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Philip Gilbert Hamerton

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The second day he had already made rules for the division of his time,
according to which the mornings would be reserved for writing and
correspondence; déjeuner was to be ready at eleven, so as to leave the
afternoon free for the work in Paris.

As on the previous day, we were breakfasting together, talking of
Richard's prospects in London, when there came a telegram, saying that
our dear Aunt Susan thought herself to be sinking, and desired to see
us. It was a sudden and a painful blow; my husband had not a moment of
hesitation about what he would do. He told us to pack up immediately,
whilst he went to look at the railway-guide, and find the first slow
night-train for England: Richard and Mary were to go with us--it would
be a last satisfaction for their aunt if we arrived in time.

I was full of apprehension for my husband, but, of course, refrained
from mentioning my fears.

There was no slow train after four o'clock, so we had to start when it
was still daylight, but he kept his eyes closed till darkness rendered
invisible the objects we passed on our way. He bore the journey very
well on the whole, and on reaching Calais we went on board the steamer
immediately. It was midnight, the sea was splendidly phosphorescent, and
Richard and Mary took great delight in throwing things into it, to see
the sparkles flash about. I had no fear so long as we remained on the
water, for Gilbert always enjoyed it, whatever the weather might be, and
felt utterly free from nervousness.

Arrived at Dover at four in the morning, we went to bed for a little
rest, and after breakfast went out for a walk on the seashore under the
cliffs. Richard had never seen the sea before, and he received a
profound impression from it. The wind was high, and the big green,
crested waves came dashing their foam on to the very rocks at our feet.
The alternate effects of sunshine and masses of clouds, violently driven
and torn by the squalls, were magnificent; and Richard, more than ever,
was fired with the wish to become a painter. His sister, very sensitive
to natural beauty, shared his enthusiasm.

The train for London started at three, and on arriving at Charing Cross
we found a more reassuring telegram, stating that our aunt was somewhat
better. Thus cheered by the hope of seeing her again, Gilbert was able
to eat his supper with us before going to bed. I was greatly alarmed by
his decision to start early in the morning and to travel throughout the
day; but having made such a sacrifice of money in abandoning our
apartment and provisions, and in taking the children with us in the hope
of giving a last satisfaction to his aunt, I understood that he would on
no account run the risk of arriving too late.

It proved a most painful day to us all. Very soon he gave signs of
distress and nervousness in spite of all his efforts to hide them; but
this time he would not leave the train, though I besought him to do so.

We had some provisions in our bags, but, weak as he felt, he could not
swallow a morsel of anything; he could not even drink. Still, at one
time he thought that a little brandy might do him good; unfortunately we
had not any with us, and it being Sunday all the refreshment-rooms were
closed on the line. He strove desperately against the growing cerebral
excitement, now by lying down at full length on the cushions with the
curtains drawn, and his eyes closed (most mercifully we were alone in
our compartment); now by stamping his feet in the narrow space and
rubbing his hands vigorously to bring back circulation. In these
alternate fits of excitement and prostration we reached Doncaster at
five. Luckily there was a stoppage of about forty minutes before we
could proceed to Featherstone, and we turned it to the best advantage by
leaving the railway station and going in search of a quiet hotel, where
we ordered something to eat. Darkness had now set in. We had had a
little walk out of sight of the railway, in the open air, and there
seemed to be not a soul, besides ourselves and the landlord, in the
hotel; so that by the time our dinner made its appearance my husband had
so far recovered that he was able to take both food and drink, which did
him much good.

We arrived at Featherstone station after ten, and as the time of our
arrival had been uncertain, there was nobody to meet us. We left our
luggage, and only taking our handbags, we set off for the vicarage on
foot in the dark and in a deluge of rain. At eleven we were all standing
by the bed of our dear aunt, who knew us perfectly in spite of her weak
state, and whose satisfaction at the sight of Richard and Mary was as
great as unhoped for. The diary says: "Oct. 15, 1882. Our poor aunt
recognized us, but it is only too plain that she cannot live more than
three or four days." The doctor, whom we saw on the following morning,
said that Miss Hamerton was dying of no disease; it was merely the
breaking up of the constitution. She was kept up artificially by
medicine and stimulants, very frequently administered, for which she had
neither taste nor desire. Now she said to the doctor: "I have been very
submissive because I wanted to retain my flickering life until I should
see my nephew and his family; this great happiness has been granted to
me, and now I only desire to go to my final rest." After this the
doctor's prescription was to give her only what she might ask for. We
remained at her bedside throughout the day, with the exception of a
visit to the old church, now restored with care and taste, to my
husband's satisfaction.

We watched our aunt part of the night, and she spoke very often, with
her usual clearness of mind; towards three in the morning our cousins
Emma and Annie came to relieve us. On the morrow there was a change for
the worse with greater weakness, and we determined--my husband and
myself--to watch all night.

Aunt Susan concerned herself about our comfort to the last; she reminded
her nephew to keep up a good fire that I might not get cold; she
insisted upon my making some tea for myself, and upon my husband having
a glass of beer. About two in the morning she asked for a little
champagne; her mind was so clear that, after exchanging a few sentences
with her nephew in the Lancashire dialect and drinking her small glass
of champagne, she said with a smile, "It's good sleck," and lay still
for a while. At three she wanted to be turned on her side, which my
husband did with tender care, happy to be able to do something for her
better than any one else could do it, as she said. I believe she liked
to feel herself in his arms. Then she wished Ben to come up to read the
last prayers. I went to call him, also Annie and Emma, Richard and Mary,
and we all surrounded her bed whilst Ben was reading the prayers
according to her desire, and my husband holding one of her hands all the
time. She rested her eyes upon each of us in turn, closed them never to
open them again, and breathed more and more feebly till she breathed no
more. It was five o'clock in the morning. Her death had been a peaceful
one, without a struggle, without pain,--the death we may desire for all
that we love. Nevertheless, it proved a sore trial for my husband, who
was losing the oldest affection of his life. It was even more severe
than such losses are in most cases, however great may have been the
affection, for it was like complete severance from the past to which
both he and his aunt were so much attached. When they were together the
reminiscences of the old days at Hollins, of the old friends and
relations, of the quaint old customs still prevailing in the youthful
days of the Misses Hamerton, and the great change since, were frequent
topics of conversation. Aunt Susan was extremely intelligent, and her
conversation was full of humor; she also wrote capital letters, and kept
her nephew _au courant_ of all that happened to their common friends.
She shared in his great love and admiration for the beauties of nature,
and her enjoyment of them was intense. When walking out she noticed all
the changes of effect, and her interest never palled.

Great respect to her memory was manifested by the inhabitants of
Featherstone, high and low, who filled the church on the day of the
funeral and on the following Sunday, and who had put on mourning almost
without exception.

On the Sunday night my husband went alone to the cemetery by moonlight,
and remained long at the grave.

Our cousins, Ben and Annie Hinde, both showed great sympathy, and were
also sorrowful on their own account; but Ben thought it bad for Mary and
Richard to be shut up in unrelieved sadness, and was so kind as to take
them to Leeds, Pontefract, Wakefield, and York in turn.

Aunt Susan had left a little legacy to each of her nephews and nieces,
and the rest of her savings to my husband (she had not the disposition
of the capital, which had been left in trust).

She had carefully prepared and addressed little parcels of _souvenirs_
to myself and to each of my children--jewels, seals, silver
pencil-cases, as well as some ancient and curious objects which had been
preserved as relics in the family, and which she knew we should value
and respect.

The day came when we had to leave our dear cousins and the old vicarage,
so full of associations both pleasant and painful. We proceeded towards
Burnley, where a telegram from Mr. Handsley was handed to my husband at
the station. It said that Mr. Handsley was prevented from coming
himself, but that his carriage was in readiness to take us to Reedley
Lodge, where his wife was awaiting us.

We were made very welcome, and Gilbert was happy to see his friends
again after so long a separation. Thursday--our former servant in the
Highlands--came to see us in the evening, and our children, who had
heard a great deal about him, were glad of the meeting.

Mrs. Handsley was a distant relation of my husband, and the relationship
had always been acknowledged. She showed herself eager to divine how her
guests would like to spend the short time at their disposal, and to
fulfil their wishes. She was aware of my husband's faithful attachment
to old associations, both with persons and with places, and she drove us
to see his former friends who were still alive, and also the Hollins.
The children, who had heard so much about it, were greatly interested,
particularly in the room which had been their father's study. Note in
the diary: "October 26, 1882. Went to see the Brun, that I had not seen
since my marriage. Drank some of its water."

Mrs. Handsley said she had it on good authority that Mr. John Hamerton
of Hellifield Peel had expressed on several occasions his regret for the
division existing between the two branches of the family, and his wish
to become acquainted with my husband, whose works he knew and admired.

Now it had been a lifelong desire of his to visit Hellifield Peel--the
ancient tower with the romantic history, and the seat of the elder
branch of the Hamertons. There could be no better opportunity, Mrs.
Handsley suggested. At last he decided for the attempt, and on the
following morning we set out with the children.

It was Gilbert's intention merely to send his card, and beg leave to see
the tower without putting forward a claim of any kind, but on receipt of
the card we were immediately shown into the drawing-room and most
cordially received by Mr. John Hamerton and his sister. I was at once
struck--and so were Richard and Mary--by the likeness between the two
men, though they belonged to different branches of the family. My
husband might have been easily taken for a younger brother of Mr. John
Hamerton. They were both tall and spare, the elder man especially; both
were straight and of somewhat proud bearing; their eyes were blue, with
a straightforward and fearless expression. The lightness of the beard
and hair, together with the development of the forehead, completed the
resemblance, though the whole aspect of Mr. John Hamerton was that of a
country gentleman, whilst hard intellectual work had left its stamp on
the younger man's countenance. They got on very amicably together, and
we were invited to lunch. My husband eagerly desired to go over the
house, but alas for his dreams! it had been transformed according to
modern wants, and the absence of all relics from so many generations was
very striking.

We walked in the park, where we admired the noble trees, the pond, and,
at some distance from the Peel, the beautiful Ribble valley, the subject
of one of Turner's landscapes.

It was now time to go to our train after our long and charming visit;
and when Mr. John Hamerton had given some photographs of Hellifield Peel
to my husband, and we had taken a friendly leave of his sister, he
accompanied us to the station, and invited us to the Peel whenever we
might come that way.

So the long breach in the family now belonged to the past, and was
replaced by mutual goodwill and friendliness. Gilbert wrote in his
diary: "October 27, 1882. One of the most delightful days of my life."

The day after, he went to Burnley with Mr. Handsley and saw the new
school before going to the Council Chamber, where a public reception had
been organized in his honor, and where he delivered an oration in
acknowledgment of many flattering speeches. The formal part of the
reception over, he shook hands with every one who came forward to speak
to him--among whom he still remembered a few.

The afternoon ended with a visit to the Mechanics' Institution, in which
he had never ceased to take great interest. He had been much moved and
gratified by the welcome offered him at Burnley, and never forgot it.

The journey to London was very trying on account of the cold, fog, and
snow. The train ploughed its way slowly and cautiously amidst the
explosive signals, which did not add to our comfort. We felt very sorry
for Mr. and Mrs. Seeley, who were sitting up for us so late into the
night.

On the days following our arrival, my husband introduced Richard to his
friends, took him about London, and chose lodgings for him.

He also saw Mr. F. G. Stephens, who wished him to become a candidate for
the post of Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford; but he did not feel
tempted.

He called upon Mr. Browning, who was unfortunately out; but as he was on
the point of closing the door, he felt a resistance, and saw a
lady--"the sister of Robert Browning," she explained--to whom his card
had been handed, and who, by mistake, had read the name as Hamilton. It
was only after looking at it more attentively that she had rushed down
the stairs to detain the visitor. He went up with her to the
drawing-room, where he found Mrs. Orr, the sister of Sir Frederick
Leighton, and they had a long and pleasant talk together. Some days
later he had the pleasure of meeting with Mr. Browning.

It was lucky that Gilbert had good health just then, and Richard to go
about with him in London, for I was laid up with a bad cold--the result
of having walked a whole day in the snow making calls, without an
opportunity of drying my boots or of warming my feet. Mrs. Seeley was my
kind and thoughtful nurse, and thanks to her care I gradually recovered.

Richard came to say good-bye, and we left Nutfield House for France.
This time we did not go through Paris, but visited everything of
interest at Rouen, Dreux, Orléans, and Bourges. The diary says:
"November 27. In the evening we reached home, very happy to be back
again."

On the 29th of the same month be received a letter from Mr. Sagar, from
which I quote the following passage:--

"Sufficient time has not yet elapsed, I hope, for you to forget us in
Burnley here, and the pleasure we had in seeing you in the Council
Chamber on that, to us, memorable Saturday.

"Next year will be the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the
Institute, and we are going to celebrate this and the general success we
have had by a week's jubilee--the whole of New Year's week. The jubilee
will take the form of a conversazione, a banquet, and a general
exhibition, occupying every room of the place except two. South
Kensington authorities are sending us six cases of examples of fabrics,
pottery, etc., and about sixty frames of pictures, drawings, etc. Can
you use your influence for us in obtaining a representative
exhibition--say of etchings, or anything else of a suitable character
that might suggest itself to you--together, if possible (and this would
delight us all), with your presence, or in the absence of this, if you
can't be here, a short letter for me to read, as on the opening of the
Art-school?"

The letter was sent in due time, and acknowledged with grateful thanks.

Mr. Seeley was so kind as to send us news of Richard from time to time;
he wrote in March: "Richard has shown me some of his drawings; I think
he is making progress. One of his last drawings seemed to me excellent;
very tender and subtle. He was down at Kinsgton with us the other day."

This opinion of Mr. Seeley's gave great pleasure to my husband, who had
always entertained doubts about the range of his son's artistic talent.

In the same month he was asked to send a biographical note for "Men of
the Time," a proof that his reputation was on the increase, and Mr.
Haden, who had just come back from America, said that his works were
held there in the highest esteem.

The book on Paris necessitated another journey, and my husband made the
time of it to coincide with the opening of the Salon. This time we
stopped at Auxerre, and visited the four churches, the museum, and the
room in which are exhibited the relics of Marshal Davoust.

The diary says: "April 30. Began this morning another diary in English,
to record the impressions which may serve for my literary work."

On May 1 we had a carriage accident which might have been serious. Our
horse took fright at sight of a steam tram, and ran away on the footpath
at a furious rate, dashing the carriage against the trees and lamp-posts
until he slipped and fell at full length on the asphalt. My husband had
been able to jump out, but a sudden jerk had prevented me from following
him at the moment, and then there was danger of being hurt between the
side of the carriage and the banging door. Gilbert had been running,
hatless, after the carriage to hold the door and enable me to jump out,
and he just succeeded as the horse slipped down and upset the carriage.
I was out in time to escape being hurt, but of course we were both a
good deal shaken, and went back to rest at our hotel.

We had hardly been a week in Paris when my husband began to suffer from
nervousness. A tramway had been laid in front of the hotel, and the
vibration prevented him from sleeping. Then spring was always trying to
him; and above all, he wished himself in the country. Mr. Seeley wrote:
"Nature evidently intended you for a savage; how in the world did you
come to be a literary man? What must Frenchmen think of you, in Paris
and miserable? Even Mrs. Hamerton must feel ashamed of you." He
acknowledged that he was more happy in a primitive sort of existence
than in one too perfectly civilized; still, he could not endure the
privation of books, and he would have felt keenly the absence of works
of art; but he was in deeper sympathy with the beauty of nature than
with artistic beauty--to be denied the last would have been a great
privation, but in the absence of the first he really could not live.

We had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Mr. Howard-Tripp, who
had recently married Mr. Wyld's daughter, and who, being a
picture-dealer, invited us to go and see his gallery in the Rue St.
Georges. There were a great many fine works that my husband greatly
admired, particularly those by Corot, Daubigny, and Troyon, and the
scheme for the book on "Landscape" having been settled with Mr. Seeley,
he begged Mr. Howard-Tripp to allow reproductions of some of the
pictures to appear in his future work. It was readily granted.

This selection of pictures for the book on "Landscape" gave the author
much additional labor; but it was better to do it now that he was in
Paris than have to come again on purpose. Mr. Seeley had offered to run
over and help with the arrangements, but was prevented by a slight
accident. He then proposed that photographs of the pictures chosen
should be sent to him, that he might have a vote.

We were very near the end of our stay in Paris, and Gilbert wanted to go
to the office of "L'Art," having some business there, and wishing to say
farewell to the manager. He had also invited the sons of M. Schmitt (who
were now in Paris) to meet us in the Square Richelieu and to dine
afterwards at a restaurant. He thought that he could manage both things
on the same day. However, we were hardly out of the omnibus when I
perceived he was unwell; but I had not time to propose anything before
he started off at such a rate that I was obliged to run to follow him:
the worst symptoms were betrayed by his gait, by the congestion of face
and neck, and by the hard stare of the eyes. It was too late to take a
carriage; he could not stop, and could not be spoken to. I saw that a
sure instinct was guiding him out of the crowded street to the by-ways
and least frequented places, and I strove to remain by his side. In the
course of about twenty minutes, I noticed a slackening in his pace, and
as I had been looking about for some refuge, I remarked, through the
open doors of a small café, an empty back-room, and motioned to him to
follow me there. It was almost dark, and there was a divan running along
three sides of the wall; I made him lie down upon it, and went to tell
the _dame-de-comptoir_ (who happened to be the mistress of the house)
that my husband had felt suddenly unwell and required a little rest. She
made no fuss, did not press me to send for a doctor or to administer
anything; she merely promised to prevent any one from going into that
back room, and said we might remain there undisturbed as long as was
needed. After half-an-hour my husband asked for a little brandy and
water, and gradually became himself again. We remained about two hours
in the little room, reading--or pretending to read--the newspapers, and
such was Gilbert's courage and resolution, that he went to keep the
appointment with the young men he had invited. I knew I was not to
breathe a word of what had happened, and I was miserably anxious about
the effect that a dinner in a restaurant _en vogue_ might have upon the
nerves of my poor patient. Strange to say, he bore it very well, and
played his part as entertainer quite merrily. But after dinner I longed
to get him away, and proposed to take an open carriage for a drive in
the Champs Élysées. This was accepted, and I believe he really enjoyed
it.

We agreed to leave Paris the following evening, and I went to town alone
in the afternoon for a few things which had been postponed to the last
moment. We reached Autun on May 26, at which date the diary says: "I am
very happy to be in my home, which I prefer to all the finest palaces in
Paris."

In the spring he had suffered repeatedly from great pain in one of his
legs, and had attributed it to rheumatism; now he began to feel the pain
again in the left foot, and it soon became so acute that the doctor was
sent for. He said it was an attack of gout, but gave hope of an ultimate
cure, because the patient's constitution was not a gouty one. The cause
of the attack was insufficient exercise in the open air. He prescribed a
severe regimen, less sedentary work, and as much walking and riding as
possible.

For twenty-one nights my husband could not go to bed, but remained
stretched on a couch or sitting in an arm-chair; when the pain was less
severe he laid himself down upon the bed for a short time, but he hardly
ever got to sleep. His fortitude and patience were incredible, and he
bore the almost intolerable sufferings with admirable resignation. He
tried to read, and even to write upon a desk placed on his knees, and
talked much about his plan for the book on "Landscape."

Mr. Seeley wrote:--

"I am heartily sorry to hear of your attack of gout. But I am relieved
to hear that it is not erysipelas, which must have been alarming.
Possibly the discomfort you suffered in Paris may have been a
premonitory symptom of this attack, and you may look forward to the
enjoyment of better health when it has passed away."

Mr. Haden declared that he felt "delighted" by this attack, as
indicative of a change for the better in the constitution; he hoped that
the tendency to nervousness and insomnia would disappear, or at any rate
greatly diminish.

We were now daily expecting Richard, and Mr. Seeley had said on June 25:
"Richard was with us on Saturday, his farewell visit. We like him more
and more every time we see him." He was coming back--at my request--to
pass an examination in English, the same that his brother had passed
successfully two years ago for the _Certificat d'aptitude_, after which
he got his post of professor at Mâcon. I had thought that if Richard
failed as an artist he might be glad to fall back upon a professorship,
and it turned out so. His father was pleased to notice how much better
and more fluently he spoke English on his return from London; but at the
same time, after seeing the drawings done in England, he was confirmed
in the opinion that originality and invention were lacking to make a
real artist of his younger son. What ought to be said was very
perplexing: the drawings were good enough in their way, the progress
undeniable--but they were only copies, even when done from the living
model--the creative spark, the individual artistic stamp, were absent.
My husband allowed himself some time for consideration before warning
Richard that he thought him mistaken in his choice of a career.

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