt."

Mr. G. H. Lewes also wrote:--

"We left London before your book arrived, but I sent for it, and Mrs.

Lewes has been reading it aloud to me the last few evenings. It has

charmed us both, and we regret that so good a scheme, so well carried

out, should in the nature of the case be one doomed to meet with small

public response. No reader worth having can read it without interest and

profit, but _il s'agit de trouver des lecteurs_.

"My son writes in great delight with it, and I have recommended it to

the one person we have seen in our solitude; but I fear you will find the

deaf adder of a public deafer than usual to your charming. A volume of

biographies of well-known Frenchmen would have but a slender chance of

success--and a volume on the unknown would need to be spiced with

religion or politics--_et fortement épicé_--to attract more than a

reader here and there.

"We are here for five weeks in our Paradise _without_ the serpent

(symbol of visitors!); but alas! without the health which would make the

long peace one filled with work. As for me, I vegetate mostly. I get up

at six to stroll out for an hour before breakfast, leaving Madonna in

bed with Dante or Homer, and quite insensible to the attractions of

before-breakfast walks. With my cigar I get a little reading done, and

sometimes write a little; but the forenoon is usually sauntered and

pottered away. When Madonna has satisfied her inexhaustible craving for

knowledge till nearly lunch-time, we play lawn-tennis. Then drive out

for two or three hours. Music and books till dinner. After cigar and nap

she reads to me till ten, and I finish by some light work till eleven.

But I hope in a week or two to get stronger and able to work again, the

more so as 'the night in which no man can work' is fast approaching."

Mr. R. Seeley agreed with Mr. Hamerton's opinion that "Modern Frenchmen"

was one of his best works, "admirably written, full of information and

interest."

Professor Seeley had also said: "I wish English people would take an

interest in such books, but I fear they won't. There ought to be many

such books written."

Mr. G. H. Lewes suggested that the other biographies in preparation

should be published separately in some popular magazine; but the author,

having been discouraged by the coolness of the reception, gave up the

idea of a sequel to what had already appeared, and the material he had

been gathering on Augustin Thierry, General Castellane, and Arago

remained useless.

The boat in progress had been devised in view of a voyage on the Rhône,

for Mr. Hamerton, who greatly admired the noble character of the scenery

in the Rhône Valley, had longed for the opportunity of making it known

by an important illustrated work. He submitted the plan to Mr. Seeley,

who answered:--

"I like your Rhône scheme; it is a grand subject, but a book on the

Rhône should begin at the Rhône glacier and end at the Mediterranean.

Have your ideas enlarged to that extent. One cannot well omit the upper

part, which the English who travel in Switzerland know so well. The

Rhône valley is very picturesque, and the exit of the Rhône from the

Lake of Geneva is a thing never to be forgotten. But don't go there to

get drowned; it is horribly dangerous."

For various reasons--amongst others, the time required and the

outlay--the idea of the book entertained by Mr. Hamerton differed

considerably from that of Mr. Seeley; it was explained at length, and

finally accepted in these words: "I think your plan of a voyage on the

navigable Rhône, with prologue and epilogue, will do well."

This plan, however, was never realized, owing to insurmountable

obstacles; it was taken up again and again, studied, modified, and

regretfully relinquished after several years for that of the Saône, much

more practicable, but still not without its difficulties.

And now what might have been a great event in the life of Mr.

Hamerton--namely, the possibility of his election to the Watson-Gordon

Chair of Fine Arts in Edinburgh, began to occupy his mind. He was

strongly urged by his friends to come forward as a candidate, but he

hesitated a good deal for several reasons, the most important being the

necessity of two places of residence, for he would not have inflicted

upon my mother and myself the pain of absolute separation. Still, there

were, as it seemed to me, in case of success, some undeniable

advantages--first of all a fixed income, and the possibility of seeing,

in the course of the necessary journeys, what might be of interest in

London and Paris, as well as the possibility of attending more

efficaciously to the "Portfolio." Mr. Seeley, who had always endeavored

to tempt his editor over to England, declared himself delighted at the

prospect. He had formerly sent such hints as these: "I wish you had a

neat flying machine and could pop over and do the business yourself." Or

at Cowes: "I thought of you, and said to myself, how much more

reasonable it would be for Hamerton to have a snug little house here,

and a snug little sailing-boat, instead of living at that preposterous

Autun. How he would enjoy dancing over these waves, which make me sick

to look at them; and how pleasant it would be to tempt him to pay

frequent visits to Kingston! There are delightful cottages and villages

to sketch in the Isle of Wight, and charming woodland scenery in the New

Forest." Again: "When our new house is dry enough then you will be

obliged to come over. It will be better than seeing the Paris

Exhibition. And when you are once in England you will take a cottage at

Cowes, and buy a boat, and never go back to Autun."

The idea of becoming a candidate was first suggested by T. Woolner after

a journey to Edinburgh, where he had heard some names put forward for

the Watson-Gordon chair, and amongst them that of Mr. Hamerton, which

had seemed to him the most popular. On his part, he had done what he

could to strengthen this favorable opinion by spreading what he knew of

his friend, not only as an artist and cultured man of letters, but also

as a sociable conversationalist, capable of enjoying intercourse with

his fellow-men in moments of leisure, and he took care to let my husband

know that this point was of importance--the new professor being expected

to exercise hospitality, so as to create a sort of centre for the

gathering of art-lovers. He said he had heard of a good income, of light

duties, and of the almost certainty of success in case Mr. Hamerton

should present himself.

Professor Masson had also suggested to Mr. Macmillan that "many persons

in Edinburgh would like to secure the best man in Mr. Hamerton," and Mr.

Craik wrote about it: "You would be an ornament to the University, and

might do useful and important work there. For many reasons the Scotch

professorships are enviable, for this particularly--that the session is

a short one, and would require short residence. It will be pleasant for

all of us, your friends, if you go to Edinburgh, for it will compel you

to come to England and be seen."

Mr. Seeley was also of opinion that "no man ought to be wholly dependent

upon literary labor. It tries the head too much."

All the friends who were consulted by my husband answered that they

considered him perfectly adapted for the situation--apart from friendly

motives. Mr. Alfred Hunt wrote: "I would be very glad to do everything

to forward your election. I am indebted to you for a large amount of

gratification and profit which I have derived from your books; I am sure

you will allow me to say that I am often very far from agreeing with

you," etc.

R. L. Stevenson wrote:--

"Monterey, Monterey Co., California.

"My dear Mr. Hamerton,--Your letter to my father was forwarded to me by

mistake, and by mistake I opened it. The letter to myself has not yet

reached me. This must explain my own and my father's silence. I shall

write by this or next post, to the only friends I have, who, I think,

would have an influence, as they are both professors. I regret

exceedingly that I am not in Edinburgh, as I could perhaps have done

more, and I need not tell you that what I might do for you in the matter

of the election is neither from friendship nor gratitude, but because

you are the only man (I beg your pardon) worth a damn. I shall write to

a third friend, now I think of it, whose father will have great

influence.

"I find here (of all places in the world) your 'Essays on Art,' which I

have read with signal interest. I believe I shall dig an essay of my own

out of one of them, for it set me thinking; if mine could only produce

yet another in reply we could have the marrow cut between us.

"I hope, my dear sir, you will not think badly of me for my long

silence. My head has scarce been on my shoulders. I had scarce recovered

from a prolonged fit of useless ill health than I was whirled over here

double-quick time and by cheapest conveyance.

"I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still somewhat of a

massy ruin. If you would view my countenance aright, Come--view it by

the pale moonlight. But that is on the mend. I believe I have now a

distant claim to tan.

"A letter will be more than welcome in this distant clime where I have

a box at the post-office--generally, I regret to say, empty. Could your

recommendation introduce me to an American publisher? My next book I

should really try to get hold of here, as its interest is international,

and the more I am in this country, the more I understand the weight of

your influence. It is pleasant to be thus most at home abroad, above all

when the prophet is still not without honor in his own land."

Mr. W. Wyld had also written: "I need not say I heartily wish you

success--and the more so that it would have the result of my seeing you

at least twice a year, a pleasure I shall anxiously look forward to; for

the older I grow the more I yearn for that sort of communion of thought

which is scarcely ever to be met with in the ordinary way of existence

... I have no one I can discuss art with ... and as for philosophy--"

Miss Susan Hamerton also pressed her nephew to offer himself for the

chair, and indulged in bright hopes of frequent meetings.

The result was that, after a long talk with me on March 21, 1880, my

husband determined to offer himself as a candidate, and although he did

it without much enthusiasm, he began immediately to prepare himself for

the new duties that would be involved. First of all, he told me that his

knowledge of the history of art was insufficient, and would require

additional researches. His plan was to go to Greece first, then to

Italy; another year he would go to Holland and Belgium, then to Spain--I

began to be afraid of this programme, as I reflected that the income

from the professorship would hardly cover our travelling expenses, and

that very little time would be left for literary work if the lectures

required so much preparation; however, I only begged him to wait for the

result of the election before he undertook anything in view of it. He

agreed, and turned his thoughts towards the "Graphic Arts," and a new

edition of "Etching and Etchers."

In the beginning of April, Mr. Hamerton attended with his family the

wedding of Charles Gindriez, his brother-in-law, and was well pleased

with the young lady, who thus became a new member in the gatherings at

La Tuilerie.

Three days later, his elder son Stephen started for Algiers, where he

had an appointment at the Lycée.

For some time past, the two great political parties at Autun had been at

daggers drawn, and the proprietors of the Conservative paper,

"L'Autunois," had brought from Paris a skilful and unscrupulous

political writer to crush its opponents and to effect the ruin of the

rival paper, "La République du Morvan," by fair means or foul. The first

stabs dealt by the new pen were directed against notable residents, and

being a good fencer and a good shot--in fact, a sort of bravo--M.

Tremplier, the wielder of the pen, proclaimed loudly after every libel

that he was ready to maintain what he advanced at the point of the

sword, and to give a meeting to all adversaries. Unacquainted with the

real social standing of Mr. Hamerton in Autun, but knowing that he was

Président Honoraire du Cercle National, a Liberal institution patronized

by the Sous-Préfet and Republican Deputies, M. Tremplier thought it

would be a master-stroke to defame his character by accusing him of

being the author of some anonymous articles against the clergy which had

appeared in "La République du Morvan." Though greatly irritated by this

unfair attack, my husband contrived to keep his temper, and simply

denied the accusation. This denial was indorsed by the editor of the

newspaper in which the articles had been published, and the disagreeable

incident was expected to end there. But this would not have satisfied

the truculent M. Tremplier, and in the next number of his paper he

expressed in arrogant terms an utter disbelief in Mr. Hamerton's denial,

and venomously attacked him for his nationality, literary pretensions,

etc., winding up his diatribe, as usual, by a challenge. This was too

much, and my husband resolved to start for Autun immediately, and to

horsewhip the scoundrel as he deserved. Mr. Pickering, an English

artist, and friend of ours, who happened to be at La Tuilerie, offered

to assist my husband by keeping the ground clear while he administered

the punishment--for M. Tremplier, notwithstanding his bravado, deemed it

prudent to surround himself with a bevy of officers, and was seldom to

be met alone. I was strongly opposed to this course, and at last I

prevailed upon my husband to abandon it by representing that he was

being drawn into a snare, for no doubt M. Tremplier was only waiting for

the attempt at violence he had provoked to get his victim seized and

imprisoned, so as to be able ever after to stigmatize him with the

terrible phrase, "C'est un homme qui a fait de la prison." This would be

undeniable, and as people never inquire _why_ "un homme a fait de la

prison," it is as well to avoid it altogether. We agreed upon a

different policy, and resolved to prosecute the "Autunois" for libel,

and immediately set off to retain a well-known advocate, who belonged to

the Conservative party, and was said to be one of the proprietors of the

"Autunois." He knew my husband personally, and also knew that he was

incapable of having written the anonymous articles, still less capable

of telling a lie, and as we felt sure of his own honorable character, we

boldly asked him to defend a political opponent. This was putting him in

a very delicate situation, and he complained of it at once; but my

husband insisted, and said that he could not fairly shun this duty.

Vainly did this gentleman, supported by the Président du Tribunal and

other notabilities of the same party, try to dissuade Mr. Hamerton from

seeking redress, by saying that "no one attached the slightest

importance to such libels," "that he was too much above M. Tremplier to

resent anything that came from his mercenary pen," "that his character

was unimpeachable," etc. He was even warned that he had not the remotest

chance of a verdict in his favor, because he could not prove that he was

not the author of the objectionable articles. "I should have thought

that M. Tremplier would be called upon to prove that I had written

them," he answered. "Anyhow, if I can't count upon justice here, I will

appeal to the court at Dijon." Seeing that his resolution was not to be

shaken, he was asked what would satisfy him, and he answered, "An

apology from M. Tremplier in the 'Autunois.'" And M. Tremplier had to

submit to the orders of the all-powerful keepers of the purse-strings:

he did it with a bad grace--but he had to do it.

One of the articles attributed to Mr. Hamerton had been directed against

the Bishop of Autun, whom he highly esteemed, and there was much

curiosity as to the opinion of the prelate himself. That opinion was

soon publicly expressed by a visit from this dignitary of the Roman

Catholic Church to the Protestant tenant of La Tuilerie.

On receiving Monseigneur Perraud, I thanked him first for his good

opinion, of which I had never doubted, knowing him to be a reader of my

husband's works, and also because there was no fear that a man of his

culture could believe the anonymous articles to be written by the author

of the biography of l'Abbé Perreyve in "Modern Frenchmen."

Monseigneur Perraud answered that my husband's character and literary

talent were so much above question that he would never have given a

thought to this affair had it not been that the "Autunois" was often

called "Le Journal de l'Evêché," though in fact the Bishop had no more

to do with it than with its editor, M. Tremplier, whom he had never

consented to receive. But unwilling to allow the possibility of any

doubt to remain in other people's minds, he had taken this opportunity

of becoming personally acquainted with my husband, and of giving a proof

of his high regard for him.