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Philip Gilbert Hamerton

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"Sept. 30. A beautiful voyage it was. The loveliest weather, favorable
wind, strong, delightful play of light and color on water. I had not
enjoyed such boating since I left Loch Awe."

There are these notes in the diary:--

"Nov. 26. Corrected the last proof of the 'Graphic Arts,' and sent it
off with a new finish, as the other seemed too abrupt. Spent a good deal
of time over the finish, writing it twice."

"Nov. 27. Worked all day as hard as possible at index to 'Graphic Arts,'
and got it finished at midnight."

He was in time, but Mr. Seeley wrote:--

"Now Goupil's delay [about the illustrations] threatens to become most
serious. We have now orders for 1050 copies, large and small, so we have
already surpassed the sale of 'Etching and Etchers,' third edition."

Alas! there was a very distressing item of news in the letter dated
December 1:--

"The enclosed letter from Goupil is a complete upset. It seems that the
printing of the Louvre drawings [Footnote: Two drawings by Zucchero and
Watteau. The latter was in black, red, and white chalk. The reproduction
was printed from one plate, the different colored inks being rubbed in
by the printer. Only about ten prints could be taken in a day.] will
take five or six months.

"We must decide at once what to do. This is one plan. If we can get all
the other illustrations ready, then to publish as soon as we can,
putting these three plates in the large paper copies only, and in the
others a slip of paper explaining how tedious the printing is, and
promising that these illustrations shall be delivered in the spring to
any purchaser who produces the slip.

"This is one plan. If you prefer it, please telegraph _Yes_.

"The other plan is to postpone the publication, and bring out the
complete book in the spring. If you prefer this, please telegraph _No_.

"I leave the matter entirely in your hands. Pray decide as you judge
best."

This delay was most provoking after the hard work the author had given
to the book to have it out in good time, and also because the orders
were increasing; they had now reached 315 copies for the large edition,
and 868 of the small one. Still, there was no help for it, and the
publication must be postponed rather than give an imperfect book to the
public. Both author and publisher agreed in that decision.

On December 17, 1881, Mr. Hamerton received the following letter:--

"19 WARWICK CRESCENT.

"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--You will do me an honor indeed by the dedication
you propose, and my own little worthiness to receive it becomes of
secondary importance when taken with the exceeding importance of the
truth you insist upon in connection with it--a truth always plain to me,
however moderately I may have been able to illustrate its value.

"Thank you very much: you will add to my obligation by the visit you so
kindly promise.

"I return you the best of Christmas wishes, and am ever, dear Mr.
Hamerton,

"Yours most truly,

"ROBERT BROWNING."

I transcribe the dedication to explain Mr. Browning's letter.

"TO ROBERT BROWNING.

"I wish to dedicate this book to you as the representative of a class
which ought to be more numerous,--the class of large-minded persons who
take a lively interest in arts which are not specially their own. No one
who had not carefully observed the narrowing of men's minds by
specialities could believe to what a degree it goes. Instead of being
open, as yours has always been, to the influences of literature, in the
largest sense, as well as to the influences of the graphic arts and
music, the specialized mind shuts itself up in its own pursuit so
exclusively that it does not even know what is nearest to its own closed
doors. We meet with scholars who take no more account of the graphic
arts than if they did not exist, and with painters who never read; but
what is still more surprising, is the complete indifference with which
an art can be regarded by men who know and practise another not widely
removed from it. One may be a painter and yet know nothing whatever
about any kind of engraving; one may be a skilled engraver, and yet work
in lifelong misunderstanding of the rapid arts. If the specialists who
devote themselves to a single study had more of your interest in the
work of others, they might find, as you have done, that the quality
which may be called open-mindedness is far from being an impediment to
success, even in the highest and most arduous of artistic and
intellectual pursuits."

Mr. Hamerton was so adverse to puffing of any kind and to noise being
made about his name, that he neglected the most honest means of having
it brought forward to public notice; for instance, he had been asked in
November, 1881, for notes on his life for a book to be entitled "The
Victorian Era of English Literature," and had forgotten all about it. He
had to be reminded in 1882 that he had promised to send the notes.

I suppose that the following letter from R. L. Stevenson must have been
received about this time. It is almost impossible to ascertain, as--like
the others--it bears no date.

"VILLA AM STEIN, DAVOS PLATZ, GRISONS, SWITZERLAND.

"MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--My conscience has long been smiting me, till it
became nearly chronic. My excuses, however, are many and not pleasant.
Almost immediately after I last wrote to you, I had a hemorreage (I
can't spell it), was badly treated by a doctor in the country, and have
been a long while picking up--still, in fact, have much to desire on
that side. Next, as soon as I got here, my wife took ill; she is, I
fear, seriously so; and this combination of two invalids very much
depresses both.

"I have a volume of republished essays coming out with Chatto and
Windus; I wish they would come, that my wife might have the reviews to
divert her. Otherwise my news is nil. I am up here in a little chalet,
on the borders of a pine-wood, overlooking a great part of the Davos
Thai: a beautiful scene at night, with the moon upon the snowy mountains
and the lights warmly shining in the village. J. A. Symonds is next door
to me, just at the foot of my Hill Difficulty (this you will please
regard as the House Beautiful), and his society is my great stand-by.

"Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? 'Hardly one of us,'
said my _confrères_ at the bar.

"I was blamed by a common friend for asking you to give me a
testimonial: in the circumstances he thought it was indelicate. Lest, by
some calamity, you should ever have felt the same way, I must say in two
words how the matter appeared to me. That silly story of the election
altered in no tittle the value of your testimony: so much for that. On
the other hand, it led me to take a quite particular pleasure in asking
you to give it; and so much for the other. I trust even if you cannot
share it, you will understand my view.

"I am in treaty with Bentley for a life of Hazlitt; I hope it will not
fall through, as I love the subject, and appear to have found a
publisher who loves it also. That, I think, makes things more pleasant.
You know I am a fervent Hazlittite; I mean, regarding him as _the_
English writer who has had the scantiest justice. Besides which, I am
anxious to write biography; really, if I understand myself in quest of
profit, I think it must be good to live with another man from birth to
death. You have tried it and know.

"How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your
son, and believe me,

"Yours very sincerely,

"ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."

Throughout this year the diary was kept in Italian, and the reading of
Italian books was pretty regularly kept up; among them were Olanda,
Petrarch, and Ariosto. He soon abandoned Petrarch, whom he did not value
much; here is the reason: "I prefer the clear movement of Ariosto to all
the conceits of the sonnet-maker."

"Human Intercourse" was begun, and to save time, two copies were written
simultaneously--one for England and the other for America--by inserting
a sheet of black copying paper between two sheets of thin "Field and
Tuer" paper, and writing with a hard lead pencil and sufficient pressure
to obtain a duplicate on the page placed underneath. Roberts Brothers
were very desirous of seeing this new work, and had written: "We should
like to make 'Human Intercourse' a companion volume to the 'Intellectual
Life,' and the title is so suggestive of something good that we hope you
will hasten the good time of its appearance."

The publication of the "Graphic Arts" had been fixed for March 1, but a
copy having been got ready at the end of January, it was sent as a
compliment to Mr. Sagar of the Burnley Mechanics' Institution, and Mr.
Seeley said: "The Burnley people are delighted at having had the first
sight of the 'Graphic Arts.' Mr. Sagar writes that from what he saw of
it, he has no hesitation in saying that it is the best book you have
written, and does great credit to everybody concerned in its
production."

The book was highly appreciated by those competent to judge and
understand the subjects. Mr. Haden wrote about it a letter of fourteen
pages. Though he calls it himself "an unconscionably long letter," it is
most interesting throughout, but I only quote a few passages from it.

"I have been reading the 'Graphic Arts' with great interest. It is, or
rather must have been, a formidable undertaking. I like your chapter on
'Useful and Aesthetic Drawing.' Your insistence on keeping the two
things separate, and claiming for each its value, is a great
lesson--read, too, just at the right time.

"And in your 'Drawing for Artistic Pleasure,' the great lesson there is,
that true artistic pleasure can only be excited in others by the artist
that _knows_ what he is about, though he does not express it. Did you
ever see a drawing or an etching by Victor Hugo? Hugo is a poet, and
affects to be an artist. But his knowledge of what is or should be
_organic_, in every picture, is so lamentably absent, that his poetry
(sought to be imparted in that shape) goes for nothing.

"In 'Right and Wrong in Drawing,' which is excellently written, the
concluding paragraph is admirable. The chapter on 'Etching and
Dry-Point' is charmingly written, easy and refined in diction, and set
down _con amore_."

Then came this letter from Mr. Browning:--

"19 WARWICK CRESCENT, W. _March_ 6, 1882.

"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--I thought your dedication a great honor to me, and
should have counted it such had it simply prefaced a pamphlet. To
connect it with this magnificent book is indeed engraving my name on a
jewel, instead of stone or even marble.

"Your sumptuous present reached me two days ago--and will be consigned
to 'my library,' when the best jewel I boast of is disposed of on my
dressing-table among articles proper to the place: no, indeed--it shall
be encased as a jewel should, on a desk for all to see how the author
has chosen to illustrate the [painting- and] drawing-room of the
author's admirer and (dares he add?) friend,

"ROBERT BROWNING."

Mr. Alfred Hunt also wrote: "I can see that the plan of the book is
admirable. I often want to know something about art processes which I
don't practise myself, and which I might be stimulated into trying if I
was only younger."

The sale of the book was rapid, and before six weeks had elapsed so few
copies remained that the prices were raised to fifteen guineas for the
large edition, and to seven and a half guineas for the small one. But
the author had overworked himself, and hurry had brought back the old
enemy--insomnia. Mr. Seeley, who had lately suffered from lumbago,
wrote:--

"Sleeplessness is a far worse thing than lumbago. You are right in
taking it seriously. I have little doubt, however, that by avoiding
overwork--and especially hurried work--and getting plenty of exercise,
you will overcome the tendency. If you ever do another big book, we must
take two or three years for it, and have no sort of hurry. I once
thought of the 'Landscape Painters' as a good subject for a big book."

In a subsequent letter Mr. Seeley gives a great deal of thoughtful
consideration to what might suit his friend's requirements:--

"If 'Landscape Painting' is a subject that you would thoroughly like to
take up, please tell me what travelling you would consider needful, and
as far as expense goes I will try to meet you. Perhaps for one thing we
might go to Italy together, if you are not afraid of being dragged about
in a chain.

"I thought of the Rhône book again, as likely to suit your present state
of health."

In the current year, however, it was impossible to undertake the voyage,
because "Human Intercourse" was to be the important work. As usual with
a new book, the author had had a struggle at the beginning. He
attributed the difficulty to the want of subdivisions in the chapters,
and when he had adopted a more elastic system than is usual in a
treatise, the obstacle disappeared. He has himself explained this, more
in detail, to his readers, in the preface of the book.

There is no doubt that this long struggle had increased the tendency to
sleeplessness, and a little cruise on the Saône was thought to be the
best remedy. So he left for Mâcon at the beginning of April, and after
putting the several parts of the boat together, and getting provisions
on board, he started with Stephen on a voyage down the Saône. On their
way they could see with a telescope all the details of Mont Blanc. At
Port d'Arciat they picked up a friend, and after a "good little repast
with a Good Friday _matelote_," a few sketches were made at Thoissey and
Beauregard.

The change and exercise in the open air did my husband a great deal of
good, and he had regained sleep when he returned home.

There being still a good deal of leakage in the "Morvandelle," though a
thick kind of flannel had been pressed into the interstices, it was
decided to use the wooden parts to make two small boats for the pond,
one for Stephen and the other for Richard, the old ones being rotten.
There was much pleasurable planning for my husband in the scheme, and
also some manual work for rainy weather. He was exceedingly careful and
handy in doing joiner's work, and every one in the house applied to him
for delicate repairs, and--when he had time--they were done to
perfection; only, he seldom had time, and it was a standing joke that he
must have a private museum somewhere to which the objects confided to
him found their way. In reality, he had to do a good deal of manual
labor of different kinds, on account of our country life, which placed
us at an inconvenient distance from workmen. For instance, he always
framed his etchings and engravings himself; at one time he even
undertook to re-gild all the frames which the flies so rapidly spoilt in
the country. He had also to make numerous packing-cases and boxes for
the sending of plates, pictures, and books; he invented lots of
contrivances for the arrangement of his colors, brushes, portfolios,
etc. He made different portable easels with folding stools corresponding
to their size, for working from nature, desks for large books, such as
dictionaries, to be placed by the side of his arm-chair when he was
reading; others for etchings and engravings, so that they might be
examined without fear of any object coming in contact with them. So
sensitive was he to the way in which works of art were handled, that he
allowed no one to touch his prints or illustrated books; he was always
in dread about their margins being creased or crumpled, and to avoid
this possibility he used to show them himself. A well-known aqua-fortist
told me that my husband had said to him once, "I would not trust you to
handle one of your own etchings."

Mr. Seeley had suggested that some illustrated articles about Autun
might interest the readers of the "Portfolio" on account of the Roman
and mediaeval remains, the remarkable cathedral, and the picturesque
character of the surrounding country. He thought that, as a title, "An
Old Burgundian City" would do. In a former letter he had expressed a
wish that his editor should come to England--if possible--every year in
the spring, instead of the autumn, when it was too late to discuss
arrangements for the "Portfolio" for the ensuing year. Mr. Hamerton
admitted that it would be desirable, no doubt, but he could not afford
it; the expenses of our last stay had been a warning, though we had
lived as simply as possible. To these considerations Mr. Seeley had
answered: "I am sorry you do not feel more happy about your future work.
What seems to be wanting is some public post in which you would be paid
for studying." But he had had more than enough of such schemes after his
attempt at Edinburgh, and it was the only one he was ever induced to
make. He began at once the pen-drawings which were to illustrate the
articles on Autun, and he liked his work exceedingly.




CHAPTER XVI.


1882-1884.

"Paris."--Miss Susan Hamerton's Death.--Burnley revisited.--Hellifield
Peel.--"Landscape" planned.--Voyage to Marseilles.

In May, Richard went away to Paris to study from the antique in the
Louvre, and Mary read English to her father for an hour every afternoon.

In the summer Mr. Hamerton received the decoration and title of Officier
d'Académie, but so little did he care for public marks of distinction
that the fact is barely mentioned in the diary.

In August he received the following interesting letter from Mr.
Browning:--

"HOTEL VIRARD, ST. PIERRE DE CHARTREUSE ISÈRS.

"_August_ 17, 1882.

"DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--When I got, a month ago, your very pleasant letter,
I felt that, full as it was of influences from Autun, the Saône between
Chalon and Lyons, speeded by '330 square feet of canvas,' my little word
of thanks in reply would never get well under weigh from the banks of
our sluggish canal; so reserved launching it till I should reach this
point of vantage: and now, forth with it, that, wherever it may find
you, I may assure your kindness that it would indeed have gratified me
to see you, had circumstances enabled you to come my way; and that the
amends you promise for failing to do so will be duly counted upon; tho'
whether that will happen at Warwick Crescent is unlikely rather than
merely uncertain--since the Bill which is to abolish my house, among
many more notable erections, has 'passed the Lords'' a fortnight ago,
and I must look about for another lodging--much against my will. I
dropped into it with all the indifference possible, some twenty-one
years ago--meaning to slip out again soon as this happened, and that
happened--and they all did happen, and yet found me with a sufficient
reason for staying longer, till, only last year while abroad, the
extraordinary thought occurred--'what need of removing at all?'--to
which was no answer: so I took certain steps toward permanent comfort,
which never before seemed worth taking--and, on my return, was saluted
by a notice to the effect that a Railway Company wanted my 'House,
forecourt, and garden,' and wished to know if I objected--I who, a month
or two before, had painted the house and improved the garden. Go I
must--but I shall endeavor to go somewhere near, and your visit, if you
pay me one, will begin the good associations with the place. And _this_
place; you may be acquainted with it, not unlikely. It is a hamlet on a
hilltop, surrounded by mountains covered with fir--being the ancient
Cartusia whence our neighbors the monks took their name; the Great
Chartreuse lies close by, an hour's walk perhaps: this hamlet is in
their district, 'the Desert,' as they call it; their walks are confined
to it, and you meet on a certain day a procession of white-clothed
shavelings, absolved from their vow of silence, and chattering like
magpies, while vigorously engaged in butterfly-hunting. We have not a
single shop in the whole handful of houses--excepting the 'tabac et
timbres' establishment--where jalap and lollipops are sold likewise--and
one hovel, the owner of which calls himself, on its outside,
'Cordonnier': yet there is this 'Hôtel' and an auberge or two--serving
to house travellers who are dismissed from the Convent at times
inconvenient for reaching Grenoble; or so I suppose.

"The beauty and quiet of the scenery, the purity of the air, the variety
of the wild-flowers--these are incomparable in our eyes (those of my
sister and myself), and make all roughnesses smooth: we spent five weeks
here last season; will do the like now, and then are bound for Ischia,
where a friend entertains us for a month in a seaside villa he inhabits:
afterwards to London, with what appetite we may, though London has its
abundant worth too. Utterly peaceful as this country appears--and you
may walk in its main roads for hours without meeting any one but a
herdsman or wood-cutter--I shall tell you a little experience I have had
of its possibilities. On the last day of our sojourn last year, we took
a final look at and leave of a valley, a few miles off; and as I stood
thinking of the utter _innocency_ of the little spot and its
surroundings, the odd fancy entered my head, 'Suppose you discovered a
corpse in this solitude, would you think it your duty to go and apprise
the authorities, incurring all the risks and certain hindrance to to-
morrow's departure which such an act entails in France--or would you
simply hold your tongue?' And I concluded, 'I ought to run those risks.'
Well, that night a man was found murdered, just there where I had been
looking down, and the owner of the field was at once arrested and shut
up in the _Mairie_ of the village of St. Pierre d'Entremont, close by.
The victim was an Italian mason, had received seven mortal wounds, and
lay in a potato-patch with a sack containing potatoes: 'he had probably
been caught stealing these by the owner, who had killed him,'--so, the
owner was taken into custody. We heard this--and were inconvenienced
enough by it next day, for our journey was delayed by the Judge
(d'Instruction) from Grenoble possessing himself of the mule which was
to carry our luggage, in order to report on the spot; but we got away at
last. On returning, last week, I inquired about the result. 'The accused
man, who was plainly innocent, being altogether _boulversé_ by the
charge coming upon him just in his distress at losing a daughter a
fortnight before, had taken advantage of the negligence of the gendarmes
to throw himself from the window. He survived three hours, protesting
his innocence to the last, which was confirmed by good evidence: the
likelihood being that the murder had been committed by the Italian's
companions at a little distance, and the body carried thro' the woods
and laid there to divert suspicions.' Well might my genius warn me of
the danger of being a victim's neighbor. But how I have victimized
_you_, if you have borne with me! Forgive, and believe me ever,

"Yours truly,

"ROBERT BROWNING."

Mr. Seeley had thought that a series of articles on Paris might be
suitable for the "Portfolio," if they were written by the editor, who
knew the beautiful city so well, and accordingly my husband had decided
to go there for a month, in order to take notes and to choose subjects
for the illustrations. He never could have been reconciled to the idea
of remaining a month in Paris alone, and I bethought myself of a plan,
which seemed both economical and pleasant, and which he readily adopted.
It was to take Mary with us, and to rent a small apartment in our quiet
Hôtel de la Muette; having our meals prepared in our private kitchen
(for each apartment was complete), and the cleaning done with the help
of a _femme de ménage_. It would be a sort of life-at-home on a very
small scale.

The apartments were like English lodgings without attendance. Moreover,
no one belonging to the hotel, not even a servant, had a right to enter
the apartments: they were entirely private. One might order the most
costly repasts from the luxurious restaurants close at hand, or keep a
_cordon bleu_, or live on bread-and-water like an anchorite, just as one
pleased, without anybody noticing it. This liberty was exactly what my
husband liked.

We left home on October 9 with Richard, who was to continue his artistic
studies in England now, and Mary, whom her father wanted to become
acquainted with the different museums, beautiful buildings, and
treasures of art, under his direction, for which there could have been
no better opportunity.

We all looked forward to this change as to a _partie de plaisir_, the
young people especially, and on our arrival in Paris, M. Mas and his
wife received us with great cordiality. They had nothing in common with
the ordinary type of hotel-keepers, and welcomed their _habitués_ with a
simple, hearty friendliness--such as servants, who had been all their
lives in a family, might show to their masters--which pleased my husband
much. They showed us, with visible satisfaction, our little apartment,
saying that it had been reserved for us on account of "Mademoiselle,"
because her room would be just close to her mamma's, and the door
leading from one to the other might be left open at night. We were told
that the kitchen was particularly nice, because Monsieur Paul Baudry,
"un artiste aussi," had fitted it up "à neuf" for the three months he
had been spending in our present apartment. Early in the morning I went
out to order provisions--groceries, fuel, wine, etc., for the month we
were to remain at the hotel. We had afterwards an excellent and cheerful
_déjeuner_ prepared in our own kitchen. My husband was amused by the
contrivances of what he called "the doll's house," and said he did not
mind spending a month in that way. In the afternoon we went with the
children to see the Hôtel de Ville, Notre Dame, and La Cour de
Cassation: in each of these buildings my husband gave us a short
explanatory lesson in architecture.

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