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Autobiography of Philip Gilbert Hamerton
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON
_AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY_
1834-1858
_AND A MEMOIR BY HIS WIFE_
1858-1894
"Intellectual living is not so much an accomplishment as a state or
condition of the mind in which it seeks earnestly for the highest and
purest truth.... If we often blunder and fail for want of perfect wisdom
and clear light, have we not the inward assurance that our aspiration
has not been all in vain, that it has brought us a little nearer to the
Supreme Intellect whose effulgence draws us while it dazzles?"--_The
Intellectual Life_.
PREFACE.
About twelve years ago my husband told me that he had begun to write an
Autobiography intended for publication, but not during his lifetime. He
worked upon it at intervals, as his literary engagements permitted, but
I found after his sudden death that he had only been able to carry it as
far as his twenty-fourth year. Such a fragment seemed too brief for
separate publication, and I earnestly desired to supplement it by a
Memoir, and thus to give to those who knew and loved his books a more
complete understanding of his character and career. But though I longed
for this satisfaction and solace, the task seemed beyond my power,
especially as it involved the difficulty of writing in a foreign
language. Considering, however, that the Autobiography was carried, as
it happened, up to the date of our marriage, and that I could therefore
relate all the subsequent life from intimate knowledge, as no one else
could, I was encouraged by many of Mr. Hamerton's admirers to make the
attempt, and with the great and untiring help of his best friend, Mr.
Seeley, I have been enabled to complete the Memoir--such as it is.
I offer my sincere thanks to Mr. Sidney Colvin and to his co-executor
for having allowed the insertion of Mr. R. L. Stevenson's letters; to
Mr. Barrett Browning for those of his father; to Sir George and Lady
Reid, Mr. Watts, Mr. Peter Graham, and Mr. Burlingame for their own.
I also beg Mr. A. H. Palmer to accept the expression of my gratitude for
his kind permission to use as a frontispiece to this book the fine
photograph taken by him.
E. HAMERTON.
_September_, 1896.
CONTENTS.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
CHAPTER I.
My reasons for writing an Autobiography.--That a man knows the history
of his own life better than a biographer can know it.--Frankness and
reserve.--The contemplation of death.
CHAPTER II.
1834.
My birthplace.--My father and mother.--Circumstances of their
marriage.--Their short married life.--Birth of their child.--Death of
my mother.--Her character and habits.--My father as a widower.--Dulness
of his life.--Its degradation.
CHAPTER III
1835-1841.
My childhood is passed at Barnley with my aunts.--My grandfather and
grandmother.--Estrangement between Gilbert Hamerton and his brother of
Hellifield Peel.--Death of Gilbert Hamerton.--His taste for the French
language.--His travels in Portugal, and the conduct of a steward during
his absence.--His three sons.--Aristocratic tendencies of his
daughters.--Beginning of my education.--Visits to my father.
CHAPTER IV.
1842.
A tour in Wales in 1842.--Extracts from my Journal of this tour.--My
inborn love for beautiful materials.--Stay at Rhyl.--Anglesea and
Caernarvon.--Reasons for specially remembering this tour.
CHAPTER V.
1843-1844.
A painful chapter to write.--My father calls me home.--What kind of a
house it was.--Paternal education and discipline.--My life at that time
one of dulness varied by dread.
CHAPTER VI.
1844.
My extreme loneliness.--Thoughts of flight.--My father's last illness
and death.--Circumstances of my last interview with him.--His funeral.
CHAPTER VII.
1845.
Dislike to Shaw in consequence of the dreadful life I lead there with my
father.--My guardian.--Her plan for my education.--Doncaster
School.--Mr. Cape and his usher.--The usher's intolerance of
Dissenters.--My feeling for architecture and music.--The
drawing-master.--My guardian insists on my learning French.--Our French
master, Sig. Testa.--A painful incident.--I begin to learn the
violin.--Dancing.--My aversion to cricket.--Early readings.--Love of
Scott.--My first library.--Classical studies.
CHAPTER VIII.
1845.
Early attempts in English verse.--Advantages of life at Doncaster.--A
school incident.--Fagging.--Story of a dog.--Robbery.--My school-fellow
Henry Alexander.--His remarkable influence.--Other school-fellows.
--Story of a boat.--A swimming adventure.--Our walks and battles.
CHAPTER IX.
1846.
Early interest in theology.--Reports of sermons.--Quiet influence of Mr.
Cape.--Failure of Mr. Cape's health.--His death.
CHAPTER X.
1847-1849.
My education becomes less satisfactory.--My guardian's state of
health.--I pursue my studies at Burnley.--Dr. Butler.--He encourages me
to write English.--Extract from a prize poem.--Public discussions in
Burnley School.--A debate on Queen Elizabeth.
CHAPTER XI.
1850.
My elder uncle.--We go to live at Hollins.--Description of the place.
--My strong attachment to it.--My first experiment in art-criticism.
--The stream at Hollins.--My first catamaran.--Similarity of my life at
Hollins to my life in France thirty-six years later.
CHAPTER XII.
1850.
Interest in the Middle Ages.--Indifference to the Greeks and Romans.
--Love for Sir Walter Scott's writings.--Interest in heraldry and
illuminations.--Passion for hawking.--Old books in the school library at
Burnley.--Mr. Edward Alexander of Halifax.--Attempts in literary
composition.--Contributions to the "Historic Times."--"Rome in
1849."--"Observations on Heraldry."
CHAPTER XIII.
1850.
Political and religious opinions of my relations.--The Rev. James
Bardsley.--Protestant controversy with Rome.--German neology.--The
inspiration of the Scriptures.--Inquiry into foundation for the
doctrine.--I cease to be a Protestant.--An alternative presents
itself.--A provisional condition of prolonged inquiry.--Our medical
adviser.--His remarkable character.--His opinions.
CHAPTER XIV.
1851.
First visit to London in 1851.--My first impression of the place.--
Nostalgia of the country.--Westminster.--The Royal Academy.--Resolution
never to go to London again.--Reason why this resolution was afterwards
broken.
CHAPTER XV.
1851-1852.
The lore of reading a hindrance to classical studies.--Dr. Butler
becomes anxious about my success at Oxford.--An insuperable
obstacle.--My indifference to degrees.--Irksome hypocrisy.--I am nearly
sent to a tutor at Brighton.--I go to a tutor in Yorkshire.--His
disagreeable disposition.--Incident about riding.--Disastrous effect of
my tutor's intellectual influence upon me.--My private reading.--My
tutor's ignorance of modern authors.--His ignorance of the fine
arts.--His religious intolerance.--I declare my inability to sign the
Thirty-nine Articles.
CHAPTER XVI.
1852.
Choice of a profession.--Love of literature and art.--Decision to make
trial of both.--An equestrian tour.--Windermere.--Derwentwater.--I take
lessons from Mr. J. P. Pettitt.--Ulleswater.--My horse turf.--Greenock,
a discovery.--My unsettled cousin.--Glasgow.--Loch
Lomond.--Inverary.--Loch Awe.--Inishail.--Inmstrynich.--Oban.--A
sailing excursion.--Mull and Ulva.--Solitary reading.
CHAPTER XVII.
1853.
A journal.--Self-training.--Attempts in periodical literature.--The
time given to versification well spent.--Practical studies in art.--
Beginning of Mr. Ruskin's influence.--Difficulty in finding a master in
landscape-painting.--Establishment of the militia.--I accept a
commission.--Our first training.--Our colonel and our adjutant.--The
Grand Llama.--Paying off the men.
CHAPTER XVIII.
1853.
A project for studying in Paris.--Reading.--A healthy life.--
Quinsy.--My most intimate friend.
CHAPTER XIX.
1853.
London again.--Accurate habits in employment of time.--Studies with Mr.
Pettitt.--Some account of my new master.--His method of technical
teaching.--Simplicity of his philosophy of art.--Incidents of his
life.--Rapid progress under Pettitt's direction.
CHAPTER XX.
1653-1854.
Acquaintance with R. W. Mackay.--His learning and accomplishments.--His
principal pursuit.--His qualities as a writer.--Value of the artistic
element in literature.--C. R. Leslie, R. A.--Robinson, the
line-engraver.--The Constable family.--Mistaken admiration for minute
detail.--Projected journey to Egypt.--Mr. Ruskin.--Bonomi.--Samuel
Sharpe.--Tennyson.
CHAPTER XXI.
1854.
A Visit to Rogers.--His Home.--Geniality in poets.--Talfourd.--Sir
Walter Scott.--Leslie's picture, "The Rape of the Lock."--George
Leslie.--Robert Leslie.--His nautical instincts.--Watkiss
Lloyd.--Landseer.--Harding.--Richard Doyle.
CHAPTER XXII.
1854.
Miss Marian Evans.--John Chapman, the publisher.--My friend William
Shaw.--His brother Richard.--Mead, the tragedian.--Mrs. Rowan and her
daughter.--A vexatious incident.--I suffer from nostalgia for the
country.
CHAPTER XXIII.
1854.
Some of my relations emigrate to New Zealand.--Difficulties of a poor
gentleman.--My uncle's reasons for emigration.--His departure.--Family
separations.--Our love for Hollins.
CHAPTER XXIV.
1854.
Resignation of commission in the militia.--Work from nature.--Spenser,
the poet.--Hurstwood.--Loch Awe revisited.--A customer.--I determine to
learn French well.--A tour in Wales.--Swimming.--Coolness on account of
my religious beliefs.--My guardian.--Evil effects of religions
bigotry.--Refuge in work.--My drawing-master.--Our excursion in Craven.
CHAPTER XXV.
1855.
Publication of "The Isles of Loch Awe and other Poems."--Their
sale.--Advice to poetic aspirants.--Mistake in illustrating my book of
verse.--Its subsequent history.--Want of art in the book.--Too much
reality.--Abandonment of verse. A critic in "Fraser."--Visit to Paris
in 1855.--Captain Turnbull.--Ball at the Hôtel de Ville.--Louis Napoleon
and Victor Emmanuel.
CHAPTER XXVI.
1855.
Thackeray's family in Paris.--Madame Mohl.--Her husband's encouraging
theory about learning languages.--Mr. Scholey.--His friend, William
Wyld.--An Indian in Europe.--An Italian adventuress.--Important meeting
with an American.--Its consequences.--I go to a French hotel.--People
at the _table d'hote_.--M. Victor Ouvrard.--His claim on the
Emperor.--M. Gindriez.--His family.--His eldest daughter.
CHAPTER XXVII.
1856.
Specialities in painting.--Wyld's practice.--Projected voyage on the
Loire.--Birth of the Prince Imperial.--Scepticism about his inheritance
of the crown.--The Imperial family.--I return home.--Value of the French
language to me.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
1856.
My first encampment in Lancashire.--Value of encamping as a part of
educational discipline.--Happy days in camp.--The natural and the
artificial in landscape.--Sir James Kay Shuttleworth's Exhibition
project.--I decline to take an active part in it.--His energetic and
laborious disposition.--Charlotte Brontë.--General Scarlett.
CHAPTER XXIX.
I visit the homes of my forefathers at Hamerton, Wigglesworth, and
Hellifield Peel.--Attainder and execution of Sir Stephen Hamerton.
--Return of Hellifield Peel to the family.--Sir Richard.--The Hamertons
distinguished only for marrying heiresses.--Another visit to the Peel,
when I see my father's cousin.--Nearness of Hellifield Peel and Hollins.
CHAPTER XXX.
1857.
Expedition to the Highlands in 1857.--Kindness of the Marquis of
Breadalbane and others.--Camp life, its strong and peculiar
attraction.--My servant.--Young Helliwell.--Scant supplies in the
camp.--Nature of the camp.--Necessity for wooden floors in a bad
climate.--Double-hulled boats.--Practice of landscape-
painting.--Changes of effect.--Influences that governed my way of study
in those days.--Attractive character of the Scottish Highlands.--Their
scenery not well adapted for beginners.--My intense love of it.
CHAPTER XXXI.
1857-1858.
Small immediate results of the expedition to the Highlands.--Unsuitable
system of work.--Loss of time.--I rent the house and island of
Innistrynich.--My dread of marriage and the reasons for
it.--Notwithstanding this I make an offer and am refused.--Two young
ladies of my acquaintance.--Idea of a foreign marriage.--Its
inconveniences.--Decision to ask for the hand of Mdlle. Gindriez.--I go
to Paris and am accepted.--Elective affinities.
CHAPTER XXXII.
1858.
Reception at home after engagement.--Preparations at Innistrynich.--I
arrive alone in Paris.--My marriage.--The religious ceremony.--An
uncomfortable wedding.--The sea from Dieppe.--London.--The Academy
Exhibition of 1858.--Impressions of a Frenchwoman.--The Turner
collection.--The town.--Loch Awe.--The element wanting to happiness.
MEMOIR.
CHAPTER I
1858.
My first sight of Loch Awe.--Arrival at Innistrynich.--Our domestic
life.--Difficulties about provisions.--A kitchen-garden.
CHAPTER II.
1858.
Money matters.--Difficulties about servants.--Expensiveness of our mode
of life.
CHAPTER III.
1858.
Painting from nature.--Project of an exhibition.--Photography.--Plan of
"A Painter's Camp."--Topographic art.--Charm of our life in the
Highlands.
CHAPTER IV.
1858.
English and French manners.--My husband's relatives.--First journey to
France after our marriage.--Friends in London.--Miss Susan Hamerton.
CHAPTER V.
1859.
Visits from friends and relatives.--A Frenchman in the Highlands.--
Project of buying the island of Innistrynich.
CHAPTER VI.
1859-1860.
Financial complications.--Summer visitors.--Boats and boating.--Visit
to Paris.--W. Wyld.--Project of a farm in France.--Partnership with M.
Gindriez.
CHAPTER VII.
1861-1863.
Effects of the Highland climate.--Farewell to Loch Awe.--Journey to the
south of France.--Death of Miss Mary Hamerton.--Settlement at
Sens.--Death of M. Gindriez.--Publication of "A Painter's Camp."
--Removal to Pré-Charmoy.
CHAPTER VIII.
1863-1868.
Canoeing on the Unknown River.--Visit of relatives.--Tour in
Switzerland.--Experiments in etching.--The "Saturday Review."--Journeys
to London.--Plan of "Etching and Etchers."--New friends in
London.--Etching exhibited at the Royal Academy.--Serious illness in
London.--George Eliot.--Professor Seeley.
CHAPTER IX.
1868.
Studies of animals.--A strange visitor.--Illness at Amiens.--Resignation
of post on the "Saturday Review."--Nervous seizure in railway
train.--Mrs. Craik.--Publication of "Etching and Etchers."
--Tennyson.--Growing reputation in America.
CHAPTER X.
1869-1870.
"Wenderholme."--The Mont Beuvray.--Botanical studies.--La
Tuilerie.--Commencement of "The Portfolio."--The Franco-Prussian War.
CHAPTER XI.
1870-1872.
Landscape-painting.--Letters of Mr. Peter Graham, R.A.--Incidents of the
war-time.--"The Intellectual Life."--"The Etcher's Handbook."
CHAPTER XII.
1873-1875.
Popularity of "The Intellectual Life."--Love of animals.--English
visitors.--Technical notes.--Sir S. Seymour Haden.--Attempts to resume
railway travelling.
CHAPTER XIII.
1876-1877.
"Round my House."--Journey to England after seven years' absence.--Visit
to Mr. Samuel Palmer.--Articles for the "Encyclopedia Britannica."
--Death of my sister.--Mr. Appleton.
CHAPTER XIV.
1878-1880.
"Marmorne."--Paris International Exhibition.--"Modern Frenchmen."
--Candidature for the Watson Gordon Chair of Fine Arts.--The Bishop of
Autun.--The "Life of Turner."
CHAPTER XV.
1880-1882.
Third edition of "Etching and Etchers."--Kew.--The "Graphic
Arts."--"Human Intercourse."
CHAPTER XVI.
1882-1884.
"Paris."--Miss Susan Hamerton's death.--Burnley revisited.--Hellifield
Peel.--"Landscape" planned.--Voyage to Marseilles.
CHAPTER XVII.
1884-1888.
"Landscape."--The Autobiography begun.--"Imagination in Landscape
Painting."--"The Saône."--"Portfolio Papers."
CHAPTER XVIII.
1888-1890.
"Man in Art" begun.--Family events.--Mr. G. F. Watts.--Mr.
Bodley.--"French and English."
CHAPTER XIX.
1890-1891.
Decision to live near Paris.--Practice in painting and etching.--Search
for a house.--Clématis.
CHAPTER XX.
1891-1894.
Removal to Paris.--Interest in the Bois de Boulogne.--M. Vierge.--"Man
in Art."--Contributions to "Scribner's Magazine."--New form of "The
Portfolio."--Honorary degree.--Last Journey to London.--Society of
Illustrators.--Illness and death.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON
1834--1858
CHAPTER I.
My reasons for writing an autobiography.--That a man knows the history
of his own life better than a biographer can know it.--Frankness and
reserve.--The contemplation of death.
My principal reasons for writing an autobiography are because I am the
only person in the world who knows enough about my history to give a
truthful account of it, and because I dread the possibility of falling
into the hands of some writer who might attempt a biography with
inadequate materials. I have already been selected as a subject by two
or three biographers with very friendly intentions, but their
friendliness did not always ensure accuracy. When the materials are not
supplied in abundance, a writer will eke them out with conjectural
expressions which he only intends as an amplification, yet which may
contain germs of error to be in their turn amplified by some other
writer, and made more extensively erroneous.
It has frequently been said that an autobiography must of necessity be
an untrue representation of its subject, as no man can judge himself
correctly. If it is intended to imply that somebody else, having a much
slighter acquaintance with the man whose life is to be narrated, would
produce a more truthful book, one may be permitted to doubt the validity
of the inference. Thousands of facts are known to a man himself with
reference to his career, and a multitude of determinant motives, which
are not known even to his most intimate friends, still less to the
stranger who so often undertakes the biography. The reader of an
autobiography has this additional advantage, that the writer must be
unconsciously revealing himself all along, merely by his way of telling
things.
With regard to the great question of frankness and reserve, I hold that
the reader has a fair claim to hear the truth, as a biography is not
avowedly a romance, but at the same time that it is right to maintain a
certain reserve. My rule shall be to say nothing that can hurt the
living, and the memory of the dead shall be dealt with as tenderly as
may be compatible with a truthful account of the influences that have
impelled me in one direction or another.
I have all the more kindly feelings towards the dead, that when these
pages appear I shall be one of themselves, and therefore unable to
defend my own memory as they are unable to defend theirs.
The notion of being a dead man is not entirely displeasing to me. If the
dead are defenceless, they have this compensating advantage, that nobody
can inflict upon them any sensible injury; and in beginning a book which
is not to see the light until I am lying comfortably in my grave, with
six feet of earth above me to deaden the noises of the upper world, I
feel quite a new kind of security, and write with a more complete
freedom from anxiety about the quality of the work than has been usual
at the beginning of other manuscripts.
Nevertheless, the clear and steady contemplation of death (I have been
looking the grim king in the face for the last hour) may produce a
paralyzing effect upon a man by making his life's work seem very small
to him. For, whatever we believe about a future state, it is evident
that the catastrophe of death must throw each of us instantaneously into
the past, from the point of view of the living, and they will see what
we have done in a very foreshortened aspect, so that except in a few
very rare cases it must look small to them, and ever smaller as time
rolls on, and they will probably not think much of it, or remember us
long on account of it. And in thinking of ourselves as dead we
instinctively adopt the survivor's point of view. Besides which, it is
reasonable to suppose that whatever fate may be in store for us, a
greater or less degree of posthumous reputation in two or three nations
on this planet can have little effect on our future satisfaction; for if
we go to heaven, the beatitude of the life there will be so incomparably
superior to the pleasures of earthly fame that we shall never think of
such vanity again; and if we go to the place of eternal tortures they
will leave us no time to console ourselves with pleasant memories of any
kind; and if death is simply the ending of all sensation, all thought,
memory, and consciousness, it will matter nothing to a handful of dust
what estimate of the name it once bore may happen to be current amongst
the living--
"Les grands Dieux savent seuls si l'âme est immortelle,
Mais le juste travaille à leur oeuvre éternelle."
CHAPTER II.
1834.
My birthplace.--My father and mother.--Circumstances of their
marriage.--Their short married life.--Birth of their child.--Death of
my mother.--Her character and habits.--My father as a widower.--Dulness
of his life.--Its degradation.
I was born at Laneside near Shaw, which is now a manufacturing town of
some importance about two miles from Oldham in Lancashire, and about
four miles from Rochdale in the same county.
Laneside is a small estate with some houses and a little cotton-mill
upon it, which belonged to my maternal grandfather. The house is of
stone, with a roof of stone slate such as is usual in those parts, and
it faces the road, from which it is separated by a little enclosure,
that may be called a garden if you will. When I was a child, there were
two or three poplar trees in that enclosure before the house; but trees
do not prosper there, and now there is probably not one on the whole
estate. One end of the house (which is rather long for its height and
depth) abuts against the hill, and close behind it is the cotton-mill
which my grandfather worked, with no great profit to himself or
advantage to his descendants. I have mentioned a road that passes the
house; it is steep, narrow, and inconvenient. It leads up to an elevated
tract of the most dreary country that can be imagined, but there are one
or two fields on the Laneside estate, above the stone-quarry, from which
there is a good view in the direction of Rochdale.
I never knew my grandfather Cocker, but have heard that he was a lively
and vigorous man, who enjoyed life very heartily in his way. He married
a Miss Crompton, who had a little property and was descended from the De
Cromptons of Crompton Hall. I am not aware that she had any family
pride, but, like most people in that neighborhood, she had a great
appreciation of the value of money, and when she was left alone with her
daughter, in consequence of Philip Cocker's premature death, she was
more inclined to favor wealthy than impecunious suitors.
My father had come to Shaw as a young attorney some time before he asked
for Anne Cocker in marriage. He had very little to recommend him except
a fine person, great physical strength, and fifteen quarterings. He had
a reputation for rather dissolute habits, was a good horseman, an
excellent shot, looked very well in a ball-room, and these, I believe,
were all his advantages, save an unhappy faculty for shining in such
masculine company as he could find in a Lancashire village in the days
of George IV. Money he had none, except what he earned in his
profession, at one time rather a good income.
Miss Anne Cocker was a young lady with a will of her own, associated, I
have been told (the two characteristics are by no means incompatible),
with a very sweet and amiable disposition. At a time when my grandmother
still vigorously opposed the match with my father, there happened to be
a public charity ball in Shaw, and Miss Cocker showed her intentions in
a very decided manner, by declining to dance with several gentlemen
until the young lawyer presented himself, when she rose immediately with
a very gracious smile, which was observed by all near enough to witness
it. This was rather unkind perhaps to the other aspirants, and is, in
fact, scarcely defensible, but it was Miss Cocker's way of declaring her
intentions publicly. When my father made his offer, he was refused by my
grandmother's orders, but received encouragement from her daughter (a
tone of voice, or a look, yet more a tear, would be enough for a lover's
hope), and counted upon the effects of perseverance. At length, when he
and Miss Cocker thought they had waited long enough, they determined to
marry without Mrs. Cocker's consent, and the determination was notified
to my grandmother in the following very decided terms:--
"DR. Madam,--You are no doubt well aware of the warm attachment which
has long existed betwixt your dear daughter and myself. Upwards of
twelve months ago our affections were immovably fixed upon each other,
and I now consider it my duty to inform you that we are fully engaged,
and have finally concluded to be married within a fortnight of the
present time.
"I sincerely trust that all your hostile feelings towards me are
entirely worn out, and that you will receive me as the affectionate
husband of your beloved daughter, and I with great confidence hope we
shall be a happy family and live together with peace and harmony.
"At my request your daughter will have all her property settled upon
herself, so that I can have no control over it--thus leaving it
impossible that I should waste it. And I trust that by an active
attention to my profession I may be enabled not inconsiderably to
augment it.
"Be assured, Dear Madam, that your daughter and myself feel no little
solicitude for your comfort and happiness, and that we shall at all
times be most happy to promote them.
"It is our mutual and most anxious wish that you should not attempt to
throw any obstacle in the way of our marriage, as the only tendency it
could have under present circumstances would be to lessen the happiness
and comfort of our union.
"We trust therefore that your regard for your daughter's happiness will
induce you at once to give your full assent to the fulfilment of our
engagement, as you would thereby divest our marriage of all that could
possibly lessen the happiness we anticipate from it.
"I know that your principal objection to me has been on account of my
unsteadiness, and I deeply regret ever having given you cause to raise
such an objection; but I trust my conduct for some time back having been
of a very different character, will convince you that I have seen my
error. The gayety into which I have fallen may partly be ascribed to the
peculiarity of my situation; having no relations near me, no family
ties, no domestic comforts, &c., I may be the more excusable for having
kept the company of young men, but I can assure you I have lost all
inclination for the practice of such follies as I have once fallen into,
and I look to a steady, sober married life as alone calculated to afford
me happiness.
"I will wait upon you on Monday with most anxious hopes for your
favorable answer.
"I am, Dear Madam,
"Yours most respectfully,
"JOHN HAMMERTON.
"Shaw, June 1st, 1833."
The reader may be surprised by the double _m_ in the signature. It was
my father's custom to write our name so, for a reason that will be
explained in another chapter. The letter itself is rather formal,
according to the fashion of the time, but I think it is a good letter in
its way, and believe it to have been perfectly sincere. No doubt my
father fully intended to reform his way of life, but it is easier to
make a good resolution than to adhere to it. I do not know enough of the
degree of excess to which his love of pleasure led him, to be able to
describe his life as a young man accurately, but as my mother had been
well brought up and was a refined person for her rank in society, I
conclude that she would not have encouraged a notorious evil-liver.
Those who knew my father in his early manhood have told me that he was
very popular, and yet at the same time that he bore himself with
considerable dignity, one old lady going so far as to say that when he
walked through the main street at Shaw, it seemed as if all the town
belonged to him. It is difficult for us to understand quite accurately
the social code of the Georgian era, when a man might indulge in
pleasures which seem to us coarse and degrading, and yet retain all the
pride and all the bearing of a gentleman.
The marriage took place according to the fixed resolution of the
contracting parties, and their life together was immensely happy during
the short time that it lasted. Most unfortunately it came to an end
after little more than one year by my mother's lamentably premature
death. I happen to possess a letter from my father's sister to her
sister Anne in which she gives an account of this event, and print it
because it conveys the reality more vividly than a narrative at second
hand. The reader will pardon the reference to myself. It matters nothing
to a dead man--as I shall be when this page is printed--whether at the
age of fourteen days he was considered a fine-looking child or a
weakling.
"_Friday Morning._
"MY DEAR ANNE,--You will not calculate upon so speedy an answer as this
to your long and welcome epistle, nor will you calculate upon the
melancholy intelligence I have to communicate. Poor John's wife,
certainly the most amiable of all woman-kind, departed this life at
twenty minutes past eleven last night. Her recovery from her confinement
was very wonderful, we thought, but alas! it was a false one. The Drs.
Whitaker of Shaw, Wood of Rochdale, and Bardsley of Manchester all agree
in opinion that she has died of mere weakness without any absolute
disease. She has been very delicate for a long time. Poor dear John--if
I were quite indifferent to him I should grieve to see his agonies--he
says at sixty it might have happened in the common course of things and
he would have borne it better, but at twenty-nine, just when he is
beginning life, his sad bereavement does indeed seem untimely. It is a
sore affliction to him, sent for some good, and may he understand and
apply it with wisdom! They had, to be sure, hardly been married long
enough to quarrel, but I never saw a couple so intent on making each
other happy; they had not a thought of each other but what tended to
please. The poor little boy is a very fine one, and I hope he will be
reared, though it often happens that when the mother is consumptive the
baby dies. I do hope when John is able to look after his office a little
that the occupation of his mind will give him calm. He walks from room
to room, and if I meet him and he is able to articulate at all, he says,
'Ah! where must I be? what must I do?' He says nobody had such a wife,
and I do think nobody ever had. He wanted me not to write till
arrangements were made about the funeral. I thought you would be sorry
to be informed late upon a subject so near John's heart, and that it was
too late for Mr. Hinde [Footnote: The Rev. Thomas Hinde, Vicar of
Featherstone, brother-in-law of the writer of the letter.] to come to
the funeral. I have really nothing to say except that our poor sister
was so tolerable on Wednesday morning that I went with the Milnes of
Park House to Henton Park races, which I liked very well, but as things
have turned out I heartily repent going. Ann was, we hoped, positively
recovering on Monday and Tuesday, but it seems to have been a lightening
before death. She was a very long time in the agonies of death, but
seemed to suffer very little. Our afflicted brother joins me in best
love to you and your dear children. Kind compliments to Mr. Hinde.
"I remain,
"Your affectionate Sister,
"M. HAMMERTON."
The letter is without date, but it bears the Manchester postmark of
September 27, 1834, and the day of my birth was the tenth of the same
month. The reader may have observed a discrepancy with reference to my
mother's health. First it is said that the doctors all agreed in the
opinion that she died of mere weakness, without any absolute disease,
but afterwards consumption is alluded to. I am not sure, even yet,
whether my mother was really consumptive or only suffered from debility.
Down to the time when I write this (fifty-one years after my mother's
death) there have never been any symptoms of consumption in me.
No portrait of my mother was ever taken, so that I have never been able
to picture her to myself otherwise than vaguely, but I remember that on
one occasion in my youth when I played the part of a young lady in a
charade, several persons present who had known her, said that the
likeness was so striking that it almost seemed as if she had appeared to
them in a vision, and they told me that if I wanted to know what my
mother was like, I had only to consult a looking-glass. She had blue
eyes, a very fair complexion, and hair of a rich, strongly-colored
auburn, a color more appreciated by painters than by other people. In
the year 1876 I was examining a large boxful of business papers that had
belonged to my father, and burning most of them in a garden in
Yorkshire, when a little packet fell out of a legal document that I was
just going to throw upon the fire. It was a lock of hair carefully
folded in a piece of the bluish paper my father used for his law
correspondence, and fastened with an old wire-headed pin. I at once took
it to a lady who had known my mother, and she said without a moment's
hesitation that the hair was certainly hers, so that I now possess this
relic, and it is all I have of my poor mother whose face I never saw,
and whose voice I never heard. Few people who have lived in the world
have left such slight traces. There are no letters of hers except one or
two formal compositions written at school under the eye of the mistress,
which of course express nothing of her own mind or feelings. Those who
knew her have told me that she was a very lively and amiable person,
physically active, and a good horsewoman. She and my father were fond of
riding out together, and indeed were separated as little as might be
during their brief happiness. She even, on one occasion, went out
shooting with him and killed something, after which she melted into
tears of pity over her victim. [Footnote: A lady related to my mother
shot well, and killed various kinds of game, of which I remember seeing
stuffed specimens as trophies of her skill.]
The reader will pardon me for dwelling thus on these few details of a
life so sadly and prematurely ended. The knowledge that my mother had
died early cast a certain melancholy over my childhood; I found that
people looked at me with some tenderness and pity for her sake, so I
felt vaguely that there had been a great loss, though unable to estimate
the extent of it. Later, when I understood better what pains and perils
Nature inflicts on women in order that children may come into the world,
it seemed that the days I lived had been bought for me by the sacrifice
of days that my mother ought to have lived. She was but twenty-four when
she passed away, so that now I have lived more than twice her span.
The effect of the loss upon my father was utterly disastrous. His new
and good projects were all shattered, and a cloud fell over his
existence that was never lifted. He did not marry again, and he lost his
interest in his profession. My mother left him all her property
absolutely, so he felt no spur of necessity and became indolent or
indifferent; yet those who were capable of judging had a good opinion of
his abilities as a lawyer. Just before his wife's death, my father had
rather distinguished himself in an important case, and received a
testimonial from his client with the following inscription:--
_Presented to Mr. Hammerton, Solr, by his obliged client Mr. Waring, as
a token of Esteem for his active services in the cause tried against
Stopherd at Lancaster, in the arrangement of the argument arising
thereon at Westminster, and his successful defence to the Equity Suit
instituted by the Deft_. 1834.
My father's practice at that time was beginning to be lucrative, and
would no doubt have become much more so in a few years; but the blow to
his happiness that occurred in the September of 1834 produced such
discouragement that he sought relief from his depression in the society
of lively companions. Most unfortunately for him, there was no lively
masculine society in the place where he lived that was not at the same
time a constant incitement to drinking. There were a few places in the
Lancashire of those days where convivial habits were carried to such a
degree that they destroyed what ought to have been the flower of the
male population. The strong and hearty men who believed that they could
be imprudent with impunity, the lively, intelligent, and sociable men
who wanted the wittiest and brightest talk that was to be had in the
neighborhood, the bachelor whose hearth was lonely, and the widower
whose house had been made desolate, all these were tempted to join
meetings of merry companions who set no limits to the strength or the
quantity of their potations. My poor father was a man of great physical
endowments, and he came at last to have a mistaken pride in being able
to drink deeply without betraying any evil effects; but a few years of
such an existence undermined one of the finest constitutions ever given
to mortal man. A quarryman once told me that my father had appeared at
the quarry at six o'clock in the morning looking quite fresh and hearty,
when, taking up the heaviest sledge-hammer he could find, he gayly
challenged the men to try who could throw it farthest. None of them came
near him, on which he turned and said with a laugh of satisfaction,
--"Not bad that, for a man who drank thirty glasses of brandy the
day before!" Whether he had ever approached such a formidable
number I will not venture to say, but the incident exactly paints my
father in his northern pride of strength, the fatal pride that believes
itself able to resist poison because it has the muscles of an athlete.
It was always said by those who knew the family that my father was the
cleverest member of it, but his ability must have expended itself in
witty conversation and in his professional work, as I do not remember
the smallest evidence of what are called intellectual tastes. My mother
had a few books that had belonged to her family, and to these my father
added scarcely anything. I can remember his books quite clearly, even at
this distance of time. One was a biography of William IV., another a set
of sketches of Reform Ministers, a third was Baines's "History of
Lancashire," a fourth a Geographical Dictionary. These were, I believe,
almost all the books (not concerned with the legal profession) that my
father ever purchased. His bookcase did not contain a single volume by
the most popular English poets of his own time, nor even so much as a
novel by Sir Walter Scott. I have no recollection of ever having seen
him read a book, but he took in the "Times" newspaper, and I clearly
remember that he read the leading articles, which it was the fashion at
that time to look upon as models of style. This absence of interest in
literature was accompanied by that complete and absolute indifference to
the fine arts which was so common in the middle classes and the country
aristocracy of those days. I mention these deficiencies to explain the
extreme dulness of my poor father's existence during his widowhood, a
dulness that a lover of books must have a difficulty in imagining. A man
living alone with servants (for his son's childhood was spent
elsewhere), who took hardly any interest in a profession that had become
little more than nominal for him, who had not even the stimulus of a
desire to accumulate wealth (almost the only recognized object in the
place where he lived), a man who had no intellectual pursuits whatever,
and whose youth was too far behind him for any joyous physical activity,
was condemned to seek such amusements as the customs of the place
afforded, and these all led to drinking. He and his friends drank when
they were together to make society merrier, and when they happened to be
alone they drank to make solitude endurable. Had they drunk light wines
like French peasants, or beer like Germans, they might have lasted
longer, but their favorite drink was brandy in hot strong grogs,
accompanied by unlimited tobacco. They dined in the middle of the day,
and had the spirit decanters and the tobacco-box on the table instead of
dessert, frequently drinking through the whole afternoon and a long
evening afterwards. In the morning they slaked alcoholic thirst with
copious draughts of ale. My father went on steadily with this kind of
existence without anything whatever to rescue him from its gradual and
fatal degradation. He separated himself entirely from the class he
belonged to by birth, lived with men of little culture, though they may
have had natural wit, and sacrificed his whole future to mere village
conviviality. Thousands of others have followed the same road, but few
have sacrificed so much. My father had a constitution such as is not
given to one man in ten thousand, and his mind was strong and clear,
though he had not literary tastes. He was completely independent, free
to travel or to make a fortune in his profession if he preferred a
sedentary existence, but the binding force of habit overcame his
weakened will, and he fell into a kind of life that placed intellectual
and moral recovery alike beyond his reach.
CHAPTER III.
1835-1841.
My childhood is passed at Burnley with my aunts.--My grandfather and
grandmother.--Estrangement between Gilbert Hamerton and his brother of
Hellifield Peel.--Death of Gilbert Hamerton.--His taste for the French
language.--His travels in Portugal, and the conduct of a steward during
his absence.--His three sons.--Aristocratic tendencies of his
daughters.--Beginning of my education.--Visits to my father.
I was not brought up during childhood under my father's roof, but was
sent to live with his two unmarried sisters. These ladies were then
living in Burnley with their mother.
Burnley is now a large manufacturing town of seventy thousand
inhabitants, but in those days it was just rising in importance, and a
few years earlier it had been a small country town in an uncommonly
aristocratic neighborhood. The gate of Towneley Park opens now almost
upon the town itself, and in former times there were many other seats of
the greater or lesser squires within a radius of a very few miles. It is
a common mistake in the south of England to suppose that Lancashire is a
purely commercial county. There are, or were in my youth, some very
aristocratic neighborhoods in Lancashire, and that immediately about
Burnley was one of them. The creation of new wealth, and the extinction
or departure of a few families, may have altered its character since
then, but in the days of my grandfather nobody thought of disputing the
supremacy of the old houses. There was something almost sublime in the
misty antiquity of the Towneley family, one of the oldest in all
England, and still one of the wealthiest, keeping house in its venerable
castellated mansion in a great park with magnificent avenues. Other
houses of less wealth and more modern date had their pedigrees in the
history of Lancashire.
My grandfather, Gilbert Hamerton, possessed an old gabled mansion with a
small but picturesque estate, divided from Towneley Park by a public
road, and he had other property in the town and elsewhere enough to make
him independent, but not enough to make him one of the great squires.
However, as he was the second son of an ancient Yorkshire family, and as
pedigrees and quarterings counted for something in those comparatively
romantic times, the somewhat exclusive aristocracy about Burnley had
received him with much cordiality from the first, and he continued all
his life to belong to it. His comparative poverty was excused by a
well-known history of confiscation in his family, and perhaps made him
rather more interesting, especially as it did not go far enough to
become--what poverty becomes so easily--ridiculous. He lived in a large
old house, and plentifully enough, but without state and style. His
marriage had been extremely imprudent from the worldly point of view. An
aunt of my grandfather's, on his mother's side, had invited him to stay
with her, and had not foreseen the attractions of a farmer's daughter
who was living in the house as a companion. My good, unworldly
grandfather fell in love with this girl, and married her. He never had
any serious reason to regret this very imprudent step, for Jane Smith
became an excellent wife and mother, and she did not even injure his
position in society, where she knew how to make herself respected, and
was much beloved by her most intimate friends. I remember her, though I
never knew my grandfather. My recollection of her is a sort of picture
of an old lady always dressed in black, and seated near a window, or
walking slowly with a stick. The dawn of reason and feeling is
associated in my memory with an intense affection for this old lady and
with the kind things she said to me, not yet forgotten. I remember, too,
the awful stillness of her dead body (hers was the first dead human body
I looked upon), and the strange emptiness of the house when it had been
taken away.
Though my grandmother was only a farmer's daughter, her parents were
well-to-do in their own line of life, and at various times helped my
grandfather with sums of money; but the fact remained that he had
married quite out of his class, and it has always seemed to me probable
that the marriage may have had some connection with the complete and
permanent estrangement that existed between Gilbert Hamerton and his
brother, the squire of Hellifield Peel. As soon as I was old enough to
understand a little about relationships, I reflected that the houses of
my own uncles were open to me, that my cousins were all like brothers
and sisters to me, and yet that my father and my aunts had never been to
their uncle's house at Hellifield, and that our relations there never
came to see us at Burnley. The explanation of this estrangement given by
my grandfather, was that there had been a disagreement about land; but
perhaps he may have felt some delicacy about telling his children that
his unambitious marriage had contributed to render the separation
permanent. However this may have been, my grandmother never once saw the
inside of her brother-in-law's house, and when she died there was, I
believe, not even the formal expression of condolence that is usual
among acquaintances. Gilbert Hamerton had lived at Hollins, a house and
estate inherited from his mother; and James Hamerton, the elder brother,
lived in a castellated peel or border tower at Hellifield, which had
been built by Lawrence Hamerton in 1440. The two places are not much
more than twenty miles apart; but the brothers never met after their
quarrel, and my grandfather's sons and daughters never saw their uncle's
house. One result of the estrangement was that we hardly seemed to
belong to our own family; and I remember a lady, who had some very vague
and shadowy claims to a distant connection with the family at
Hellifield, asking one of my aunts in a rather patronizing manner if she
also did not "claim to be connected" with the Hamertons of Hellifield
Peel. Even to this day it is difficult for me to realize the simple fact
that she was niece to an uncle whom she had never seen, and first cousin
to his successor.
My grandfather had lived in apparently excellent health till the age of
seventy-seven, when one afternoon as he was seated in his dining-room at
Hollins, nobody being present except his eldest daughter Mary, he asked
her to open the window, and then added, "Say a prayer." She immediately
began to repeat a short prayer, and before she had reached the end of it
he was dead. There is a strange incident connected with his death, which
may be worth something to those who take an interest in what is now
called "Psychical Research." At the same hour his married daughter was
sitting in a room forty miles away with her little boy, a child just old
enough to talk, and the child stared with intense interest at an empty
chair. His mother asked what attracted his attention, and the child
said, "Don't you see, mamma, the old gentleman who is sitting in that
chair?" I am careful not to add details, as my own imagination might
unconsciously amplify them, but my impression is that the child was
asked to describe the vision more minutely, and that his description
exactly accorded with his grandfather's usual appearance.
The old gentleman preserved the costume and manners of the eighteenth
century, wearing his pig-tail, breeches, and shoe-buckles. He took life
too easily for any intellectual achievements, but he had a great liking
for the French language, and wrote a very original French grammar, which
he had curiously printed in synoptic sheets, at his private expense,
though it was never completed or published. I have sometimes thought it
possible that my own aptitude and affinity for that language may have
been inherited from him, and that his labors may in a manner have
overcome many difficulties for me by the wonderful process of
transmission. He never lived in France, and I believe he never visited
the country, his French conversations being chiefly held with a
good-natured Roman Catholic chaplain at Towneley Hall. My grandfather's
most extensive travels were in Portugal, lasting six months, and with
regard to that journey I remember two painful incidents. His travelling
companion, a younger brother, died abroad, in consequence of having
slept in a damp bed. The other incident is vexatious rather than
tragical, and yet Wordsworth would have seen tragedy in it also. During
his absence from home, my grandfather had confided the care of his
estate to an agent, who cut down the old avenue of oaks that led to the
house, on the pretext that some of the trees were showing signs of
decay, and that he had an acceptable offer for the whole. The road
retained the name of "The Avenue" for many years, but the trees were
never replaced.
Perhaps the reader will think this incident hardly worth mentioning, but
to a lover of trees, avenues, and old houses, such as I confess myself
to be, it seems the very perfection of a vexatious incident. I cannot
imagine anything whatever, not entailing any serious consequences, that
would have tried my own temper more.
On my grandfather's death, the whole of his property went to his eldest
son. He had brought up all his three sons to be solicitors, not because
he had any peculiar enthusiasm for the legal profession, but simply as
the readiest means of earning a living. The sons themselves had no
natural affinity for the law; my eldest uncle heartily disliked it, the
other regarded it with cool indifference, and my father expressed his
desire that I should never be a lawyer, on the ground that a man had
enough to plague him in his own concerns without troubling his mind
about those of other people. One curious distinction may be noted here,
as the result probably of that intermingling with the every-day world,
which happens naturally in the career of provincial attorneys. Whilst my
aunts remained all their lives aristocratic in their feelings, and
rather liked to enjoy the hospitality of the great houses in the
neighborhood, my uncles, and my father also, abandoned all aristocratic
memories and aspirations, and entered frankly into the middle class.
Each of them did what was natural under the circumstances. Women are
generally more aristocratic than men, and cling more decidedly to their
class, and I think my aunts showed better taste in liking refined
society than my father did in lowering himself to associate with men of
an inferior stamp in rank, in manners, and in habits. I distinctly
remember how one of my aunts told me that somebody had made a remark on
her liking for great people, and the only comment she made was, that she
preferred gentlefolks because their manners were more agreeable. She was
not a worshipper of rank, but she liked the quiet, pleasant manners of
the aristocracy, which indeed were simply her own manners.
My childhood could not have been better cared for, even by my own
mother, than by these two excellent ladies. They gave me a beginning of
education, and they have told me since that I learned to read English
with the greatest facility, so that when I was sent to the Grammar
School at Burnley, at the early age of five and a half, the master
considered me so well forward that I was set at once to Latin. In those
days it was a part of the wisdom of our educators to make us learn Latin
out of a grammar written in that language, and I retain some
recollection of the perfectly useless mental fatigue and puzzlement that
I was made to undergo in learning abstract statements about grammatical
science that were written in a tongue which I could not possibly
understand. The idea of taking a child five and a half years old, and
making it learn a dead language by abstract rules, is of itself a great
error. The proper way to teach a child Latin is simply to give it a
vocabulary, including only the things that it can see or imagine, and a
few verbs to make little phrases. I had learned to read English so
easily that good hopes were entertained for the rest of my education,
but my progress in Latin was very slow, and the only result of my early
training was to give me a horror of everything printed in Latin, that I
did not overcome for many years.
There was another child-pupil rather older than I, and the head-master
of those days (Dr. Butler's predecessor), who had a rude disposition,
sometimes amused himself by putting me on one of his knees, and the
other little boy on the other knee, after which, by an adroit
simultaneous movement of the two legs, he suddenly brought our heads
into collision. I quite remember the sensation of being stunned on these
occasions, but am not aware that my Latin was any the better for it.
My recollection of those early years is extremely vague, and there is
little in them that could interest the reader. I was taken once or twice
a year to my father, and always disliked and dreaded those visits, as I
feared him greatly, and with good reason. On one of these visits, when
quite a child, I persuaded my father's groom to let me mount his
saddle-horse, which I remember as a gray animal of what seemed a
prodigious altitude. The man put me on the horse's back, and being
entirely destitute of common-sense or prudence, actually gave me a whip
and left the bridle to me. I applied the whip vigorously, and was very
soon thrown off and carried back to the house covered with blood,
happily without more serious consequences. Another little incident has
more of the comic element. My father employed a tailor for himself, and
told the man to make me a suit without entering into any particulars.
The tailor being thus left to his own wisdom, made a costume that was
the exact copy of a full-grown squire's dress on a small scale. It was
composed of a green cut-away coat, a yellow waistcoat, and green
trousers, the whole adorned with gilt buttons. The tailor dressed me,
and then, proud of his work, presented me to my father and the ladies.
If the tailor was proud, my pride and satisfaction were at least equal
to his, and we neither of us could in the least understand the roars of
laughter that my appearance provoked, whilst our feelings were deeply
wounded by my father's tyrannical decree that I was never to wear those
beautiful clothes at all. Even to this day I am capable of regretting
that suit, and certainly I often see children now whose costumes are at
least equally absurd.
CHAPTER IV.
1842.
A tour in Wales in 1842.--Extracts from my journal of this tour.--My
inborn love for beautiful materials.--Stay at Rhyl.--Anglesea and
Caernarvon.--Reasons for specially remembering this tour.
The pleasantest recollections I have of my father are connected with a
tour in Wales that he undertook with me and his eldest sister in the
summer of 1842. My aunt made me keep a journal of that tour, which I
still possess, and by its help those days come hack to me with a
vividness that is very astonishing to myself. Being accustomed to live
with grown-up people, and having no companions of my own age in the same
house (though I had cousins at Hollins and friends at school), I had
acquired a way of talking about things as older people talk, so that the
journal in question contains many observations that do not seem natural
for a child. The fact, no doubt, is that I listened to my father and
aunt, and then put down many of their remarks in my little history of
our tour; but I was very observant on my own account, and received very
strong impressions, especially from buildings, such as old castles and
cathedrals, and great houses, and I had a topographic habit of mind even
in childhood, which made every fresh locality interesting to me and
engraved it on my memory. Perhaps the reader may like to see a page of
the diary. It seems rather formal and elderly to be written by a child
eight years old, but it must be remembered that it was an exercise
written by my father's desire and to please him. Letters to my cousins
at the same date would have been more juvenile. Nevertheless, it was
perfectly natural for me then to use words employed by older people, and
the reader will remember that I had been learning Latin for more than
two years.
"On the road from Rhydland to Abergele we saw Hemmel Park, the seat of
Lord Dinorbin, lately burnt down. Near Rhydland is Penwarn, the seat of
Lord Mostyn; the house is small and unpretending, the grounds are
beautiful. There is a very handsome dog-kennel, in which are kept
forty-four couple of fine fox-hounds ready for work, besides old ones in
one kennel, and young ones in another: the dogs all in such good order
and kennels so perfectly clean. In one field were sixteen hunters
without shoes. Lord Mostyn does not live much at Penwarn, generally in
London. He is an old man, and at present an invalid. We had several
pleasant days' fishing in the Clwyd and Elway; a Mr. Graham at Rhyl has
permission to fish in Lord Mostyn's preserve, and he may take a friend,
which character Papa and I personated for the time.
"About eight miles from Rhyl is Trelacre, the seat of Sir Pyers Mostyn,
a very excellent modern building; the grounds are laid out with most
luxuriant taste, nothing is wanting to give effect to it as a whole. In
the woods opposite the house is a rich but rather formal distribution of
flower-beds; everything appeared to be in blossom. On an elevation is
placed the most ingeniously contrived Grotto; at every turn there is a
device of another character to the last, here a lion couchant, there the
head of Momus, a wild boar's head, a heron, a skeleton, &c., &c. In one
place were two old friars seated, each leaning on his stick, apparently
in earnest conversation; all these are roughly, but with great accuracy,
formed upon the numerous pillars which support a room or two above. The
last object you arrive at is a hermit as large as life seated in his
cell, with one book beside him and another on his knee, upon which his
left hand is placed; his right is laid across his breast. The pillars
are so contrived that the little cavern is light in every part; at the
entrance is an immense sea-dragon with large glaring eyes and a long red
tongue hanging half-way out. The monster had an effect somewhat
startling. Next above the grotto is a small room hewn out of the rock,
with sofas and pillows on each side the fireplace hewn out of the same
rock. In the centre is a stone table, upon which were some beautiful
antique bowls, cups, &c. The door to this apartment is a great
curiosity, being made to appear as if of rock; we did not think at first
that it was a real door. Over this room is another, the residence of a
lame woman, who showed us upon the leads above her dwelling a very
extensive prospect; amongst the objects was the mouth of the river Dee.
She afterwards [took us] to a moss house, and several other nice points
in the garden. The walks are covered with the material left in washing
the lead ore, through which no weed can even peep. It is many-colored,
and the glittering of here and there a bit of ore, lead, or silver, has
a very pretty effect indeed."
The reader will have had enough of the journal by this time. Its only
merit is the accurate noting down of details that I had seen; but many
of the details are such as children of that age do not commonly pay
attention to, as, for instance, in this bit about an old church:--
"The church at Dyserth has an east window which is considered the
greatest antiquity in Wales; many figures of the saints are represented
in colored glass, the lead betwixt the panes is the breadth of two
fingers. The yard has several old trees--two very fine yews, and
certainly the largest birch for miles round."
I notice a great interest in all beautiful materials throughout the
pages of this journal; the kind of wood used for the suites of furniture
is invariably mentioned, as, for example, the chairs of solid ebony in
the dining-room at Penrhyn Castle, the old oak in the dining-room at
Trelacre, and the light oak in the drawing-room, the carved oak ceilings
and pillars at Penrhyn, and the use of stone from St. Helen's there, as
well as the bedstead that is made of slate, and the enormous table of
the same material in the servants' hall. The interest in materials is a
special instinct, a kind of sympathy with Nature showing itself by
appreciation of the different qualities of her products. This instinct
has always been very strong in me, and I have often noticed it in
others, especially in artists. Some poets are very fond of describing
beautiful materials; but the instinct is not confined to poetical or
artistic natures, being often found amongst workmen in the handicrafts,
and it may be associated with a sense of the usefulness of materials, as
well as with admiration of their beauty. With me the interest in them is
both artistic and utilitarian; all metals, woods, marble, etc., are
delightful to me in some way.
In 1842 Rhyl was a little quiet place known to the Liverpool people as a
good bathing-place, but not spoiled by formal rows of houses and big
hotels. There was at that time in Rhyl a gentleman who possessed a sort
of genteel cottage in a relatively large garden, and though the house
was small, it might have done for a widower like my father, and it was
for sale. I remember urging my father to buy it, as Rhyl pleased me on
account of the possibilities of boating and riding on the sands, besides
which we had enjoyed some excellent fishing, which delighted me as a
child, though I gave up the amusement afterwards. I mention the house
here for a particular reason. It has remained very distinctly in my
memory ever since, as my father's last chance of escape from his habits
and associates. Whilst we were in Wales together he conducted himself as
a man ought to do who is travelling with a lady and a child. He was not
harsh with me, and notwithstanding my habitual fear of him, some of my
Welsh days with him are pleasant to live over again in memory. Now, if
he had bought that house, the sort of life we were then leading might
have become habitual, and he might possibly have been saved from the sad
fate that awaited him. However, though tempted for a moment, he refused
because it did not seem a good investment, being a flimsy little
building, not very well contrived.
Though my father would not buy the house to please me, he bought me a
little bay mare at Rhyl that was a pretty and swift creature, and we
took her on the steamer to Menai, where, for want of a convenient
arrangement for landing horses, she was pitched into the sea and made to
swim ashore. She had been in a hot place on the steamer, near the
engines, and the sudden change to the cold sea-water was probably (so we
thought afterwards) the reason why she became broken-winded, which was a
great grief to me. I hardly know why I record these trifles, but they
have an importance in the feelings of a boy, and I am weak enough to
have very tender feelings about animals down to the present day.
We visited Anglesea and Caernarvon, and other places too well known for
the reader to tolerate a description of them here. In those days the
tubular bridge had not yet been thought of; but the beautiful suspension
bridge at Menai was already in existence, and was the most remarkable
bridge then existing in the world. I was more struck by the beauty of
the structure than by its costliness or size; the journal says, "It is
indeed wonderfully beautiful." On one of our excursions we saw what in
rainy weather is a good waterfall, and I find a reference to this that I
quote for the curious bit of Welsh-English that is included in it,--"We
came to a little village, which has in a wet season a very fine
waterfall; the driver said it would not be seen to advantage because
there was 'few water.' There certainly was 'few water,' but the fine
high rocks gave a powerful idea of what it would have been had the
rushing of waters taken the place of the death-like stillness which then
prevailed."
The reader will perhaps pardon me for having dwelt longer on this Welsh
tour than the interest of it may seem to warrant; but I look back to it
with lingering regret as the last agreeable association connected with
the memory of my father. It was a most happy little tour. I had an
intensely strong affection for my father's eldest sister Mary, who
accompanied us, and whose dear handwriting I recognize in a few
corrections in the journal. Besides, that year 1842 is absolutely the
last year of my life in which I could live in happy ignorance of evil
and retain all the buoyancy of early boyhood. A terrible experience was
in reserve for me that soon aged me rapidly, and made a really merry
boyish life impossible for me after having passed through it.
CHAPTER V.
1843-1844.
A painful chapter to write.--My father calls me home.--What kind of a
house it was.--Paternal education and discipline.--My life at that time
one of dulness varied by dread.
The writing of this chapter is so painful to me that the necessity for
it has made me put off the composition of this autobiography year after
year. Then why not omit the chapter altogether? The omission is
impossible, because the events of the year 1843-1844 were quite the most
important of my early boyhood, and have had a most powerful and in some
respects a disastrous influence over my whole life.
Notwithstanding my father's kindness to me during our Welsh tour, my
feelings towards him were not, and could not be, those of trust and
confidence. He was extremely severe at times, often much more so than
the occasion warranted, this being partly natural in a strong
authoritative man, and partly the result of irritability brought on by
his habit of drinking. When inflamed with brandy he became positively
dangerous, and I had a well-founded dread of his presence. At all times
he was very uncertain--he might greet me with a kind word or he might be
harsh or silent, just as it happened. During my visits to him at Shaw,
one of my two aunts invariably accompanied me and stayed as long as I
stayed, which was a great protection for me. The idea of being left
alone with my father, even for a day, was enough to fill me with
apprehension; however, it did not seem likely that I should have to live
with him, as I should probably be sent to some distant school, and only
come home for the holidays.
This was the view of my future that was taken by my aunts and myself,
when one day in the year 1843, I believe in the month of June, there
came a letter from my father peremptorily declaring, in terms which
admitted of no discussion, that although a child might live with ladies
it was not good for a boy, and that he had determined to have me for the
future under his own roof. The news came upon me like a thunderclap in a
clear sky. I had grateful and affectionate feelings towards both my
aunts, but to the elder my feelings were those of a son, and a very
loving son, towards his mother. She had, in fact, taken the place of my
mother so completely that I remained unconscious of my loss. I reserve
for a pleasanter chapter than this the delightful duty of painting her
portrait; at present it is enough to say that a separation from her in
childhood was the most bitter grief that could be experienced by me, and
my father's ukase made this separation seem destined to be eternal,
except perhaps a short visit in the holidays. In a word, my filial life
with her seemed at an end.
I was taken to my father's and left alone with him. Some years before,
he had bought a house in Shaw called Ivy Cottage,--a house with a front
of painted stucco, looking on a garden,--and though the gable end of the
house looked on a street, the other end had a view over some fields, not
then built over. My father rented one or two of these fields for his
horses and cows, and some farm buildings just big enough for his small
establishment. He did not keep a carriage, and had even given up his
dogcart, but he always had a saddle-horse for himself and a pony for me;
at one time I had two ponies. His horses were his only luxury, but he
was as exacting about them as if he had been a rich nobleman. He would
not tolerate careless grooming for an instant; bits and stirrups were
always kept in a state of exemplary brightness, and when he rode through
Shaw he was quite fit to be seen in Hyde Park. At that time he had a
jet-black mare of a vicious temper, which only gratified his pride as a
horseman, and it so happened (I am not inventing this for a contrast)
that my pony was of the purest white with full mane and tail of the
same, and shaped exactly like the sturdy war-horses in old pictures. As
he was still a fine-looking, handsome man and I was a healthy boy, no
doubt we looked well enough, and it is probable that many a poor factory
lad envied me my good luck in being able to ride about in that way,
instead of working in a mill; but I rode in constant dread of my
father's heavy hunting-whip. It had a steel hammer at the end of the
long handle, and if at any time its owner fancied that I was turning my
toes out, he did not say anything, but with a dexterity acquired by
practice he delivered a sharp blow with that hammer on my foot which
made me writhe with pain. Nothing vexed him more than any appearance of
gentleness or tenderness. I loved my pony, Lily, and did not like to
beat her when she was doing her best, and she had hard work to keep up
with my father's ill-tempered mare, so he would say, "D--n it, can't you
whip her? Can't you whip better than that? The strokes of that whip of
yours are so feeble that they wouldn't kill a fly!" Nobody could say
that of _his_ hitting. I had a little young dog that was very dear to
me, and when it pleased my father one day to walk into the kitchen, it
unluckily so happened that the dog was, or seemed to be, in his way, so
he gave it a kick that sent it into the middle of the room, and there it
lay quivering. He took no notice of it, said what he had to say, in his
usual peremptory tone, and then left the room. I knelt down by the poor
little dog, which was in its death-agony, and shortly breathed its last.
During our rides my dreaded companion would stop at many inns and
private houses, where he slaked his perpetual thirst in stirrup-cups, or
sometimes he would go in and sit for a long time whilst the horses were
cared for by some groom. The effects of these refreshments could not
fail to be evident as we returned home; and it was more by good luck
than anything else, except his habitually excellent horsemanship, that
he was able to ride at all in that condition. I clearly remember one
particular occasion when he seemed to be keeping his seat with more than
usual uncertainty, and at last fairly rolled out of it. We were riding
along a paved street, so that the fall would have been very serious; but
two or three men who were watching him foresaw the accident just in
time, and rushed forward to catch him as he fell. On another occasion
when I was not present (indeed this happened before my settled residence
with my father) he fell in a most dangerous way, with his foot caught in
the stirrup, and was dragged violently down a steep hill till the horse
was brought to a stand. Fortunately my father wore a top-coat at the
time, which was soon torn off his back by the friction, and so were his
other clothes, and the back itself was almost flayed; but the doctor
said that if he had been lightly dressed the accident would have been far
more serious.
My father would sometimes send me on errands to a considerable distance
with the pony, and as he hated all dawdling and loitering in others,
though he had become a perfectly undisciplined man himself, he would
limit me strictly to the time necessary for my journey, a time that I
never ventured to exceed. In some respects the education that he was
giving me, though of Spartan severity, was not ill calculated for the
formation of a manly character. He quite understood the importance of
applying the mind completely to the thing which occupied it for the
moment. If he saw me taking several books together that had no
connection with each other, he would say, "Take one of those books and
read it steadily, don't potter and play with half-a-dozen."
Desultory effort irritated him, and he was quick to detect busy idleness
under its various disguises. He swore very freely himself, and as I
heard so many oaths I was beginning to acquire the same accomplishment,
when he overheard me accidentally and gave me such a stern lecture on
the subject that I knew ever after I was not to follow the paternal
example. What his soul hated most, however, was a lie or the shadow of a
lie. He could not tolerate the little fibs that are common with women
and children, and are often their only protection against despotism.
"Tell the truth and shame the devil" was one of his favorite precepts,
though why the devil should feel ashamed because I spoke the truth was
never perfectly clear to my childish intellect. However, the precept
sank deep into my nature, and got mixed up with a feeling of
self-respect, so that it became really difficult for me to tell fibs. I
remember on one occasion being a martyr for truth in peculiarly trying
circumstances. It was before I lived permanently under the paternal
roof, and on one of those visits we paid to my father. An aunt was with
me (not the one who accompanied us to Wales), and she was often rather
hard and severe. My father had made a law that I was to practise with
dumb-bells a quarter of an hour every morning, and this exercise was
taken in the garden, but before beginning I always looked at the clock
which was in the sitting-room. On coming back into the house one
morning, I met my father, who said, "Have you done your fifteen
minutes?" "Yes, papa." "That is not true," said my aunt from the next
room, "he has only practised for ten minutes; look at the clock!" My
terrible master looked at the clock; the finger stood at ten minutes
after eleven, and this was taken as conclusive evidence against me. I
simply answered (what was true) that I had begun five minutes before the
hour. This "additional lie" put my father into a fury, and he ordered me
to do punishment drill with those dumb-bells for two hours without
stopping. Of those hundred and twenty minutes he did not remit one. Long
before their expiration I was ready to drop, but he came frequently to
show that he had his eye upon me, and the horrible machine-like motion
must continue. On other occasions I got punished for lying, when my only
fault was the common childish inability to explain. "Why did you tear
that piece of paper?" "Please, papa, I did not tear it; _I pulled it,
and it tore_." Here is a child attempting to explain that he had not
torn a piece of paper voluntarily, that he had stretched it only, and
had himself been surprised by the tearing. In my father's code that was
a "confounded lie," and I was to be severely punished for it.
His system of education included riding as an essential part, and that
he taught me well, so far as a child of that age could learn it. But
though there were harriers within a few miles he could not take me to
hunt, as children are sometimes taken in easier countries, the fields in
Lancashire being so frequently divided by stone walls. The nature of our
neighborhood equally prevented him from teaching me to swim, which he
would otherwise have done, as there were no streams deep enough, or left
in their natural purity. To accustom me to water, however, he made me
take cold shower-baths, certainly the best substitute for a plunge that
can be had in an ordinary room. In mental education he attached great
importance to common things, to arithmetic, for example, and to good
reading aloud, and intelligible writing. His own education had been very
limited; he knew no modern language but his own, and I believe he knew
no Greek whatever, and only just enough Latin for a solicitor, which in
those days was not very much; but if he was a Philistine in neglecting
his own culture, he had not the real Philistine's contempt for culture
in others and desired to have me well taught; yet there was nobody near
at hand to continue my higher education properly, and I was likely, had
we lived long together at Shaw, to become like the regular middle-class
Englishmen of those days, who from sheer want of preliminary training
were impervious to the best influences of literature and art. I might
have written a clear business letter, and calculated interest
accurately.
To accustom me to money matters, child as I was, my father placed gold
and silver in my keeping, and whatever I spent was to be accounted for.
In this way money was not to be an imaginary thing for me, but a real
thing, and I was not to lose the control of myself because I had my
pocket full of sovereigns. This was a very original scheme in its
application to so young a child, but it perfectly succeeded, and I never
either lost or misapplied one halfpenny of the sums my father entrusted
to my keeping. He was evidently pleased with his success in this.
There was a village school near his house kept by a respectable man for
children of both sexes, and there I was sent to practise calligraphy and
arithmetic. During school-hours there was at least complete relief from
the paternal supervision, and besides this I managed to fall in love
with a girl about a year older than myself, who was a very nice girl
indeed, though she squinted to an unfortunate degree. That is the great
advantage of having the young of both sexes in the same schoolroom,--the
manners of the brutal sex may be made tender by the presence of the
refined one. Boys and girls both went to the Grammar School at Burnley,
in the now forgotten days when Mr. Raws was head-master there; but that
was long before my time.
My existence at Ivy Cottage was one of extreme dulness varied by dread.
Every meal was a _tête-à-tête_ with my father, unrelieved by the
presence of any lady or young person, and he became more and more gloomy
as his nervous system gradually gave way, so that after having been
simply stern and unbending, he was now like a black cloud always hanging
over me and ready, as it seemed, to be my destruction in some way or
other not yet clearly defined. It was an immense relief to me when a
guest came to dinner, and I remember being once very much interested in
a gentleman who sat opposite me at table, for the simple reason that I
believed him to be the Duke of Wellington. There was rather more fuss
than usual in the way of preparation, and my father treated his guest
with marked deference, besides which the stranger had the Wellingtonian
nose, so my youthful mind was soon made up on the subject, and I
listened eagerly in the hope that the hero of Waterloo would fight some
of his battles over again. He remained, however, silent on that subject,
and I afterwards had the disappointment of learning that our guest was
not the Duke, but only the holder of a high office in the county.
CHAPTER VI.
1844.
My extreme loneliness.--Thoughts of flight.--My father's last illness
and death.--Circumstances of my last interview with him.--His funeral.
It was one of the effects of the constant anxiety and excitement, and
the dreadful wretchedness of that time, that my brain received the
images of all surrounding creatures and things with an unnatural
clearness and intensity, and that they were impressed upon it for life.
Even now everything about Ivy Cottage is as clear as if the forty years
were only as many days, and the writing of these chapters brings
everything before me most vividly, not only the faces of the people and
the habits and motions of the animals, but even the furniture, of which
I remember every detail, down to the coloring of the services in the
bedrooms, and the paint on my father's rocking-chair. An anecdote has
been told in these pages about exercise with dumb-bells and an appeal to
the clock. In writing that, I saw the real clock with the moon on its
face (for it showed the phases of the moon), and my aunt standing near
the window with her work in her hand and glancing up from the work to
the clock, just as she did in reality.
Amongst other particular occasions I remember one night when the moon
shone very brightly in the garden, and I was sitting near my bedroom
window looking over it, meditating flight. My father's cruelty had then
reached its highest point. I was always spoken to harshly when he
condescended to take any notice of me at all, and was very frequently
beaten. Our meals together had become perfectly intolerable. He would
sit and trifle with his cutlet, and cover it with pepper, for his
appetite was completely gone, and there was no conversation except
perhaps an occasional expression of displeasure. The continual tension
caused by anxiety made my sleep broken and uncertain, and that night I
sat up alone in the bedroom longer than usual and looking down upon the
moonlit garden. There was an octagonal summer-house of trellis-work on
the formal oblong lawn, and on the top of it was a large hollow ball of
sheet-copper painted green that had cost my grandmother three pounds. It
is oddly associated with my anxieties on that night, because I looked
first at it and then at the moon alternately whilst thinking. The
situation had become absolutely intolerable, the servants were my only
protectors, and though devoted they never dared to interfere when their
master was actually beating me. I therefore seriously weighed, in my own
childish manner, the possibilities of a secret flight. The moonlight was
tempting--it would be easy to go alone to the stable and saddle the
pony. On a fine night I could be many miles away before morning. There
was no difficulty whatever about money; I had plenty of sovereigns in a
drawer to be accounted for afterwards to my father, and meanwhile could
employ them in escaping from him. Still, I knew that such an employment
of _his_ money would be looked upon by him as a breach of trust, and
would, in fact, _be_ a breach of trust. This consideration was not
easily set aside, though I now see that it was needlessly scrupulous,
and have no doubt whatever that if a child is left by the ignorance or
the carelessness of superior authority in the hands of a madman, it has
a clear right to provide for its own safety by any means in its power.
But where was I to go? My uncles were two very cool lawyers, always on
the side of authority, and they would not be likely to believe my story
entirely. A vague but sure instinct warned me that they would set me
down for a rebellious boy who wanted to escape from justly severe
paternal authority, and that they would at once send me back to Ivy
Cottage. One of my two maiden aunts would be very likely to take the
same view, but if the other received me with kindness, she could not
have strength to resist my father, who would send or go to her at once
and claim me. After thinking over all these things, I came to the
conclusion that real safety was only to be found amongst strangers, and
it seemed so hazardous to ask protection from unknown people that I
decided to remain; but a very little would have settled it the other
way. If those sovereigns had been really my own, I should probably have
crept out of the house, saddled the pony, and ridden many miles; but so
young a boy travelling alone would have been sure to attract attention,
and the attempt to win deliverance would have been a failure. In after
years, one of my elder relatives said that the attempt would almost
certainly have caused my father to disinherit me by a new will, as my
mother's property had been left to him absolutely. This danger was quite
of a serious kind (more serious than the reader will think probable from
what I choose to say in this place), as my father had another heir in
view whom I never saw, but who was held _in terrorem_ over me.
I awoke one bleak winter's morning about five o'clock, and heard the
strangest cries proceeding from his room. His manservant had been
awakened before me and had gone to the room already, where he was
engaged in a sort of wrestling match with my father, who, in the belief
that the house was full of enemies, was endeavoring to throw himself out
of the window. Other men had been called for, who speedily arrived, and
they overpowered him, though even the remnant of his mighty strength was
such that it took six men to hold him on his bed. The attack lasted a
whole week, and the house would have been a perfect hell, had not a
certain event turned it for me into a Paradise.
I had not been able somehow to get to sleep late at night for a short
time, when a light in the room awoke me. The horrible life I had been
leading for many a day and night had produced a great impressionability,
and I was particularly afraid of my father in the night-time, so I
started up in bed with the idea that he was come to beat me, when lo!
instead of his terrible face, I saw what for me was the sweetest and
dearest face in the whole world! It was his sister Mary, she who had
taken my mother's place, and whom I loved with a mingled sentiment of
filial tenderness and gratitude that remained undiminished in force,
though it may have altered in character, during all the after years. For
the suddenness of revulsion from horror to happiness, there has never
been a minute in my existence comparable to the minute when I realized
the idea that she had come. At first it seemed only a deceptive dream.
Such happiness was incredible, and I did not even know she had been sent
for; but the sweet reality entered into my heart like sunshine, and
throwing my arms about her neck I burst into a passion of tears. She, in
her quiet way, for she hardly ever yielded to a strong emotion, though
her feelings were deep and tender, looked at me sadly and kindly and
told me to sleep in peace, as she was going to remain in the house some
time. Then she left the room, and I lay in the darkness, but with a new
light brighter than sunshine in the hope that the miserable life with my
father had at length come to an end. It had only been six months in all,
but it had seemed longer than any half-dozen years gone through before
or after.
If this book were a novel, a very effective chapter might be written to
describe my father's sufferings during his week of delirium, and all the
dreadful fancies by which his disordered brain was oppressed and
tortured; but I prefer to skip that week altogether, and come to a
morning when his recovery was thought to be assured. He was no longer
delirious, but apparently quite calm, though his manner was hard and
imperious. He ordered me to be sent up to him, and I went almost
trembling with the old dread of him, and with a wretched feeling that
after my single week of respite the tyranny was to begin again. Such may
have been the feelings of an escaped slave when he has been caught and
brought back in irons, and stands once more in his master's presence. I
tried to congratulate my master on his recovery in a clumsy childish
way, but he peremptorily ordered me to fetch the "Times" and read to
him. I began, as usual, one of the leading articles on the politics of
the day, and before I had read many sentences my hearer declared that I
was reading badly and made the article nonsense. Why had I put in such
and such words of my own? he asked. His own precept that I was always to
tell the truth under any circumstances had habituated me to be truthful
even to him, so I answered boldly that I had not inserted the words
attributed to me. Then I read a little farther, and he accused me of
inserting something else that was not and could not be in the text; I
said it was he who was mistaken, and he flew into an uncontrollable
fury, one of those rages in which it had been his custom to punish me
without mercy. What he might have done to me I cannot tell; he raised
himself in bed and glared at me with an expression never to be
forgotten. My aunt, however, had been listening at the door, thinking it
probable that I should be in danger, and she now opened it and told me
to come away. I have a confused recollection of reaching the door under
a parting volley of imprecations.
It was a mistake to let my father see me, as, in the perverted state of
his mind, the mere sight of me was enough to make him furious. Whether
he hated me or not, nobody knows; but he treated me as if I was the most
odious little object that could be brought before his eyes. Very soon
after the scene about the article in the "Times," and probably in
consequence of the excitement brought on by it, my father had a fit of
apoplexy, and lingered till the next morning about nine o'clock. I was
not in the room when he died, but my aunt took me to see him immediately
after, and then I received an impression which has lasted to the present
day. The corpse was lying on its side amidst disordered bedclothes, and
to this day I can never go into a bedroom where the bed has not been
made without feeling as if there were a corpse in it. That dreadful
childish sensation received when I saw my father's body just as it lay
at the close of the death-agony, can even now be revived by the sight of
a disordered bed; such is the force of early impressions, especially
when they are received by a nervous system that has been overwrought by
the extreme of mental wretchedness.
The reader will hardly believe that the death of so hard a father could
have been felt otherwise than as an inexpressible relief, and yet I was
deeply affected by his loss. The kindest of fathers could hardly have
been wept for more. My aunt's tears were more explicable; she was old
enough to understand the frightful waste of the best gifts involved in
that premature ending; as for my grief, perhaps the true explanation of
it may be that I mourned rather the father who had been kind to me in
Wales, than the cruel master at Ivy Cottage.
I sometimes try to imagine what he might have been under more favorable
circumstances. There were times after his wife's death when he meditated
a complete change of residence, which might have saved him. He would
always have been severe and authoritative, but without alcohol he would
probably not have been cruel.
I remember the day of the funeral quite distinctly. My father's two
brothers came, though he had had scarcely any intercourse with them for
years. They were most respectable men, quite free from my father's
errors; but they had not half his life and energy. Such was the strength
of his constitution that so recently as the time of our journey in Wales
his health was not visibly impaired, and at the time of his death he had
that rare possession for a man of thirty-nine, a complete set of
perfectly sound teeth.
His coffin was carried on the shoulders of six men from Ivy Cottage to
the graveyard near the chapel. Shaw at that time had only a chapel, a
hideous building on a bleak piece of rising ground, surrounded by many
graves. It never looked more dreary than on that wretched January day in
1844, when we stood round as the sexton threw earth on my father's
coffin. He was laid in the same tomb with the poor young wife who had
loved him truly, and to whom he had been a tender and devoted husband
whilst their short union lasted.
I am the only survivor of that day's ceremony. The little procession has
all followed my father into the darkness, descending one by one into
graves separated by great spaces of land and sea. And when this is
printed I, too, shall be asleep in mine.
CHAPTER VII.
1845.
Dislike to Shaw in consequence of the dreadful life I led there with my
father.--My guardian.--Her plan for my education.--Doncaster
School.--Mr. Cape and his usher.--The usher's intolerance of Dissenters.
--My feeling for architecture and music.--The drawing-master.--My
guardian insists on my learning French.--Our French master, Sig.
Testa.--A painful incident.--I begin to learn the violin.--Dancing.--My
aversion to cricket.--Early readings.--Love of Scott.--My first
library.--Classical studies.
One consequence of the horrible life I had led at Ivy Cottage was a
permanent dislike to the place and the neighborhood, the evil effects of
which will be seen in the sequel. For the present it is enough to say
that I never went there again quite willingly. After my father's death
my grandmother lived in the village, and I was taken to see her every
year until her death; but though she was a very kind old lady, it was a
trial to me to visit her. I used to lie awake in her house at nights,
realizing those horrible nights I had passed at Ivy Cottage, with such
extreme intensity that it seemed as if my father might enter the room at
any time. This was not a superstitious dread of apparitions; but the
association of ideas brought back the past with a clearness that was
extremely painful. Even now, at a distance of more than forty years, I
avoid whatever reminds me of that time, and am not sorry that this
narrative now leads to something else.
My father had no great affection for his brothers, who on their part
could not have much esteem for him, so there was a mutual coolness which
prevented him from appointing either of them to be my guardian. Probably
they felt this as a slight, for, although always kind to me, they held
completely aloof from anything like paternal interference with my
education. My father had named his eldest sister, Mary, as my sole
guardian, with, two lawyers as co-executors with her. The reader will
probably think it was a mistake to appoint an old maid to be guardian to
a boy; but my aunt was a woman of excellent sense, and certainly not
disposed to bring me up effeminately; indeed, her willingness to
encourage me in everything manly was such that she would always inflict
upon herself considerable anxiety about my safety rather than prevent me
from taking my full share of the more or less perilous exercises of
youth. As to my education and profession her scheme was very simple and
clear, and would have been perfectly rational if I had been all that she
wished me to be. According to her plan I was to go to good schools
first, and then be prepared for Oxford by tutors, and become a
clergyman. There was some thought at one time of sending me to one of
the great public schools; but this was abandoned, and I was first sent
to Burnley School again, and then, after the summer holidays of 1845, to
Doncaster, where I was a boarder in the house of the head-master.
A word from me in favor of one of the public schools would probably have
decided my guardian to send me there; but there was a _vis inertiae_ in
my total want of social and scholastic ambition. I never in my life felt
the faintest desire to rise in the world either by making the
acquaintance of people of rank (which is the main reason why boys of
middling station are sent to aristocratic schools), or by getting
letters put after my name as a reward for learning what had no intrinsic
charm for me. In the worldly sense I never had any ambition whatever.
It seemed rather hard, after living at Burnley with my kind guardian, to
be sent to Doncaster School and separated from her for five months at a
time, but she thought the separation necessary, as there was nothing in
the world she dreaded more than that her great affection might spoil me.
Always gentle in her ways, always kind and considerate, that admirable
woman had still a remarkable firmness of character, and would act, on
due occasion, in direct opposition both to her own feelings and to mine,
if she believed that duty required it.
In those days there was no railway station at Doncaster, and my guardian
took me from Featherstone (where her brother-in-law, Mr. Hinde, was
vicar) to Doncaster in a hired carriage. I remember that it was an open
carriage and we had nobody with us except the driver, and it was a fine
hot day in August. I remember the long road, the arrival at an inn at
Doncaster not far from the new church, and my first presentation to Mr.
Cape, the head-master, who seemed a very kind and gentle sort of
clergyman to a boy not yet acquainted with his cane. Then I was left
alone in the strange school, not in the best of spirits, and if it had
been difficult to restrain tears when my guardian left me, it became
impossible in the little iron bed in the dormitory at night.
There were not many boarders, perhaps a dozen, and three or four private
pupils who were preparing for Cambridge. All these were lodged in the
head-master's house, which was in a pleasant, open part of the town, on
the road leading to the race-course, just beyond the well-known
Salutation Hotel. Besides these, there were rather a large number of day
scholars,--I forget how many, perhaps fifty or sixty,--and in those days
the schoolhouse was a ground floor under the old theatre. We marched
down thither in the morning under the control of an usher, who was
always with us in our walks. This usher, whose name I well remember, but
do not choose to print, was a vulgar, overbearing man whom it was
difficult to like, yet at the same time we all felt that he was a very
valuable master. Boys feel the difference between a master who is a
gentleman and one who falls short of that ideal. We were clearly aware
that the head-master, Mr. Cape, was a gentleman, and that the usher was
not. Nevertheless, in spite of his occasional coarseness and even
brutality, the usher was a painstaking, honest fellow, who did his duty
very energetically. His best quality, which I appreciate far more now
than I did then, was an extreme readiness to help a willing boy in his
work, by clearly explaining those difficulties that are likely to stop
him in his progress. Mr. Cape was more an examiner than a teacher, at
least for us; with the private pupils he may have been more didactic.
The usher evidently liked to be asked; he was extremely helpful to me,
and thanks to him chiefly I made very rapid progress at Doncaster.
Unfortunately an occasional injustice made it difficult to be so
grateful to him as we ought to have been. Here is an example. One
evening in the playground he told me to get on the back of another boy,
and then thrashed me with a switch from an apple-tree. I begged to be
told for what fault this punishment was inflicted, and the only answer
he condescended to give me was that a master owed no explanation to a
schoolboy. Down to the present time I have never been able to make out
what the punishment was for, and strongly suspect that it was simply to
exercise the usher's arm, which was a powerful one. He was a fair
cricketer, though rather too fat for that exercise, and a capital
swimmer, for which his fat was an advantage. He was an immoderate
snuff-taker. Sometimes he would lay a train of snuff on the back of his
hand and snuff it up greedily and voluptuously. In hot weather he
sometimes sat in his shirt-sleeves, and would occasionally amuse himself
by laying the snuff on his thick fat arm and then pass it all under his
nose, which drew it up as the pneumatic discharging machines drew grain
from the hold of a vessel. The odor of snuff was inseparable from his
person.
On Sunday mornings we were made to read chapters in the Bible before
going to church, and the usher, who was preparing himself to enter Holy
Orders, would sometimes talk to us a little about theology. Once he said
that the establishment of religious toleration in England had been a
deplorable mistake, and that Dissent ought not to be permitted by the
Sovereign. This frank expression of perfect intolerance rather surprised
me even then, and I did not quite know whether it would be just to
extirpate Dissent or not. My principal feeling about the matter was the
prejudice inherited by young English gentlemen of old Tory families,
that Dissent was something indescribably low, and quite beneath the
attention of a gentleman. Still, to go farther and compel Dissenters by
force to attend the services of the Church of England did seem to me
rather hard, and on thinking over the matter seriously in my own mind, I
came to the conclusion that our usher must be wrong, unless Dissenters
were guilty of some crime I was not aware of; but this, after all,
seemed quite possible.
We were taken to the services in Doncaster old church, which was
destroyed by fire many years afterwards. Though not yet in my teens, I
had an intense delight in architecture, and deeply enjoyed the noble old
building, one of the finest of its class in England. Our pew was in the
west gallery, not far from the organ, and from it we had a good view of
the interior. The effect of the music was very strong upon me, as the
instrument was a fine one, and I was fully alive to the influence of
music and architecture in combination. The two arts go together far
better than architecture and painting; for music seems to make
architecture alive, as it rolls along the aisles and under the lofty
vaults. I well remember feeling, when some noble anthem was being
performed, as if the sculptured heads between the arches added a noble
animation to their serenity. Even now, the impression received in those
early days still remains in my memory with considerable clearness and
fidelity, and I believe that the habit of attending service in such a
beautiful church was a powerful stimulus to an inborn passion for
architecture.
I had already taken lessons in drawing, of the kind which in those days
was thought suitable for boys who were not expected to be professional
artists, so the drawing-master at Doncaster had me amongst his pupils.
He was an elderly man, rather stout, and very respectable. His house was
extremely neat and tidy, with proper mahogany furniture, and no artistic
eccentricities of any kind whatever. He himself was always
irreproachably dressed, and he wore a large ruby ring on the little
finger of his left hand. To us boys he appeared to be a personage of
great dignity, but we were not afraid of him in spite of the dignity of
his manners, as he could not apply the cane. He was not unkind, yet in
all my life I never met with anybody concerned with the fine arts who
had so little sympathy, so little enthusiasm. On the whole, he was
distinctly gentle with me, but I made him angry twice. He had done me
the honor to promote me to water-color, and as I wanted a rag to wipe my
slab and brushes, I ventured to ask for one, on which he turned upon me
a glance of haughty surprise, and said, "Do you suppose, sir, that I can
undertake to supply you with rags?" This will give an idea of the
curiously unsympathetic nature of the man. On another occasion I was
drawing a house, or beginning to draw one, when the master came to look
over my shoulder and found great fault with me for beginning with the
upper part of the edifice. "What stonemason or bricklayer," said he,
"would think of building his chimney before he had laid the first row of
stones on the foundation?" A young pupil must not correct the bad
reasoning of his elders, but it seemed to me that the cases of a
bricklayer building a real house and an artist representing one on paper
were not precisely the same. Later in life I found that the best artists
brought their works forward as much as possible simultaneously,
sketching all the parts lightly at first, and keeping them all in the
same degree of finish till the end. [Footnote: The most rational way to
paint is first to paint all the large masses together, then the smaller
or secondary masses, and finally the details, bringing the picture
forward all together, as nearly as possible.]
Nevertheless, the drawing-lessons were always a delightful break in our
week's occupation, and I remember with pleasure the walk in the morning
down to the drawing-master's house, two days in the week, and the happy
hour of messing with water-color that followed it. In those days of
blissful ignorance I had, of course, no conception of the difficulties
of art, and was making that delusively rapid apparent progress which is
so very encouraging to all incipient amateurs. Not a single study of
those times remains in my portfolios to-day, and I know not what may
have become of them. This is the more to be regretted, that in the fine
weather our master took us into the fields round Doncaster and taught us
to sketch from nature, which we accomplished in a rudimentary way.
My dear, wise, and excellent guardian was always anxious that I should
receive as good an education as my opportunities would permit, so she
insisted on my learning French, and had herself taught me the elements
of that language, which she was able to read, though she did not pretend
to speak it. On going to Doncaster I found Latin and Greek so serious a
business that I wanted to lighten my burdens, and begged to be excused
from going on with French; but my guardian (who, with all her exquisite
gentleness, had a very strong will) would not hear of any such
abandonment, and wrote very determinedly on the subject both to me and
to Mr. Cape. It is extremely probable that this exercise of my
guardian's will may have had a great influence on my future life, as
without some early knowledge of French I might not have felt tempted to
pursue the study later, and if I had never spoken French my whole
existence would have been quite different.
Our French master at Doncaster was an Italian of good family named
Testa, one of the most perfect gentlemen I ever met, and an excellent
teacher. My deepest regret about him now is that I did not learn Italian
with him also, then or afterwards. [Footnote: It is astonishing how many
chances of improvement young men foolishly allow to slip by them. It
would have been quite worth while after I became a free agent to go and
spend six months or more at Doncaster, simply to read Italian with so
good a master as Testa.] I learned Italian later in life, and with a far
inferior master. Signor Testa was a tall, thin man, of rather cold and
stately manners, with a fine-looking, noble head covered with curly
brown hair. He was always exquisitely clean and orderly, both about his
person and the books and things that belonged to him in his rooms, where
there was an atmosphere of almost feminine refinement, though their
occupant was by no means effeminate in his thoughts or bearing. We
understood that he had left Italy in consequence of some political
difficulty, and we knew that he had still relations there. One day, as
we were engaged with our lesson at his lodgings, he took some leaves and
a faded flower or two that had just arrived in a letter from Italy, and
said, with tears in his eyes, "These have come from my father's place."
Now it so happened that the eldest boy in our class was liable to fits
of perfectly uncontrollable laughter (what the French call _le fou
rire_), and, as the reader is sure to know, if he has ever been troubled
with that disease himself, the fit very often comes on just at the
moment when the patient feels that he is called upon to look
particularly grave. This is what happened in the present case. Our
unlucky fellow-pupil was tickled with something in Testa's accent or
manner, or perhaps as he was an English boy the foreigner's tenderness
of feeling may have seemed to him absurd; but whatever may have been the
reason, his face became convulsed with suppressed laughter, which burst
forth at last uncontrollably. This made the rest of us laugh too--not at
poor Testa, but at our unworthy comrade. I shall never forget the
Italian gentleman's look on that occasion. His eyes were still brimming
with tears, but he laid down the flattened leaves and flowers and looked
at us all round with an expression that cut me, at least, to the quick.
"_Young gentlemen_," he said, "_I did not expect you to be so unkind_."
I longed to explain, but did not find words at the moment, and we went
on with our lesson. The fact was that Testa had not the least sense of
humor in his composition, and so he could not understand what had
happened. A humorous man, acquainted with the nature of boys, would have
understood the attack of _fou rire_, and forgiven it; but then a
humorous man would have thought twice before appealing to a set of
English boys for sympathy with the feelings of an exile. The incident
certainly increased my feelings of respect for Signor Testa, and made me
try to please him. The French lessons were very agreeable to me, and
besides duly preparing them, I read some French on my own account, and
acquired a liking for the language that has remained with me ever since.
If the reader has the sound old-fashioned notions about education by
which all subjects were strictly divided into the two classes of serious
and frivolous pursuits, he will already have suspicions about the
soundness of a training that included the two idle accomplishments of
Drawing and French, and what will he say, I wonder, when music is added
to the list? My initiation into music took place in the following
manner. We had a dancing-master who came regularly to Mr. Cape's house
to prepare us to shine in society, and his instrument was the convenient
dancing-master's pocket fiddle or kit. Although this instrument gives
forth but a feeble kind of music, I was far more enchanted with it than
by the dancing, and wrote a most persuasive letter to my good guardian
imploring her to let me study the violin. Those were the happy times
when one had energy for everything! I had already three languages on
hand, and the art of painting in water-colors, besides which I was in a
mathematical school where boys were prepared for Cambridge, [Footnote:
Doncaster School at that time was a sort of little nursery for
Cambridge. Mr. Cape was a Cambridge man, and so was his brother, the
able master of Peterborough School.] but there seemed to be no reason
why the art of violin-playing should not be added to these pursuits. My
guardian, before consenting, prudently wrote to Mr. Cape to ask if this
new accomplishment would not interfere too much with other matters, and
his answer was in these words: "The lad is getting on well enough with
his studies, so if he wants to amuse himself a little by scraping
catgut, even let him scrape away!" It will be seen that Mr. Cape did not
assign to music the high rank in education which has been attributed to
it by some famous thinkers in ancient and modern times. Few musical
sensations experienced during my whole life have equalled in intensity
the sensation of hearing our dancing-master play upon a full-sized
violin, after the weak and thin tones that our ears had been accustomed
to by his kit. I was so little in the way of hearing music at Doncaster
that the richer note of the violin seemed musical as the lyre of Apollo.
A contrast so striking made me more passionately eager to learn, but I
was informed by one of the private pupils who exercised considerable
authority over the younger boys, that although I might study the violin
with the dancing-master, I was never to practise it by myself. This
restriction was pardonable in one who might reasonably dread the
torturing attempts of a beginner, but it was certainly not favorable to
my progress. However, in course of time it came to be relaxed; that is,
as soon as I could play tunes.
It is very odd that any one who dislikes dancing as heartily as I have
always disliked it in manhood, should have been rather a brilliant
performer when a boy. Our dancing-master was extremely pleased with me,
and encouraged me by many compliments; nay, he even went so far as to
teach me a sailor's hornpipe, which I danced in public as a _pas seul_
when the school gave a theatrical entertainment on the approach of the
Christmas holidays. All this is simply inconceivable now, for there is
nothing which bores me so thoroughly as a ball, and I would at any time
travel fifty miles to avoid one.
At school the principal amusement was cricket, for which I soon acquired
an intense aversion. All games bore me except chess and billiards, and
it was especially hard to be compelled to field out to please the elder
boys, and so waste the precious holiday afternoons. Our cricket ground
was on the racecourse, and when I could get away I did so most joyfully,
and betook myself to a quiet place amongst the furze nearer to the Red
House than the Grand Stand. There my great delight was to read Scott's
poems, which I possessed in pocket volumes. The same volumes are in my
study now, and simply to handle them is enough to bring back many
sensations of long-past boyhood. Of all the influences that had sway
over me in those days and for long afterwards, the influence of Scott
was by far the strongest. A boy cannot make a better choice. Scott has
the immense advantage over dull authors of being almost always
interesting, and the equally great advantage over many exciting authors
that he never leaves an unhealthy feeling in the mind. I began with "The
Lady of the Lake," then read "Marmion," and "The Lay of the Last
Minstrel" and the Ballads, and finally "Rokeby." These were in separate
small volumes, which gave me a desire to possess other authors in the
same convenient form, so I added Goldsmith, Crabbe, Kirke White, and
Moore's "Irish Melodies." A prize for history gave me "Paradise Lost" in
two volumes of my favorite size, and two school-fellows, who saw that I
had a taste for such volumes, kindly gave me others. During the holidays
my guardian authorized the purchase of a Shakespeare in seven pocket
volumes, and the "Spectator" in eight, so I had quite a little library,
which became inexpressibly dear to me. It is very remarkable that for a
long time I knew Scott thoroughly as a poet without having read a single
novel by him. Having been invited by one of my school-fellows to a
country house not very far from Doncaster, I was asked by the lady of
the house what authors I had read, and on mentioning Scott's poems was
told that he was greater as a novelist than as a poet, and that the
Waverley novels were certainly his finest works. This seemed incredible
to me then, the poems being so delightful that they could not possibly
be surpassed. On another occasion I happened to be standing with Mr.
Cape in the little chapel at Conisborough Castle, and having heard from
an older school-fellow that Athelstane had died there, I asked Mr. Cape
if it was true. "Yes," he answered, "if you believe Sir Walter Scott."
Not having read "Ivanhoe," I was under the impression that the
Athelstane in question was an historical personage.
Nothing in the retrospect of life strikes me as more astonishing than
the rapid mental growth that must have taken place between the date of
my father's death and its second or third anniversary. When my father
died I was simply a child, though rather a precocious one, as the
journal in Wales testifies; but between two and three years after that
event the child had become a boy, with a keen taste for literature,
which, if it had been taken advantage of by his teachers, ought to have
made his education a more complete success than it ever became.
The misfortune was that the classics were not taught as literature at
all, but as exercises in grammar and prosody. They were dissected by
teachers who were simply lecturers on the science of language, and who
had not large views even about that. Our whole attention being directed
to the technicalities of the pedagogue, we did not perceive that the
classic authors had produced poems which, as literature, were not
inferior to those of our best English poets. So it happened that those
of us who had literary tastes were content to satisfy them in reading
English authors, and left them, as it were, at the door of the
classroom. I worked courageously enough at the Latin books which were
set before me, but never found the slightest enjoyment in them; indeed,
it was only much later, and through the medium of French and Italian,
that I gained some partial access to the literary beauty of Latin. As
for Greek, I began it vigorously at Doncaster, but I did not get beyond
the rudiments during my stay there.
CHAPTER VIII.
1845.
Early attempts in English verse.--Advantages of life at Doncaster.--A
school incident.--Fagging.--Story of a dog.--Robbery.--My schoolfellow,
Henry Alexander.--His remarkable influence.--Other schoolfellows.
--Story of a boat.--A swimming adventure.--Our walks and battles.
The love of literature was naturally followed by some early attempts at
versification in English, which is generally looked upon as a silly
waste of time in a boy, though if he writes Latin verses, which we were
taught to do, he is thought to be seriously occupied. Prom the age of
eleven to that of twenty-one I wrote English verses very frequently, and
am now very glad I did so, being quite convinced that it was a most
profitable exercise in the language. My early verses were invariably
echoes of my dearly beloved Sir Walter Scott, a master whom it is not
very difficult to imitate so far as mere versification is concerned. One
little incident about this early verse-making is worth mentioning in
this place. I was staying for a few days with a school-fellow at a house
near Doncaster, when I dreamed a new ballad about a shipwreck, and on
awaking wrote it down at once. The thing would not be worth quoting, if
it were possible to remember it; but it was correct enough in rhymes and
metre.
My life at Doncaster was not on the whole unhappy, and the steady
discipline of the school was doing me much good. Mr. Cape was a very
severe master, and he used the cane very freely; but to a boy who had
lived under the tyranny of my father Mr. Cape's severity seemed a light
affliction. He kept up his dignity by seldom appearing in the
schoolroom; he sat in his library or in the dining-room in a large
morocco-covered arm-chair, holding a book in one hand whilst the other
was always ready to clasp the cane that he kept close by. Any failure of
memory would cause him to dart a severe look at the delinquent, a false
quantity made him scowl, and when he suspected real carelessness the
cane was resorted to at once. Unfortunately he could not apply it and
keep his temper at the same time. The exercise roused him to fury, and a
punishment which in his first intention was to have been mild became
cruel through the effect of his own rapidly increasing irritation. Mr.
Cape's health was not good, and no doubt this added to the natural
irritability of his temper. There was one unfortunate youngster whose
hands were covered with chilblains, and who was constantly displeasing
Mr. Cape by inattention or inaccuracy, so he incurred such perpetual
canings that his hands were pitiable to see, and must have been
extremely painful. Our head-master was no doubt laudably, or selfishly,
anxious that we should get on with our work so as to do him credit at
Cambridge, where most of us were expected to go; but he seemed almost
incapable of pity. I remember having the intense pleasure of playing him
a little trick just after he had been caning a lad who was a very good
friend of mine.
It happened in this way--but first I must describe the topography of the
place. Mr. Cape's house was a tall brick building that looked upon the
street on one side, and on our playground (which had formerly been a
garden) on the other. At the other end of the garden was a wash-house
with the schoolroom over it, and in the wash-house there was a large
copper for boiling linen. In the house the dining-room looked over the
play-ground, and it somehow happened (perhaps it was in the Easter
holidays) that there were no pupils left in the place but my friend
Brokenribs and I. [Footnote: We always called him Brokenribs, which
recalled his real name by a sort of imitation; besides which, though his
ribs had not actually been broken, he had suffered from a good many
bruises.] Mr. Cape called him up into the dining-room after dark, and
began to thrash him. Brokenribs, after some time, began to think that a
sufficient number of strokes had been administered, and put the
dining-table between himself and his adversary, who could not get at him
any longer. I was in the playground, and understood all that was passing
by the shadows on the window-blinds.
It was most amusing to me, as a spectator, to see the shadow of
Brokenribs flit rapidly past, and still better perhaps to see it
followed by that of Mr. Cape, with bald head and uplifted cane. When
this entertainment had lasted some time I heard a great banging of doors,
and Brokenribs issued from the house, rushing like a hunted deer the whole
length of the playground. "Cape's after me!" he said. "Where shall I hide?"
"In the copper!" I answered with a sudden inspiration, and ran into the
wash-house with him, where I lifted the lid and stowed him away in
safety. The lid had but just been replaced when Mr. Cape appeared in the
playground and asked if I had seen Brokenribs. "Yes, sir, certainly; he
was running this way, sir." I accompanied Mr. Cape into the wash-house,
which had an outer door giving access to a lane, and observed with
pleasure that he was forced to the irresistible conclusion that
Brokenribs had taken flight. The lad's parents lived at an accessible
distance (perhaps twenty miles), so Mr. Cape was tormented with the
unpleasant idea that the lad had gone home to tell his own story. He
therefore ordered a gig and drove off so as to catch Brokenribs during
his flight. As my friend had been sitting in cold water, I got him out
when the coast was clear, and made him go to bed, where the housekeeper
sent him a treacle posset. After driving many a mile in vain, Mr. Cape
returned very late, and never said a word on the subject to either of
us.
Poor Brokenribs was not only very often caned, but he was fag to a
tyrannical private pupil, who made him suffer severely. The private
pupils upheld the sacred institution of fagging, which gave them a
pleasant sense of authority, and as they sat like gods above us, they
were not in danger of retaliation. Brokenribs was fag to a young man who
determined that he should learn two things,--first, to endure pain
without flinching, and secondly, to smoke tobacco. To achieve the first
of these great purposes, he used to twist the lad's arms and administer
a certain number of hard blows upon them. This he did every day so long
as the whim lasted. As for the smoking, poor Brokenribs had to smoke a
certain number of pipes every day. A single pipe made him look ghastly,
and the whole series made him dreadfully ill. I remember his white face
at such times; but he attained his reward in becoming an accomplished
and precocious smoker.
I was fag myself at one time to a private pupil; but he was not very
tyrannical with me, and only ordered me to light fires, which was a
valuable element in my education.
It gives one a fine independence of servants to be able to light a fire
quickly and well. This accomplishment enables a man to get up as early
as
he chooses, even in winter, and I have never forgotten it; indeed, I
lighted a fire an hour before writing this page. In my opinion, it would
be wise to teach every boy the art of doing without servants on
occasion.
The private pupils exercised authority in other ways than by converting
us into fags. It so happened that I became possessor of an unfortunate
tawny dog. How one boy should be owner of a dog at school when the
others had nothing to do with him may be difficult to understand; and
indeed my ownership did not last for very long, but it was pleasant to
me whilst it lasted. The poor beast, if I remember rightly, belonged to
somebody who did not want him, and was going to have him slain. I had
always an intense affection for dogs, and begged Mr. Cape to let me keep
this one, promising that it should not be a nuisance. I was rather a
favorite with the head-master, so he granted this very extraordinary
request, and it was understood that the dog was to lodge in a box in the
wash-house. I bought some fresh straw for him, and took the greatest
care of him, so that he soon became strongly attached to me. Had there
been no private pupils the creature would have been safe enough, as I
would have fought any lad of my own age in his behalf, and Brokenribs,
who was older, would have fought the bigger boys; but we none of us
dared to resist the privates, who were grown men. One of the privates
thought that a small boy ought not to possess a dog, and began to affirm
that the animal was a nuisance. He then said it would be an improvement
to cut off its tail, which he did accordingly, in spite of all my
remonstrances. I pitied the poor beast when it lay suffering with its
bleeding stump, and did all that affection could suggest for its
consolation; but shortly afterwards the same private pupil, who had a
taste for pistol-shooting, thought it would be good fun to shoot at a
living target, so he took my dog away into a field and shot him there. I
knew what he was going to do, but had no power to prevent it, as he had
begun by persuading Mr. Cape that the poor beast was a nuisance, which
he certainly was not. He was a very quiet, timid dog, of an anxious,
apprehensive temperament, having probably never had reason to place much
trust in the human species.
There was one lad at the school who was a coarse bully, and I remember
his playing a trick on me which was nothing less than pure brigandage.
He ordered me to give him my keys, and rummaged in my private box. He
found a small telescope in it which was to his liking, and took it. I
never got any redress about that telescope, as the bully coolly said it
had always belonged to him, and he was powerful enough to act on the
great principle that _la force prime le droit_.
It is most astonishing how some boys gain a great ascendency over others
when there seems to be no substantial reason for it. One of my
school-fellows, who was cousin to some of my cousins, and bore my
surname as one of his Christian names, had quite a remarkable ascendency
over boys, and yet he had not the physical size and strength which
usually impose upon them. He was slight and small, though he had a
handsome face; but he had an aristocratic temperament, which inspired a
sort of respect, and a governing disposition, which made other boys
yield to him. Nothing was more curious than to see how completely the
bully effaced himself before that young gentleman's superiority. The
bully was also a snob, and probably believed that Henry Alexander
belonged to the highest aristocracy. He was well descended and well
connected (there was an abeyant peerage in his family), but in point of
fact, his social position was not better than that of some other boys in
the school. I remember well the intense astonishment of the bully when
he found out one day that Alexander bore my name as a Christian name,
and learned the reason.
Alexander was a perfect little dandy, being at all times exceptionally
well dressed for a schoolboy, and on Sundays he came out with remarkable
splendor. In spring and summer he wore a jacket and trousers of the most
fashionable cut and of the very finest blue cloth, with a gloss upon it,
and a white waistcoat adorned with a bunch of valuable trinkets to his
watch-chain.
His hat, his gloves, his wonderfully small boots, were all the pink of
perfection. He smoked very good cigars, and talked about life with an
air of the most consummate experience, that gained him profound respect.
Most boys hesitate about the choice of a profession, but Alexander had
no such indecision. He had made up his mind to be an officer, with his
father's consent, and guided by a sure instinct, as he had exactly the
qualities to make himself respected in a regiment. It does a young
officer no harm to be rather a dandy and to shine in society, whilst the
extreme decision and promptitude of Alexander's peremptory will, and the
natural ease with which he assumed authority, would be most useful in
command. A few years later he joined the 64th Regiment and went to
India, where in spite of his rather delicate frame he became an active
sportsman. One day, however, the surgeon of the regiment saw him by
accident in his bath, and declared that he was too thin to be well, so
he examined him, and found that consumption had begun. Alexander
returned to England, where he lingered a few months, and then died. He
came to see me not very long before his death, not looking nearly so ill
as I had expected, but the doctor knew best. With better health he might
have had a brilliant career, and was certain, at least, to be an
efficient and popular officer, with the right degree of love for his
profession.
Another of my fellow-pupils who died early was the eldest son and heir
of a country squire, and one of the handsomest and most able young men I
ever met. He was a private pupil, yet not at all disliked by the younger
boys, as he was always kind and friendly towards us. There was a project
for his going out to India, and he talked over the matter with his
father one evening at his own home. A dispute arose between father and
son as they sat talking late, and when they separated for the night they
were not on good terms. The next morning the young gentleman was found
dead in bed under circumstances which led to a very strong suspicion of
suicide. We were all deeply grieved by his death, as he seemed to have
the best gifts of Nature, and life was opening so brightly before him;
but he had a very high spirit, and if he really did commit suicide,
which is not improbable, it is very likely that his pride had been
wounded. Whenever I read in the poets or elsewhere of gifted young men
who have ended sadly and prematurely, his image rises before me, though
it is now forty years since we met. Poor Brokenribs is gone too, though
he lived long enough to be a clergyman for some years. He was a
thoroughly good fellow, bearing all his hardships with admirable
equanimity.
Before quitting the history of my school-days, I ought, perhaps, to tell
the story of a great swimming exploit whereof I was the hero. The
reader, after this expression, will count upon some display of prowess
and of vanity at the same time, but there is neither in this case.
After I had been at Doncaster about a year, one of the private pupils
came to me one day with a pencil and a piece of paper in his hand, and
said, "We are going to buy a boat at Cambridge; will you subscribe?" Now
it so happened that I was born a boating creature, just as decidedly as
I was _not_ born to be a cricketing creature, and such a question
addressed to me was much as if one said to a young duck, "Would you like
to go on the pond, or would you prefer being shut up in a cage?" Of
course I said "yes" at once, and wrote an artful letter to my dear
guardian begging for the four guineas which were to constitute me a
shareholder in the expected vessel.
The future captain of the boat took my money very readily when it came,
and nobody could have felt more certain of a boating career than I did;
but just before the arrival of the vessel itself, it occurred to Mr.
Cape (rather late in the day) that he would take a prudent precaution,
so he issued a ukase to the effect that none but good swimmers were to
make any use of the boat. Now I had often heard, and read too in books,
that man was naturally a swimming animal, and that any one who was
thrown into water would swim if only he was not afraid, so I said
inwardly, "It is true that I never _did_ swim, but that is probably
because I have only bathed in shallow water; I have courage enough, and
if they pitch me into the river Don, most probably I shall swim, as man
is naturally a swimming animal and fear is the only impediment." One day
at dinner Mr. Cape asked all the subscribers, one after another, if they
could swim. There was a boy of about fourteen who was a splendid
swimmer, and well known for such both to the masters and his
school-fellows, but Mr. Cape did not omit him, and I envied the simple
ease of his "Yes, sir." When it came to me, I too said "Yes, sir,"
affecting the same ease, and Mr. Cape looked at me, and the
assistant-master looked at me, and every one of the fellows looked at
me, and then a slight smile was visible on all their countenances. After
dinner the fine swimmer expressed his regret that he had not known
sooner about my possession of this accomplishment, as we might have
enjoyed it together in the Don. The next Saturday afternoon was fine, so
the swimmers went to the river with the assistant-master, and I was very
politely invited to accompany them. On this an older boy, who had always
been kind to me, said privately, "You can't swim, I know you can't, and
you'd better confess it, for if you don't, you run a good chance of
being drowned this afternoon; the water is thirty feet deep." I
answered, with cold thanks, that my friend's apprehensions were
groundless; and we set off.
On our way to the river the unpleasant reflection occurred to my mind,
that possibly the books and the people might be wrong, and that mere
courage might _not_ enable me to dispense with acquired skill.
[Footnote: The doctrine that courage is enough is most mischievous and
perilous nonsense. I have become a good swimmer since those days, and
have taught my sons: but we had to learn it as an art, just as one
learns to skate.] But I put away this idea as too disagreeable to be
dwelt upon. Unfortunately the disagreeable idea that we set aside is
often the true and the wise one.
As we went through the town to the water the boy who had expressed his
scepticism disappeared for a moment in a rope-maker's shop, and soon
emerged with a long and strong cord over his shoulder. I guessed what
that was for, and felt humiliated, but said nothing. The swimmers
stripped and plunged, but just at the moment when I was going to plunge
too I felt the strong hand of the assistant-master on my shoulder, and
he said, "Wait one moment," The moment was employed by my school-fellow
in fastening the cord round my waist, "Now, plunge as much as you like!"
I was soon in the depths and struggling to get to the surface, but,
somehow, did _not_ swim. My preserver on the bank thought it would be as
well to convince me of my inability by a prolonged immersion, so he let
me feel the unpleasant beginning of drowning. They say that the
sensation is delightful at a later stage, and that the patient dreams he
is walking in flowery meadows on the land. The first stage is
undoubtedly disagreeable,--the oppression, the desire to breathe, are
horrible,--but I did not get so far as to fill the lungs with water.
Just in proper time there came a great tug at the cord, and I was fished
up. I dressed, and felt very small, looking with envy on the real
swimmers, and especially at the fat usher, who was rolling about like a
porpoise in the middle of the river.
The boat came, and I was allowed only to see her from the bank. How
lovely she looked with her outside varnish and her internal coat of
Cambridge blue! How beautiful were the light and elegant oars that I was
forbidden to touch!
Some time after that one of my school-fellows said: "You know, Hamerton,
you're just as well out of that boat as in her, for whenever we want to
go out on Wednesday or Saturday afternoons we always find that the
privates have got the start of us. The fact is, the boat is as if she
belonged to them." In a word, the private pupils looked on the
aspirations of the others with marked disapproval. There ought, of
course, to have been a plurality of boats; but Mr. Cape was not himself
a boating man, and did not encourage the amusement. He dreaded the
responsibility for accidents.
One result of my adventure was a firm resolution that I would learn to
swim, and not only that, but become really a good swimmer. I never
attempted anything that seemed so hopelessly difficult for me, or in
which my progress was so slow; but in course of time I did swim, and
many years afterwards, from daily practice in the longer and warmer
summers of France, I became an expert, able to read a book aloud in deep
water whilst holding it up with both hands, or to swim with all my
clothes on and a pair of heavy boots, using one hand only and carrying a
paddle in the other, whilst I drew a small boat after me. The
perseverance that led to this ultimate result is entirely due to that
early misadventure at Doncaster. I have learned one or two other things
in consequence of being stung with shame in a like manner, and am
convinced that there is nothing better for a boy than to be roused to
perseverance in that way.
I never felt the least shame, however, in not being able to play cricket
in a manner to please connoisseurs. I hated the game from the very
beginning, and it was pure slavery to me, and I never had the faintest
desire to excel in it or even to learn it. This dislike was a
misfortune, as not to love cricket is a cause of isolation for an
English boy.
A kind of exercise that I was fond of was ordinary walking. We often
took long walks on half-holidays that were delightful, and I have
escaped very early on the summer mornings and taken a walk round the
race-course, being back in time for the usual hour of rising. This,
however, was found out in course of time and put an end to; but I had
occasional headaches, so the doctor (who was a very kind friend of mine
and invited me to his house) told Mr. Cape that he must send me out for
a walk when I had a headache. "But how am I to know that his head really
aches?" inquired the head-master. I heard the reply and took note of it.
The doctor said it would usually be accompanied with flushing; so
whenever I thought I was sufficiently red in the face I applied for
leave to go to the race-course.
The doctor had a son who was a good-natured, pleasant boy about my own
age. There never was the slightest ill-feeling between us, but quite the
contrary; and yet we fought many a hard battle simply because the elder
boys backed us and set us on. They enjoyed the sport as they would have
enjoyed cock-fighting, though perhaps not quite so much, as it was not
quite so bloody and barbarous. This fighting was of no practical use;
but if I had been able to thrash the bully who took my telescope _that_
would have been of some use. Unfortunately he was my senior, and
considerably my superior in strength, so prudence forbade the combat.
CHAPTER IX.
1846.
Early interest in theology.--Reports of sermons.--Quiet influence of Mr.
Cape.--Failure of Mr. Cape's health.--His death.
During the time of my life at Doncaster I was extremely religious,
having a firm belief in providential interferences on my behalf, even in
trifling matters, such as being asked to stay from Saturday to Monday in
the country. My prayers had especial reference to a country house that
belonged to an old lady who was grandmother to a friend of mine, and
extended a sort of grandmotherly kindness to myself also. [Footnote: She
was a very remarkable and peculiar old lady. The house was very large;
but she would only use a few small rooms. She never would travel by
railway, but made long journeys, as well as short ones, in an old
carriage drawn by a pair of farm-horses. She had a much handsomer
carriage in the coach-house, a state affair, that was never used.]
At Doncaster we were always obliged to take notes of the sermons, and
write them out afterwards in an abridged form. As I had a theological
turn, I sometimes inserted passages of my own in these reports which
made the masters declare that they did not remember hearing the preacher
say that; and on one occasion, being full of ideas of my own about the
text which had effectually supplanted those of the preacher, I produced
a complete original sermon, which cost me a reprimand, but evidently
excited the interest of the master. Dr. Sharpe was Vicar of Doncaster in
those days, but after forty years I may be excused if I do not remember
much about what he preached. The pulpit was arranged in the
old-fashioned three stages, for preacher, reader, and clerk, and on one
occasion the highest of these was occupied by the famous Dr. Wolff, the
missionary to Bokhara. He was a most energetic preacher, who thumped and
pushed his cushion in a restless way, so that at last he fairly pushed
it off its desk. He was quick enough to catch it by the tassel, but he
did not catch his Bible, which fell on Dr. Sharpe's head or shoulder,
and thence to the floor of the church. It was impossible to keep quite
grave under the circumstances. Even the clergy smiled, the clerk sought
refuge in fetching the fallen volume, and a thrill of humorous feeling
ran through the congregation.
Mr. Cape did not say much to us about religion. He read prayers every
morning and evening, and once or twice I heard him preach when he took
duty in a village church not far from the famous castle of Conisborough.
There is an advantage to an active-minded boy in being with a quiet
routine-clergyman like Mr. Cape, who proposes no exciting questions. I
came under a very different influence afterwards, which plunged me into
the stormy ocean of theological controversies at a time of life when it
would have been better for me not to concern myself about such matters.
The religion of a boy should be quiet and practical, and his theology
should be as simple as possible, and quite uncontroversial in its
temper. That was my case at Doncaster; I was a very firm believer, but
simply a Christian not belonging to any party in the Church of England,
and hardly, indeed, in any but an accidental way to the Church of
England herself. Nothing could have been better. A boy is not answerable
for the doctrines which are imposed upon him by his elders, and if they
have a beneficial effect upon his conduct he need not, whilst he remains
a boy, trouble himself to inquire further.
Mr. Cape's health was gradually failing during the time of my stay at
Doncaster School, and on the beginning of my fourth half-year after a
holiday I found the house managed by his sister, and Mr. Cape himself
confined to his room with hopeless disease. Very shortly afterwards the
few boys who had come were sent home again, and Mr. Cape died. His
sister was a kind old maid, who at once conceived a sort of aunt-like
affection for me, and I remember that when I left she gave me a kiss on
the forehead. I was grieved to part with her, and showed some real
sympathy with her sorrow about her dying brother. I felt some grief on
my own account for Mr. Cape, though he had thrashed me many a time with
his ever-ready cane. Altogether the three half-years at Doncaster had
been well spent, and I had got well on with my work.
Mr. Cape's brother kept a good school at Peterborough, and wanted to
have me for a pupil, but as he was especially strong in mathematics, and
prepared young men for Cambridge, it was thought that, as I was to go to
Oxford, it would be better that I should study under an Oxford man. I
never had the slightest natural bent for mathematics, though I did the
tasks that were imposed upon me in a perfunctory manner, and with
sufficient accuracy just to satisfy my masters.
CHAPTER X.
1847-1849.
My education becomes less satisfactory.--My guardian's state of health.
--I pursue my studies at Burnley.--Dr. Butler.--He encourages me to
write English.--Extract from a prize poem.--Public discussions in
Burnley School.--A debate on Queen Elizabeth.
The story of my education becomes less satisfactory for me to write as I
proceed with it. At thirteen I was a well-educated boy for my age, at
fifteen or sixteen I had fallen behind, and if I have now any claim to
be considered a fairly well-educated man, it is due to efforts made
since youth was past.
The main cause of this retardation may be told before proceeding
further. I have already said what a strong affection I had for my
guardian. It was a well-placed affection, as she was one of the noblest
and best women who ever lived, and all my gratitude to her, though it
filled my heart like a religion, was not half what she deserved or what
my maturer judgment now feels towards her memory; but like all strong
affections, it carried its own penalty along with it. About the time of
Mr. Cape's death, I happened to be staying with some near relations, and
one of them made a casual allusion to my guardian's heart-disease. I had
never heard of this, and was inexpressibly affected by the news. My
informant said that the disease was absolutely incurable, and might at
any time cause sudden death. This was unhappily the exact truth, and
from that moment I looked upon my dear guardian with other eyes. The
doctors could not say how long she might live; there was no especial
immediate danger, and with care, by incurring no risks, her life might
be prolonged for years. After the first shock produced by this terrible
news, I quickly resolved that as Death would probably soon separate us,
and might separate us at any moment, I would keep as much as possible
near my guardian during her life. She may have been tempted to keep me
near her by the same consideration, but she was not a woman to allow her
feelings to get the better of her sense of duty, and if I had not
persistently done all in my power to remain at Burnley, she would have
sent me elsewhere. Some reviewer will say that these are trifling
matters, but in writing a biography it is necessary to take note of
trifles when they affect the whole future existence of the subject. The
simple fact of my remaining at Burnley for some years made me turn out
an indifferent classical scholar, but at the time left my mind more at
liberty to grow in its own way.
It is time to give some account of Dr. Butler, the headmaster of Burnley
Grammar School, who now became my master, and some time afterwards my
private tutor. He was a most liberal-minded, kind-hearted clergyman, and
a good scholar, but his too great tenderness of heart made him not
exactly the kind of master who would have pushed me on most rapidly.
I had a great affection for him, which he could not help perceiving, and
this completely disarmed him, so that he never could find in his heart
to say anything disagreeable to me, and on the contrary would often
caress me, as it were, with little compliments that I did not always
deserve. One tendency of his exactly fell in with my own tastes. He did
not think that education should be confined to the two dead languages,
but incited the boys to learn French and German, and even chemistry. I
worked at French regularly; German I learned just enough to read one
thin volume, and went no further. [Footnote: I resumed German many years
afterwards, and had a Bavarian for my master; but he was unfortunately
obliged to go back to his own country, and I stopped again, having many
other things to do. All my literary friends who know German say it is of
great use to them; but I never felt the natural taste for it that I have
for French and Italian.] As for the chemistry, I acquired some
elementary knowledge which afterwards had some influence in directing my
attention to etching; indeed, I etched my first plate when a boy at
Burnley School. It was a portrait of a Jew with a turban, and was
frightfully over-bitten.
Mr. Butler (he had not received his D.C.L. degree in those days) was a
very handsome man, with most gentlemanly manners, and all the boys
respected him. He governed the school far more by his own dignity than
by any severity of tone. He always wore his gown in school, and had a
desk made for himself which rather resembled a pulpit and was ornamented
with two carved crockets, that of the assistant-master (who also wore
his gown) being destitute of these ornaments. My progress in classics
and mathematics was now not nearly so rapid as it had been under the
severer _régime_ at Doncaster, but Mr. Butler thought he discovered in
me some sort of literary gift, and encouraged me to write English
essays, which he corrected carefully to show me my faults of style. This
was really good, as Mr. Butler wrote English well himself, and was a man
of cultivated taste. He even encouraged me to write verses,--a practice
that I followed almost without intermission between the ages of twelve
and twenty-one. I am aware that there are many very wise people in the
world who think it quite rational, and laudable even, to write verses in
the Latin language to improve their knowledge of that tongue, and who
think it is a ridiculous waste of time to do the same thing in English.
In my opinion, what holds good for one language holds good equally for
another, and I no more regret the time spent on English versification
than a Latin scholar would regret his imitations of Virgil. Perhaps the
reader may like to see a specimen of my boyish attempts, so I will print
an extract from one,--a poem that won a prize at Burnley School in the
year 1847.
The subject given us was "Prince Charles Edward after the Battle of
Culloden." The poem begins with a wild galloping flight of the Prince
from the battlefield of Culloden under the pale moonlight, and then of
course we come to the boat voyage with Flora Macdonald. Here my love of
boating comes in.
The lovely lamp of Heaven shines brightly o'er
The wave cerulean and the yellow shore;
As, o'er those waves, a boat like light'ning flies,
Slender, and frail in form, and small in size.
--Frail though it be, 'tis manned by hearts as brave
As e'er have tracked the pathless ocean's wave,--
High o'er their heads celestial diamonds grace
The jewelled robe of night, and Luna's face
Divinely fair! O goddess of the night!
Guide thou their bark, do thou their pathway light!
--Like sea-bird rising on the ocean's foam,
Or like the petrel on its stormy home,
Yon gallant bark speeds joyously along;
The wild waves roar, and drown the boatmen's song.
The sails full-flowing kiss the welcome wind,
And leave the screaming sea-gulls far behind!
Onward they fly. 'Tis midnight's moonlit hour!
When Fairies hold their court and Sprites have power.
And now 'tis morn! A fair Isle's distant strand
Tempts the tired fugitives again to land.
Fiercely repulsed, they dare once more the wave
Fired with undying zeal their Prince to save;
And when night flings her sable mantle o'er
The giant crags where sea-hawks idly soar,
They unmolested gain the wished-for land,
And soon with rapid steps bestride the strand.
To Kingsburgh's noble halls the path they gain
And leave afar the ever-murmuring main.
[Footnote: In the printed copies of the poem, the age of the writer was
given as thirteen, but I was only in my thirteenth year.]
Very likely this extract will be as much as the reader will have
patience for. I think the verses are tolerably good for a boy not yet
thirteen years old. The versification is, perhaps, as correct as that of
most prize poems, and there is some go in the poetry. It cannot,
however, lay claim to much originality. Even in the short extract just
given I see the influence of three poets, Virgil, Scott, and Byron. The
best that can be expected from the poetry of a boy is that he should
give evidence of a liking for the great masters, and in my case the
liking was sincere.
In later years Mr. Butler made me translate many of the Odes of Horace
into English verse. I did that work with pleasure, but have not
preserved one of the translations. I have said that he also encouraged
me to write essays. He always gave the subject, and criticized my
performance very closely. I wrote so many of these essays that I am
afraid to give the number that remains in my memory, for fear of
unconscious exaggeration.
Besides these exercises we had public discussions in the school on
historical subjects, and of these I remember a great one on the
character of Queen Elizabeth. I was chosen for the defence, and the
attack on Elizabeth's fame was to be made by the Captain of the school,
a lad of remarkable ability named Edward Moore, who was greatly my
superior in acquirements.
It happened, I remember, that my guardian was staying at a country house
(the Holme), which had formerly belonged to Dr. Whitaker, the celebrated
historian of Craven, Whalley, and Richmondshire, and this learned man
had left a good library, so I went to stay a few days to read up the
subject. Those days were very pleasant to me; the house is very
beautiful, with carved oak, tapestry, mullioned windows, old portraits,
and stained glass, and just the old-world surroundings that I have
always loved, and it nestled quietly in an open space in the bottom of a
beautiful valley, between steep hills, with miles of walks in the woods.
If ever I have been in danger of coveting my neighbor's house, it has
been there.
When we came to the debate, it turned out that my materials were so
abundant that I spoke for an hour and a half; Moore spoke about forty
minutes, and made a most telling personal hit when attacking Elizabeth
for her vanity. "She was vain of her complexion, vain even of her hair"
... (here the orator paused and looked at me, then he added, slowly and
significantly), "_which was red_." The point here was, that my hair was
red in those days, though it has darkened since. I need not add that the
allusion was understood at once by the whole school, and was immensely
successful.
After we had spoken, a youth rose to give his opinion, and as his speech
was sufficiently laconic, I will repeat it _in extenso_. The effect
would be quite spoiled if I did not add that he was suffering from a
very bad cold, which played sad havoc with his consonants. This was his
speech, without the slightest curtailment:--
"Id by opidiod Queed Elizabeth was to be blabed, because she was a proud
wobad."
My opponent in the debate on Elizabeth was, I believe, all things taken
into consideration, the most gifted youth I ever knew during my boyhood.
He kept at the head of the school without effort, as if the post
belonged to him, and he was remarkable for bodily activity, being the
best swimmer in the school, and, I think, the best cricketer also. He
afterwards died prematurely, and his brother died in early manhood from
exhausting fatigue during an excursion in the Alps.
The school was in those days attended by lads belonging to all classes
of society, except the highest aristocracy of the neighborhood, and it
did a good deal towards keeping up a friendly feeling between different
classes. That is the great use of a good local school. Many of the boys
were the sons of rich men, who could easily have sent them to public
schools at a distance, and perhaps in the present generation they would
do so.
CHAPTER XI.
1850.
My elder uncle.--We go to live at Hollins.--Description of the place.--
My strong attachment to it.--My first experiment in art-criticism.--The
stream at Hollins.--My first catamaran.--Similarity of my life at
Hollins to my life in France thirty-six years later.
My elder uncle, the owner of my grandfather's house and estate at
Hollins, had been educated to the law, as the income of our branch of
the family was insufficient, and he had begun to practise as a solicitor
in Burnley, where at that time there was an excellent opening; but he
had not the kind of tact which enables lawyers to get on in the world,
so his professional income diminished, and he went to live in Halifax,
and let the house at Hollins.
His family was large, and for some years he did all in his power to live
according to his rank in society, for he had married a lady of good
family (they had thirty-six quarterings between them), and, like most
men in a similar position, he was unwilling to adopt the only safe plan,
which is to take boldly a lower place on the ladder. At Halifax he lived
in a large house (Hopwood Hall), which belonged to his father-in-law,
and there his wife and he received the Halifax society of those days, at
what, I believe, were very pleasant entertainments, for they had the
natural gift of hospitality, and lacked nothing but a large fortune to
be perfect in the eyes of the world.
My uncle's father-in-law was living in retirement at Scarborough when
Hollins happened to fall vacant, so he became the tenant; but as the
house was too large for him, my uncle divided it into two, and proposed
to let the other half to my guardian and her sister.
They accepted, and the consequence was that we went to live in the
country,--a most important change for me, as I soon acquired that
passion for a country life which afterwards became a second nature, and
which, though it may have been beneficial to my health, and perhaps in
some degree to the quality of my work, has been in many ways an all but
fatal hindrance to my success.
There are, or were, a great many old halls in Lancashire that belonged
to the old families, which have now for the most part disappeared. They
were of all sizes, some large enough to accommodate a wealthy modern
country gentleman (though not arranged according to modern ideas), and
others of quite small dimensions, though generally interesting for their
architecture,--much more interesting, indeed, than the houses which have
succeeded them. Hollins was between the two extremes, and when in its
perfection, must have been rather a good specimen, with its mullioned
windows, its numerous gables, and its formal front garden, with a
straight avenue beyond. Unfortunately, my grandfather found it necessary
to rebuild the front, and in doing so altered the character by
introducing modern sash windows in the upper story; and though he
retained mullioned windows on the ground floor, they were not strictly
of the old type. My uncle also carried out other alterations, external
and internal, which ended by depriving the house of much of its old
character, and still more recent changes have gone farther in the same
direction.
However, such as it was in my youth, the place inspired in me one of
those intensely strong local attachments which take root in some
natures, and in none, I really believe, more powerfully than in mine.
Like all strong passions, these local attachments are extremely
inconvenient, and it would be better for a man to be without them; but
all reasoning on such subjects is superfluous.
Hollins is situated in the middle of a small but very pretty estate,
almost entirely bounded by a rocky and picturesque trout-stream, and so
pleasantly varied by hill and dale, wood, meadow, and pasture, that it
appears much larger than it really is. In my boyhood it seemed an
immensity. My cousins and I used to roam about it and play at Robin Hood
and his merry men with great satisfaction to ourselves. We fished and
bathed in one of the pools, where our ships delivered real broadsides of
lead from their little cannons. These boyish recollections, and an early
passion for landscape beauty, made Hollins seem a kind of earthly
Paradise to me, and the idea of going to live there, instead of in a row
of houses in a manufacturing town, filled me with the most delightful
anticipations. My uncle put workmen in the house to prepare it, and on
every opportunity I walked there to see what they were doing. Even at
that age I knew much more about architecture than my elders, being
perfectly familiar with the details of the old halls, and so I was
constantly losing temper at what seemed to me the evident stupidity of
the masons. There was an old master-mason, who did not like me and my
criticisms, and he swore at me freely enough, in an explicit Lancashire
manner. One day, simply by the eye, I perceived that he was four inches
out in a measurement, and told him of it, when he swore frightfully. He
then took his two-foot rule, and finding himself in the wrong, swore
more frightfully than ever. This was my first experience in the
thankless business of art-criticism, and it was the beginning of a false
position, in which I often found myself in youth, from knowing more
about some subjects than is usual with boys.
The small estate on which Hollins is situated is divided from Towneley
Park by a road and a wall, and on the opposite side its boundary, for
most of the distance, is the rocky stream that has been already
mentioned. The stream had a great influence on my whole life, by giving
me a taste for the beauty of wild streams in Scotland and elsewhere. It
is called the Brun, and gives its name to Burnley. The rocks are a
sandstone sufficiently warm in color to give a very pleasant contrast to
the green foliage, and the forms of them are so broken that in sunshine
there are plenty of fine accidental lights and shadows. It was one of my
greatest pleasures to follow the course of this stream, with a
leaping-pole, up to the moors, where it flowed through a wide and
desolate valley or hollow in the hills. As the aspect of a stream is
continually changing with the seasons and the quantity of water, it is
always new. The only regret I have about my residence near the Brun is
that I did not learn at the right time to make the most of it in the way
of artistic study; but I did as much, perhaps, as was to be expected
from a boy who was receiving a literary and not an artistic education.
The defect of the Brun was the absence of pools big enough for swimming
and boating, but it gave a tantalizing desire for these pleasures, and I
was as aquatic as my opportunities would allow. In June, 1850, my first
catamaran was launched on a fish-pond. I built it myself, with an outlay
of one pound for the materials. It was composed of two floats or tubes,
consisting of a light framework of deal covered with waterproofed
canvas. These were kept apart in the water, but joined above by a light
open framework that served as a deck, and on which the passengers sat.
The thing would carry five people, and was propelled by short oars.
Being extremely light, it was easily drawn on a road, and was provided
with small wheels for that purpose. This boyish attempt would not have
been mentioned had it not been the first of a long series of practical
experiments in the construction of catamarans which have continued down
to the date of the present writing, and of which the reader will hear
more in the sequel. I promise to endeavor not to weary him with the
subject.
It is astonishing how very far-reaching in their effects are the tastes
and habits that we acquire in early life! The sort of existence that I
am leading here at Pré Charmoy, near Autun, in this year 1886, bears a
wonderfully close resemblance to my existence at Hollins in 1850. I am
living, as I was then, on a pretty estate with woods, meadows, pastures,
and a beautiful stream, with hills visible from it in all directions.
There is a fish-pond too, about a mile from the house, and I am even now
trying catamaran experiments on this pond, as I did on the other in
Lancashire. My occupations are exactly the same, and to complete the
resemblance it so happens that just now I am reading Latin. The chief
difference is that writing has become lucrative and professional,
whereas in those earlier days it was a study only.
It is very difficult for me to believe that thirty-six years separate me
from a time so like the present in many ways--like and yet unlike,--for
I was then in Lancashire and am now in France; but this is a fact that I
only realize when I think about it. The real exile for me would be to
live in a large town.
CHAPTER XII.
1850.
Interest in the Middle Ages.--Indifference to the Greeks and Romans.--
Love for Sir Walter Scott's writings.--Interest in heraldry and
illuminations.--Passion for hawking.--Old books in the school library
at Burnley.--Mr. Edward Alexander of Halifax.--Attempts in literary
composition.--Contributions to the "Historic Times."--"Rome in
1849."--"Observations on Heraldry."
The last chapter ended by saying that my occupations in early life were
the same as they are at present, but I now remember one or two points of
difference. In those days I lived, mentally, a great deal in the Middle
Ages. This was owing to the influence of Sir Walter Scott, certainly of
all authors the one who has most influenced me, and it was also due in
some measure to a romantic interest in the history of my own family, and
of the other families in the north of England with which mine had been
connected in the past. For the Greeks and Romans I cared very little;
they seemed too remote from my own country and race, and the English
present, in which my lot was cast, seemed too dull and un-picturesque,
too prosaic and commonplace. My imagination being saturated with Scott,
I had naturally the same taste as my master. I soon learned all about
heraldry, and in my leisure time drew and colored all the coats of arms
that had been borne by the Hamertons in their numerous alliances, as
well as the arms of other families from which our own was descended. I
wrote black-letter characters on parchment and made pedigrees, and
became so much of a mediaevalist that there was considerable risk of my
stopping short in the amateur practice of such arts as wood-carving,
illumination, and painting on glass. The same taste for the Middle Ages
led me to imitate our forefathers in more active pursuits; amongst
others I had such a passion for hawking that at one time I became
incapable of opening my lips about anything else. My guardian said it
was "hawk, hawk, hawking from morning till night." Not that I ever
possessed a living falcon of any species whatever. My uncle resigned to
me a corner of the outbuildings, on the ground-floor of which was a
loose-box for my horse, and above it a room that I set apart for the
falcons when they should arrive; but in spite of many promises from
gamekeepers and naturalists and others, no birds ever came! The hoods
and jesses were ready, very prettily adorned with red morocco leather
and gold thread; the mews were ready too, with partitions in
trellis-work of my own making,--everything was ready except the
peregrines!
I knew the coats-of-arms of all the families in the neighborhood, and of
course that of the Towneleys, who had a chapel in Burnley Church for the
interment of their dead, adorned with many hatchments. Those hatchments
had a double interest for me, as heraldry in the first place, and also
because the Towneleys had a peregrine falcon for their crest! I envied
them that crest, and would willingly have exchanged for it our own
"greyhound couchant, sable."
Burnley School possesses a library which is rich in old tomes that few
people ever read. In my youth these volumes were kept in a room entirely
surrounded with dark oak wainscot, that opened on the shelves where
these old books reposed. I read some of them, more or less, but have
totally forgotten them all except a black-letter Chaucer. That volume
delighted me, and I have read in it many an hour. It is much to be
regretted that I had not the same affectionate curiosity about the Greek
and Latin classics, but it was something to have a taste for the
literature of one's own country.
My uncle's brother-in-law, Mr. Edward Alexander, of Halifax, was a
lawyer of literary and antiquarian tastes, and a great lover of
books,--not to read only, but to have around him in a well-ordered
library. He was extremely kind to me, and now, when I know better how
very rare such kindness is in the world, I feel perhaps even more
grateful for it than I did then.
Mr. Alexander was the father of the young Alexander who was my
school-fellow at Doncaster, and I am hardly exaggerating his affection
for me when I say that he had a paternal feeling towards myself. He put
his library entirely at my disposal, and gave me a room in his house at
Heath Field, near Halifax, whenever I felt inclined to avail myself of
it, and had liberty to go there.
His library had cost him several thousand pounds, and was rich in
archaeological books. Mrs. Alexander was a charming lady, always
exquisitely gentle in her way, and gifted with a quiet firmness which
enabled her to match very effectually the somewhat irascible disposition
of my friend, who had the irritability as well as the kindness of heart
which, I have since observed, are often found together in Frenchmen.
With all his goodness he was by no means an indulgent judge; he could
not endure the slightest failure or forgetfulness in good manners, and
most of his young relations were afraid of him. I only offended him
once, and that but slightly. He was walking in his own garden with my
uncle, when I had to do something that required the use of both hands,
and I was encumbered with a book. I dared not lay the book on the
ground, as I should have done if it had been my own, so I asked my uncle
to hold it. I could see an expression on Mr. Alexander's face which said
clearly enough that I had taken a liberty in requesting this little
service from a senior, and it only occurred to me as an afterthought
that I might have put my hat on the ground and laid the book on the hat.
This little incident shows one side of my dear friend's nature, but it
was not at all a bad thing for me to be occasionally under the influence
of one who was at the same time kind and severe. In early life he had
been a dandy, and a local poet had called him,--
"Elegant Extracts, the Halifax fop."
[Footnote: "Elegant Extracts" was the title of a book of miscellaneous
reading which had an extensive sale in those days. The couplet related
to a public ball,--
"Elegant Extracts, the Halifax fop,
With note-book in hand, took coach for the hop."
Mr. Alexander sometimes alluded in a pleasant way to his early
foppishness, and told some amusing anecdotes, one of which I remember.
He and a young friend having adopted some startling new fashion before
anybody else in Halifax, were going to church very proud of themselves,
when they heard a girl laughing at them, on which her companion rebuked
her, saying, "You shouldn't laugh; you might be struck so!" She thought
the dandies were two misshapen idiots.]
In his maturity all that remained of early dandyism was an intolerance
of every kind of slovenliness. He rigorously exacted order in his
library; I might use any of his books, but must put them all back in
their places. Perhaps my present strong love of order may be due in a
great measure to Mr. Alexander's teaching and example. Amongst the
friends of my youth there are very few whom I look back to with such
grateful affection.
Like most boys who have become authors, I made attempts in literary
composition independently of those which were directly encouraged by my
master. In this way I wrote a number of articles that were accepted by
the "Historic Times," a London illustrated journal of those days which
was started under the patronage of the Church of England, but had not a
great success. My first articles were on the Universities, of which I
knew nothing except by hearsay, and on "Civilization, Ancient and
Modern," which was rather a vast subject for a boy whose reading had
been so limited. However, the editor of the "Historic Times" had not the
least suspicion of my age, so I favored him with a long series of
articles on Rome in 1849, forming altogether as complete a history of
the city for that year as could have been written by one who had never
seen it, who did not know Italian, and who had not access to any other
sources of information than those which are accessible to everybody in
the newspapers.
Under these circumstances, it may seem absurd to have undertaken such a
task, but the reader may be reminded that learned historians undertake
to tell us what happened long ago from much less ample material. I got
no money for these articles (there were twelve of them), and no
publisher would reprint them because there was no personal observation
in them which publishers always expect in a narrative of contemporary
events. The work had, however, been a good exercise for me in the
digesting and setting in literary order of a mass of confused material.
My passion for heraldry and hawking led to the production of a little
book on heraldry which was an imitation of Sir John Sebright's
"Observations on Hawking," a treatise that seemed to me simple, and
clearly arranged.
My little book had no literary value, and the publisher said that only
thirty-nine copies were sold; however, on being asked to produce the
remainder of the edition, he said he was unable to do so, as the copies
had been "mislaid." The printing and binding having been done at my
expense, I compelled the publisher to reprint the book, but this brought
me no pecuniary benefit, as the demand, such as it was, had been
satisfied by the first edition.
To this day I do not feel certain in my own mind whether the publisher
was dishonest or not. It would be quite natural that a book on heraldry
should have a very small sale, but on the other hand it is inconceivable
that more than four hundred copies of a book should have been simply
lost. [Footnote: There is a third possibility: the sale may have been
exactly what the publisher stated; but he may have had no belief in the
success of the work, and have printed only one hundred copies whilst
charging me for five hundred.]
It was a very good thing for me that the printing of this treatise on
heraldry was a cause of loss and disappointment, for if it had been
successful I might easily have wasted my life in archaeology, and
corrected pedigrees--those long lists of dead people of whom nobody
knows anything but their names, and the estates they were lucky enough
to possess.
The reader will see that up to this point my tastes had been
conservative and aristocratic. Then there came a revolution which was
the most important intellectual crisis of my life, and which deserves a
chapter to itself.
CHAPTER XIII.
1850.
Political and religious opinions of my relations.--The Rev. James
Bardsley.--Protestant controversy with Rome.--German neology.--The
inspiration of the Scriptures.--Inquiry into foundation for the
doctrine.--I cease to be a Protestant.--An alternative presents
itself.--A provisional condition of prolonged inquiry.--Our medical
adviser.--His remarkable character.--His opinions.
All my relations were Tories of the most strongly Conservative type, and
earnestly believing members of the Church of England, more inclined to
the Evangelical than to the High Church party. In my early youth I
naturally took the religion and political color of the people about me.
There was at Burnley in those days a curate who has since become a
well-known clergyman in Manchester, Mr. James Bardsley. He was a man of
very strong convictions of an extreme Evangelical kind, and nature had
endowed him with all the gifts of eloquence necessary to propagate his
opinions from the pulpit. [Footnote: Since then he has become Canon and
Archdeacon.] He was really eloquent, and he possessed in a singular
degree the wonderful power of enchaining the attention of his audience.
We always listened with interest to what Mr. Bardsley was saying at the
moment, and with the feeling of awakened anticipation, as he invariably
conveyed the impression that something still more interesting was to
follow. His power as a preacher was so great that his longest sermons
were not felt to be an infliction; one might feel tired after they were
over, but not during their delivery. His power was best displayed in
attack, and he was very aggressive, especially against the doctrines of
the Church of Rome,--which he declared to be "one huge Lie."
Of course a boy of my age believed his own religion to be absolutely
true, and others to be false in exact proportion to their divergence
from it, as this is the way with young people when they really believe.
It was my habit to take an intensely strong interest in anything that
interested me at all, and as religion had a supreme interest for me I
read all about the Protestant controversy with Rome under Mr. Bardsley's
guidance, in books of controversial theology recommended by him. My
guardian, with her usual good sense, did not quite approve of this
controversial spirit; she was content to be a good Christian in her own
way and let the poor Roman Catholics alone, but I was too ardent in what
seemed to me the cause of truth to see with indifference the menacing
revival of Romanism.
A large new Roman Catholic church was erected in Burnley, and opened
with an imposing ceremony. There was at that time a belief that the
power of the Pope might one day be re-established in our country, and
the great results of the Reformation either wholly sacrificed or placed
in the greatest jeopardy. Protestants were called upon to defend these
conquests, and in order to qualify themselves for this great duty it was
necessary that they should make themselves thoroughly acquainted with
the great controversy between the pure Church to which it was their own
happiness to belong, and that corrupt association which called itself
Catholicism. I had rather a bold and combative disposition, and was by
no means unwilling to take a share in the battle.
All went well for a time. The spirit of inquiry is not considered an
evil spirit so long as it only leads to agreement with established
doctrines, and as an advanced form of Protestantism was preached in
Burnley Church, I was at liberty to think boldly enough, provided I did
not go beyond that particular stage of thought. Not having as yet any
disposition to go beyond, I did not at all realize what a very small
degree of intellectual liberty my teachers were really disposed to allow
me.
One occasion I remember distinctly. Mr. Bardsley was at Hollins, where
he spent the evening with us, and in the course of conversation, as he
was leaning on the chimney-piece, he spoke about German Neology, which I
had never heard of before, so I asked what it was, and he described it
as a dreadful doctrine which attributed no more inspiration to sacred
than to profane writers. The ladies were shocked and scandalized by the
bare mention of such a doctrine, but the effect on me was very
different. The next day, in my private meditations, I began to wonder
what were the evidences by which it was determined that some writers
were inspired and infallible, and what critics had settled the question.
The orthodox reader will say that in a perplexity of this kind I had
nothing to do but carry my difficulty to a clergyman. This is exactly
what I did, and the clergyman was Mr. Bardsley himself.
He was full of kindness to me, and took the trouble to write a long
paper on the subject, which must have cost him fully two days' work,--a
paper in which he gave a full account of the Canon of Scripture from the
Evangelical point of view. The effect on me was most discouraging, for
the result amounted merely to this, that certain Councils of the Church
had recognized the Divine inspiration of certain books, just as certain
authoritative critics might recognize the profane inspiration of poets.
After reading the paper with the utmost care I felt so embarrassed about
it that (with the awkwardness of youth) I did not even write to thank
the amiable author who had taken so much trouble to help me, and I only
thanked him briefly on meeting him at a friend's house, where it was
impossible to avoid the interchange of a few words.
This autobiography is not intended to be a book of controversy, so I
shall carefully avoid the details of religious changes and give only
results. I do not think that anything in my life was ever more decisive
than the receipt of that long communication from Mr. Bardsley. The day
before receiving it I was in doubt, but the day after I felt perfectly
satisfied that the Divine inspiration of the books known to Englishmen
as the "Scriptures" rested simply on the opinion, of different bodies of
theologians who had held meetings which were called Councils. The only
difference between these Councils and those of the Church of Rome was,
that these were represented as having taken place earlier, before the
Church was so much divided; but it did not seem at all evident that the
members of the earlier Councils were men of a higher stamp,
intellectually, than those who composed the distinctly Roman Catholic
Councils, nor was there any evidence that the Holy Spirit had been with
those earlier Councils, though it afterwards withdrew itself from the
later.
The Protestant reader will perhaps kindly bear with me whilst I give the
reasons why I ceased to be a Protestant, after having been so earnest
and zealous in that form of the Christian faith. It appeared to me--I do
not say it _is_, but it appeared to me, and appears to me still--that
Protestantism is an uncritical belief in the decisions of the Church
down to a date which I do not pretend to fix exactly, and an equally
uncritical scepticism, a scepticism of the most unreceptive kind, with
regard to all opinions professed and all events said to have taken place
in the more recent centuries of ecclesiastical history. The Church of
Rome, on the other hand, seemed nearer in temper to the temper of the
past, and was more decidedly a continuation, though evidently at the
same time an amplification, of the early Christian habits of thinking
and believing.
With this altered view of the subject the alternative that presented
itself to me was that which presented itself to the brothers Newman, and
if I had found it necessary to my happiness to belong to a visible
Church of some kind, and if devotional feelings had been stronger than
the desire for mental independence, I should have joined the Church of
Rome.
There were, indeed, two or three strong temptations to that course. My
family had been a Catholic family in the past, and had sacrificed much
for the Church of Rome when she was laboring under oppression; for a
Hamerton to return to her would therefore have been quite in accordance
with those romantic sentiments about distant ancestors which were at
that time very strong in me. Besides this, I had all the feeling for the
august ceremonial of the Catholic Church which is found in the writer
who most influenced me, Sir Walter Scott; and there was already a
certain consciousness of artistic necessities and congruities which made
me dimly aware that if you admit the glories of ecclesiastical
architecture, it is only the asceticism of Puritan rebellion against art
that can deny magnificence to ritual. I had occasionally, though rarely,
been present at High Mass, and had felt a certain elevating influence,
and if I had said to myself, "Religion is only a poem by which the soul
is raised to the contemplation of the Eternal Mysteries," then I could
have dreamed vaguely in this contemplation better, perhaps, in the Roman
Catholic Church than in any other. But my English and Protestant
education was against a religion of dreaming. An English Protestant may
have his poetical side, may be capable of feeling poetry that is frankly
avowed to be such--may read Tennyson's "Eve of St. Agnes" or Scott's
"Hymn to the Virgin" with almost complete imaginative sympathy; but he
expects to believe his religion as firmly as he believes in the
existence of the British Islands. Such, at least, was the matter-of-fact
temper that belonged to Protestantism in those days. In more recent
times a more hazy religion has become fashionable.
My decision, therefore, for some time was to remain in a provisional
condition of prolonged inquiry. I read a great deal on both sides, and
constantly prayed for light, following regularly the external services
of the Church of England. Here the subject may be left for the present.
The reader is to imagine me as a youth who no longer believed in the
special inspiration of the Scriptures, or in their infallibility, but
who was still a Christian as thousands of "liberal" Church people in the
present day are Christians.
Before resuming my religious history, I ought to mention an influence
which was supposed by my friends to have been powerful over me, but
which in reality had slightly affected the current of my thinking. Our
medical adviser was a surgeon rather advanced in years, and whose
private fortune made him independent of professional success. As time
went on, he allowed himself to be more and more replaced by his
assistant, Mr. Uttley, one of the most remarkable characters I ever met
with. In those days, in a northern provincial town, it required immense
courage to avow religious heterodoxy of any advanced kind, yet Mr.
Uttley said with the utmost simplicity that he was an atheist, and the
religious world called him "Uttley the Atheist," a title which he
accepted as naturally as if it implied no contempt or antagonism
whatever. He was by no means devoid of physical courage also, for I
remember that at one time he rode an ugly brute that had a most
dangerous habit of bolting, and he would not permit me to mount her. He
was excessively temperate in his habits, never drinking anything
stronger than water, except, perhaps, a cup of tea (I am not sure about
the tea), and never eating more than he believed to be necessary to
health. He maintained the doctrine that hunger remains for a time after
the stomach has had enough, and that if you go on eating to satiety you
are intemperate. He disliked, and I believe despised, the habit of
stuffing on festive occasions, which used to be common in the wealthier
middle classes. I confess that Mr. Uttley's fearless honesty and steady
abstemiousness impressed me with the admiration that one cannot but feel
for the great virtues, by whomsoever practised; but Mr. Uttley had a
third virtue, which is so rare in England as to be almost unintelligible
to the majority,--he looked with the most serene indifference on social
struggles, on the arts by which people rise in the world. Perfectly
contented with his own station in life, and a man of remarkably few
wants, he lived on from year to year without ambition, finding his chief
interest in the pursuit of his profession, and his greatest pleasure in
his books. He so little attempted to make a proselyte of me that, when
at a later period I told him of a certain change of views, concerning
which more will be said in the sequel, he was unaffectedly surprised by
it, and said that he had never supposed me to be other than what I
appeared to the world in general, an ordinary member of the Church of
England. My intimate knowledge of Mr. Uttley's remarkable character must
have had, nevertheless, a certain influence in this way, that it enabled
me to estimate the vulgar attacks on infidels at their true worth; and
though my own theistic beliefs were very strong, I knew from this
example that an atheist was not necessarily a monster.
The only occasions that I remember in youth when Mr. Uttley might have
influenced me were these two. Being curious to know about opinions from
those who really held them, and being already convinced that we cannot
really know them from the misrepresentations of their enemies, I once
asked Mr. Uttley what atheism really was, and why it recommended itself
to him. He replied that atheism was, in his view, the acceptance of the
smaller of two difficulties, both of which were still very great. The
smaller difficulty for him was to believe in the self-existence of the
universe; the greater was to believe in a single Being, without a
beginning, who could create millions of solar systems; and as one or the
other must be self-existent the difficulty about self-existence was
common to both cases. The well-known argument from design did not
convince him, as he believed in a continual process of natural
adjustment of creatures to their environment,--a theory resembling that
of Darwin, but not yet so complete. I listened to Mr. Uttley's account
of his views with much interest; but they had no influence on my own, as
it seemed to me much easier to refer everything to an intelligent
Creator than to believe in the self-existence of all the intricate
organizations that we see. Still, I was not indignant, as the reader may
think I ought to have been. It seemed to me quite natural that
thoughtful men should hold different opinions on a subject of such
infinite difficulty.
The other occasion was, when in the vigor of youthful Protestantism I
happened to say something against the Church of Rome. Mr. Uttley very
quietly and kindly told me that I was unjust towards that Church, and I
asked him where the injustice lay. "It lies in this," he replied, "that
you despise the dogmas of the Church of Rome as resting only on the
authority of priests, whereas the case of that Church is not exceptional
or peculiar, as _all_ dogmas rest ultimately on the authority of
priests." To this I naturally answered that Scriptural authority was
higher; but Mr. Uttley answered,--"The Roman Catholics themselves
appeal to Scriptural authority as the Protestants do; but it is still
the priests who have decided which books are sacred, and how they are to
be interpreted." His conversation was not longer than my report of it,
and it occurred when I met Mr. Uttley accidentally in the street; but
though short, it was of some importance, as I happened at that time to
be exercised in my mind about what Mr. Bardsley had told us concerning
"German Neology." Subsequent observation has led me to believe that Mr.
Uttley attributed more originating authority to priests than really
belongs to them. It seems to me now that they take up and consecrate
popular beliefs that may be of use, and that they drop and discard,
either tacitly or openly, those beliefs which are no longer popular.
Both processes have been going on, for some years very visibly in the
Church of Rome, and the second of the two is plainly in operation in the
Church of England.
CHAPTER XIV.
1851.
First visit to London in 1851.--My first impression of the place.--
Nostalgia of the country.--Westminster.--The Royal Academy.--Resolution
never to go to London again.--Reason why this resolution was afterwards
broken.
In the year 1851 I went to London for the first time, to see the Great
Exhibition. Our little party consisted only of my guardian, my aunt, and
myself.
My first impression of London was exactly what it has ever since
remained. It seemed to me the most disagreeable place I had ever seen,
and I wondered how anybody could live there who was not absolutely
compelled to do so. At that time I did not understand the only valid
reason for living in London, which is the satisfaction of meeting with
intelligent people who know something about what interests you, and do
not consider you eccentric because you take an interest in something
that is not precisely and exclusively money-making.
My aunts knew nobody in London except one or two ladies of rank superior
to their own, on whom we made formal calls, which was a sort of human
intercourse that I heartily detested, as I detest it to this day.
Our lodgings were in Baker Street, which, after our pure air, open
scenery, and complete liberty at Hollins, seemed to me like a prison.
The lodgings were not particularly clean--the carpets, especially,
seemed as if they had never been taken up. The air was heavy, the water
was bad (our water at Hollins was clearer than glass, and if you poured
a goblet of it beady bubbles clung to the sides), there was no view
except up street and down street, and the noise was perpetual. A
Londoner would take these inconveniences as a matter of course and be
insensible to them, but to me they were so unpleasant that I suffered
from nostalgia of the country all the time.
The reader may advantageously be spared my boyish impressions of the
Great Exhibition and the other sights of London. Of course we fatigued
our brains, as country people always do, by seeing too many things in a
limited time; and as we had no special purpose in view, we got, I fear,
very little instruction from our wanderings amidst the bewildering
products of human industry. I remember being profoundly impressed by
Westminster Abbey, though I would gladly have seen all the modern
monuments calcined in a lime-kiln; and Westminster Hall affected me even
more, possibly because one of our ancestors, Sir Stephen Hamerton, had
been condemned to death there for high treason in the time of Henry
VIII. I was also deeply impressed by the grim, old Tower of London, and
only regretted that I did not know which cell the unlucky Sir Stephen
had occupied during his hopeless imprisonment there.
The rooms of the Royal Academy left a more durable recollection than the
contents of the great building in Hyde Park. Those are quite old times
for us now in the history of English art. Sir Frederick Leighton was a
young student who had not yet begun to exhibit; I think he was working
in Frankfort then. Millais was already known as the painter of strange
and vivid pictures of small size, which attracted attention, and put the
public into a state of much embarrassment. There were three of these
strange pictures that year,--an illustration of Tennyson, "She only
said, 'My life is dreary,'" the "Return of the Dove to the Ark," and the
"Woodman's Daughter." I distinctly remember the exact sensation with
which my young eyes saw these works; so distinctly that I now positively
feel those early sensations over again in thinking about them. All was
so fresh, so new! This modern art was such a novelty to one who had not
seen many modern pictures, and my own powers of enjoying art were so
entirely unspoiled by the effect of habit that I was like a young bird
in its first spring-time in the woods. I much preferred the beautiful
bright pictures in the Academy, with their greens and blues like Nature,
to the snuffy old canvases (as they seemed to me) in the National
Gallery.
The oddest result for a boy's first visit to London was a quiet mental
resolution of which I said nothing to anybody. What I thought and
resolved inwardly may be accurately expressed in these words: "Every
Englishman who can afford it ought to see London _once_, as a patriotic
duty, and I am not sorry to have been there to have got the duty
performed; but no power on earth shall ever induce me to go to that
supremely disagreeable place again!"
Of course the intelligent reader considers this boyish resolution
impossible and absurd, as it is entirely contrary to prevalent ideas;
but a man may lead a very complete life in Lancashire, and even in
counties less rich in various interest, without ever going to London at
all. A man's own fields may afford him as good exercise as Hyde Park,
and his well-chosen little library as good reading as the British
Museum. It was the Fine Arts that brought me to London afterwards; the
worst of the Fine Arts being that they concentrate themselves so much in
great capitals.
CHAPTER XV.
1851-1852.
The love of reading a hindrance to classical studies.--Dr. Butler
becomes anxious about my success at Oxford.--An insuperable
obstacle.--My indifference to degrees.--Irksome hypocrisy.--I am nearly
sent to a tutor at Brighton.--I go to a tutor in Yorkshire.--His
disagreeable disposition.--Incident about riding.--Disastrous effect of
my tutor's intellectual influence upon me.--My private reading.--My
tutor's ignorance of modern authors.--His ignorance of the fine
arts.--His religious intolerance.--I declare my inability to sign the
Thirty-nine Articles.
The various mental activities hinted at in the preceding chapters had
naturally a retarding effect upon my classical studies, which I had
never greatly taken to. It seemed then, and it seems to me still, that
for one who does not intend to make a living by teaching them, the dead
languages, like all other pursuits, are only worth a limited amount of
labor. It may appear paradoxical at first, but it is true, that one
reason why I did not like Latin and Greek was because I was extremely
fond of reading. The case is this: If you are fond of reading and have
an evening at your disposal, you will wish to read, will you not? But
_construing_ is not reading; it is quite a different mental operation.
When you _read_ you think of the scenes and events the author narrates,
or you follow his reasoning; but when you _construe_ you think of cases
and tenses, and remember grammatical rules. I could read English and
French, but Latin and Greek were only to be construed _à coups de
dictionnaire_.
The case may be illustrated by reference to an amusement. A man who is
indifferent to rowing cares very little what sort of boat he is in, and
toils contentedly as peasants do in their heavy boots, but a lover of
rowing wants a craft that he can move. This desire is quite independent
of the merits of the craft itself, considered without reference to the
man. A sailing yacht may he a beautiful vessel, but an Oxford oarsman
would not desire to pull one of her cumbersome sweeps.
I was at that time a private pupil of Dr. Butler's, and was getting on
at such a very moderate pace that he began to be anxious about his
responsibility. My guardian and he had decided together that I was to be
sent to Oxford, and it was even settled to which college, Balliol; and
my dear guardian expected me to come out in honors, and be a Fellow of
my college and a clergyman. That was her plan; and a very good scheme of
life it was, but it had one defect, that of being entirely inapplicable
to the human being for whom it was intended. I looked forward to Oxford
with anything but pleasure, and, indeed, considered that there was an
insuperable obstacle to my going there. In those days most of the good
things in life were kept as much as possible for members of the Church
of England, and it was necessary to sign the Thirty-nine Articles on
entering the University. This I could not do conscientiously, and would
not do against the grain of my conviction. I looked upon this obstacle
as insuperable; but if I had been as indifferent on such questions as
young men generally are, there would still have remained a difficulty in
my own nature, which is a rooted dislike to everything which is done for
social advancement. I might possibly have desired to be a scholar, but
cannot imagine myself desiring a degree. However, I might have taken the
trouble to get a degree, simply to please my guardian, if there had not
been that obstacle about the Thirty-nine Articles.
From this time, during a year or two, there was a sort of game of
cross-purposes between me and my guardian, as I had not yet ventured to
declare openly my severance from the Church of England, and my
consequent inability to go to one of her universities. The enormous
weight of social and family pressure that is brought to bear on a youth
with reference to these matters must be my excuse for a year or two of
hypocrisy that was extremely irksome to me; but besides this I have a
still better excuse in a sincere unwillingness to give pain to my dear
guardian, and in the dread lest the declaration of heresy might even be
dangerous to one whom I knew to be suffering from heart disease. I
therefore lived on as a young member of the Church of England who was
studying for Oxford, when in fact I considered myself no longer a member
of that Church, and had inwardly renounced all intention of going to
either of the Universities, which she still kept closed against the
Dissenters.
The inward determination not to go to Oxford or Cambridge had a bad
effect on my classical studies, as I had no other object in view whilst
pursuing them than the intellectual benefit to be derived from the
studies themselves, and I had not any very great faith in that benefit.
The most intelligent men I knew did not happen to be classical scholars,
and some men of my acquaintance who _were_ classical scholars seemed to
me quite impervious to ideas concerning science and the fine arts. Even
now, after a much larger experience, I do not perceive that classical
scholarship opens men's minds to scientific and artistic ideas, or even
that scholarship gives much appreciation of literary art and excellence.
Still, it is better to have it than to be without it. There is such a
thing as a scholarly temper,--a patient, careful, exact, and studious
temper,--which is valuable in all the pursuits of life.
Mr. Butler had been for some time my private tutor--which means that I
prepared my work at Hollins in the morning, and went to read with Mr.
Butler in the afternoon. The plan was pleasant enough for me, but it was
not advantageous, because what I most wanted was guidance during my
hours of study,--such guidance as I had at Doncaster. However, I read
and wrote Latin and Greek every day, and learned French at the same
time, as Mr. Butler had a taste for modern languages. This went on until
he became rather alarmed about my success at Oxford (which for reasons
known to the reader troubled me very little), and told my guardian that
she ought to send me to some tutor who could bestow upon me more
continuous attention. I was as near as possible to being sent to a tutor
at Brighton,--a reverend gentleman with aristocratic connections,--but
he missed having me by the very bait which he held out to attract my
guardian. He boasted in a letter of the young lords he had educated, and
said he had one or two still in the house with him. We had a near
neighbor and old friend who was herself very nearly connected with two
of the greatest families in the peerage, and as she happened to call
upon us when my guardian received the letter, it was handed to her, and
she said: "That bit about the young lords is not a recommendation; the
chances are that P. G. would find them proud and disagreeable." As for
me, the whole project presented nothing that was pleasant. I disliked
the south of England, and had not the slightest desire to make the
acquaintance of the young noblemen. It was therefore rather a relief
that the Brighton project was abandoned.
It happened then that my dear guardian did the only one foolish and
wrong thing she ever did in her whole life. She sent me to a clergyman
in Yorkshire, who had been a tutor at Oxford, and was considered to be a
good "coach,"--so far he may seem to have been the right man,--but he
was unfortunately exactly the man to inspire me with a complete disgust
for my studies. He had no consideration whatever for the feelings of
other people, least of all for those of a pupil. He treated me with open
contempt, and was always trying to humiliate me, till at last I let him
understand that I would endure it no longer. One day he ordered me to
clean his harness, with a peremptoriness that he would scarcely have
used to a groom, so I answered, "No, sir, I shall not clean your
harness; that is not my work." He then asked whether I considered myself
a gentleman. I said "yes," and he retorted that it would be a good thing
to thrash the gentility out of me; on which I told him that if he
ventured to attempt any such thing I should certainly defend myself. I
was a well-grown youth, and could have beaten my tutor easily. One day
he attempted to scrape my face with a piece of shark's skin, so I seized
both his wrists and held them for some time, telling him that the jest,
if it was a jest, was not acceptable.
As my tutor was very handsomely paid for the small amount of trouble he
took with me, my guardian had inserted in the agreement a clause by
which he was either to keep my horse in his stable, or else let me have
the use of one of his own. He preferred, for economy's sake, to mount
me; so in accordance with our agreement I innocently rode out a little
in the early mornings, long before the hour fixed for our Greek reading
together. As my tutor rose late, he was not aware of this for some time;
but at length, by accident, he found it out, and then an incident
occurred which exactly paints the charming amenity of the man.
His stable-boy had brought the horse to the gate, and I was just
mounting when my tutor opened his bedroom window, and called out, "Take
that horse back to the stable immediately!" I said to the servant, who
hesitated, that it was his duty to obey his master's orders, and
dismounted; then I went to my lodgings in the village, and wrote a note
to the tutor, in which I said that I expected him to keep his agreement,
and in accordance with it I should ride out that day. I then left the
note at the house, saddled the animal myself, and rode a long distance.
From that time our relations were those of constrained formality, which
on the whole I much preferred. My tutor assumed an air of injured
innocence, and treated me with a clumsy imitation of politeness which
was intended to wound me, but which I found extremely convenient, as the
greater the distance between us the less intercourse there would be.
However, after that demonstration of my rights, I kept a horse of my
own--a much finer animal--at a farmer's.
The intellectual influence of my present tutor was disastrous, by the
reaction it produced. He was a fanatical admirer of the ancient authors
who wrote in Latin and Greek, and was constantly expressing his contempt
for modern literature, of which he was extremely ignorant. I was fond of
reading, and had English books in my lodgings which were my refuge and
solace after the pedantic lectures I had to undergo. My love for Scott
was still very lively (as indeed it is to this day), but I had now
extended my horizon and added Byron, Shelley, Tennyson, and other modern
authors to my list. My tutor had all the hatred for Byron which
distinguished the clergy in the poet's life-time, and he was constantly
saying the most unjust things against him; as, for example, that the
"Bride of Abydos" was not original, but was copied from the Greek of
Moschus. This clerical hatred for Byron quite prevented my tutor from
acquiring any knowledge of the poet; but he had seen a copy of his works
at my lodgings, and this served as a text for the most violent
diatribes. As for Shelley, he knew no more about him than that he had
been accused of atheism. He had heard of Moore, whom he called "Tommy."
I believe he had never heard of Keats or Tennyson; certainly he was
quite unacquainted with their poems. He had a feeble, incipient
knowledge of French, and occasionally read a page of Molière, with an
unimaginable pronunciation; but he knew nothing really of any modern
literature. On the other hand, his knowledge of the Greek and Latin
classics was more intimate than that possessed by any other teacher I
had ever known. He was a thorough, old-fashioned scholar, with all the
pride of exact erudition, and a corresponding contempt for everybody who
did not possess it. I do not at this moment remember that he ever
referred to a dictionary. I only remember that he examined my Liddell
and Scott to see whether those modern lexicographers had done their work
in a way to merit his approval, and that he thought their book might be
useful to me. He had some knowledge of astronomy, and was building a
reflecting telescope which he never completed; but I remember that he
was often occupied in polishing the reflectors whilst I was reading, and
that his hand went on rubbing with a bit of soft leather, and a red
powder, when he would deliver the clearest disquisitions on the
employment of words by Greek authors, most of which I was not
sufficiently advanced to profit by. His manner with me was impatient,
and often rude and contemptuous. What irritated him especially in me was
the strange inequality of my learning, for I was rather strong on some
points, and equally weak on others; whilst he himself had an
irresistible regularity of knowledge, at least in Latin and Greek.
We did absolutely nothing else but Latin and Greek during my stay with
this tutor, and I suppose I must have made some progress, but there was
no _feeling_ of progress. In comparison with the completeness of my
master's terrible erudition it seemed that my small acquirements were
nothing, and never could be more than nothing. On the other hand, the
extreme narrowness of his literary tastes led me to place a higher value
on my own increasing knowledge of modern literature, and conclusively
proved to me, once for all, that a classical education does not
necessarily give a just or accurate judgment. "If a man," I said to
myself, "can be a thorough classical scholar as my tutor is, and at the
same time so narrow and ignorant, it is clear that a classical training
does not possess the virtue of opening the mind which is ascribed to
it."
Besides his narrowness with regard to modern literature of all kinds, my
tutor had the usual characteristic of the classical scholars of his
generation, a complete ignorance and misunderstanding of the fine arts.
All that he knew on that subject was that a certain picture by Titian
was shameful because there was a naked woman in it; and I believe he had
heard that Claude was a famous landscape-painter, but he had no
conception whatever of the aims and purposes of art. One of his
accusations against me was that, from vanity, I had painted a portrait
of myself. As a matter of fact, the little picture was a portrait of
Lord Byron, done from an engraving; but any artist may, without vanity,
make use of his own face as a model.
In religion my tutor was most intolerant. He could not endure either
Roman Catholics or Dissenters of any kind, and considered no terms harsh
enough for infidels. He told with approbation the story of some bigot
like himself, who, when an unbeliever came into his house, had loudly
ordered the servant to lock up the silver spoons. He possessed and read
with approbation one of those intolerant books of the eighteenth century
entitled, "A Short Method with Deists," in which the poor Deists were
crushed beneath the pitiless heel of the dominant State Church. It
happened one day, by a strange chance, that an antiquary brought a
Unitarian minister, who also took an interest in archaeology, to visit
the church where my tutor officiated, in which, there were some old
things, and as they stayed in the church till our early dinner-time, my
tutor could hardly do otherwise than offer them a little hospitality.
When the guests had gone (I hope they enjoyed the conversation, which
seemed to me artificial and constrained) my tutor said to me: "That man,
that Unitarian, will go to hell! All who do not believe in the Atonement
will go to hell!" I said nothing, but thought that the mild antiquary
who sat with us at table might deserve a less terrible fate. My tutor
troubled me less, perhaps, about theology than might have been expected.
He intended to inflict much more theology upon me than I really had to
undergo, thanks to his indolence, and the craft and subtlety with which
I managed to substitute other work for it. Still, it was a trial to me
to have to look acquiescent, or at least submissive and respectful,
whilst he said the most unjust and intolerant things about those who
differed from him, and with whom I often secretly agreed. And of course
I had to listen to his sermons every Sunday, and to go through the
outward seemings of conformity that my master had power enough to exact
from me. Beyond the weekly services in the church he fulfilled scarcely
any of the duties of a parish clergyman. He rose about eleven in the
morning, and spent his time either in mechanical pursuits or in
desultory reading, often of the Greek and Latin classics. In fact, my
tutor's mind was so imbued with the dead languages that he was unable to
write his own, but had constant recourse to Greek and Latin to make his
meaning clear.
A year spent with this clergyman, with whom I had not two ideas in
common, produced an effect upon me exactly opposite to that which had
been intended. My feelings towards the ancient classics had grown into
positive repugnance when I saw the moderns so unjustly sacrificed to
them, and my love for the moderns had increased to the point of
partisanship. My tutor's injustice towards Dissenters and unbelievers
had also, by a natural reaction, aroused in me a profound sympathy for
these maligned and despised people, and I would willingly have joined
some dissenting body myself if I could have found one that had exactly
my own opinions; but it seemed useless to leave the Church of England
for another community if I were no more in accordance with the new than
with the old. The fact that my master had been a tutor at Oxford and was
always boasting about his university career--he openly expressed his
contempt for men who "had never seen the smoke of a university"--made me
sick of the very name of the place, and to this day I have never visited
it. In a word, my tutor made me dislike the very things that it was his
business to make me like, and if I had ever felt the least desire for a
degree he would have cured me of it, as it was impossible to desire
honors that were accessible to so narrow a mind as his, a mind fit for
nothing but pedagogy, and really unable to appreciate either literature
or art.
At the end of a year, therefore, I said plainly to my guardian that I
was doing no good, and that it was useless to prepare me any further for
Oxford, as I could not conscientiously put my name to the Thirty-nine
Articles.
If, in those days, any human being in our class of society in England
had been able to conceive of such a thing as education not in clerical
hands, I might have gone on with my classical studies under the
direction of a layman; but education and the clergy were looked upon as
inseparable; even by myself. My education, therefore, came momentarily
to a stand-still, though it happened a little later that a sense of its
imperfection made me take it up again with fresh energy on my own
account, and I am still working at it, in various directions, at the
mature age of fifty-two.
CHAPTER XVI.
1852.
Choice of a profession.--Love of literature and art.--Decision to make
trial of both.--An equestrian tour.--Windermere.--Derwentwater.--I take
lessons from Mr. J. P. Pettitt.--Ulleswater.--My horse Turf.--Greenock,
a discovery.--My unsettled cousin.--Glasgow.--Loch Lomond.
--Inverary.--Loch Awe.--Inishail.--Innistrynich.--Oban.--A sailing
excursion.--Mull and Ulva.--Solitary reading.
The question of a profession now required an immediate decision. My
guardian's choice for me had formerly been the Church, but that was not
exactly suited to my ways of thinking. The most natural profession for a
young man in my position would have been the law, but my father had
expressly desired that I should not adopt it, as he was sick of it for
himself, and wished to spare me its anxieties. The cotton trade required
a larger disposable capital than I possessed, to start with any chance
of success.
My own desires were equally balanced between two pursuits for which I
had a great liking, and hoped that there might be some natural aptitude.
One of these was literature, and the other painting. A very moderate
success in either of these pursuits would, it seemed to me, be more
conducive to happiness than a greater success in some less congenial
occupation. My fortune was enough for a bachelor, and I did not intend
to marry, at least for a long time.
There was no thought of ambition in connection with the desire to follow
one of these two pursuits, beyond that of the workman who desires to do
well. I mean, I had no social ambition in connection with them. It
seemed to me that the liberty of thought which I valued above everything
was incompatible, in England, with any desire to rise in the world, as
unbelievers lay under a ban, and had no chance of social advancement
without renouncing their opinions. This was an additional reason why I
should seek happiness in my studies, as a worldly success was denied to
me.
The reader may perhaps think that I had not much, in the way of social
advancement, to renounce, but in fact I had a position remarkably full
of possibilities, that a man of the world could have used to great
advantage. I had independent means, enough to enable me, as a bachelor,
to live like a gentleman; I belonged to one of the oldest and
best-descended families in the English untitled aristocracy, had a
retentive memory, a strong voice, and could speak in public without
embarrassment. A man of the world, in my position, would have found his
upward course straight before him. He would simply have made use of the
Church as an instrument (it is one of the most valuable instruments for
the worldly), have given himself the advantages of Oxford, married for
money, offered his services to the Conservative party, and gone into
Parliament. [Footnote: The reader may wonder why the _Conservative_
party is specially mentioned. It is mentioned simply because all my
relations and nearly all my influential friends (who could have pushed
me) belonged to it. The Conservative party is also the one that gives
the best social promotion to those who serve it. There have been many
little Beaconsfields.]
It would have been much easier to do all that than to make a reputation
either in literature or painting,--easier, I mean, for a man starting in
life with so many good cards in his hand as I had.
I have been sometimes represented as an unsuccessful painter who took to
writing because he had failed as an artist. It is, of course, easy to
state the matter so, but the exact truth is that a very moderate success
in either literature or art would have been equally acceptable to me, so
that there has been no other failure in my life than the usual one of
not being able to catch two hares at the same time. Very few dogs have
ever been able to do that.
I decided to try to be a painter and to try to be an author, and see
what came of both attempts. My guardian always thought I should end by
being an author, and though she had no prejudice against painting, she
looked upon it as a pursuit likely to be very tedious, at times, to
those who practise it, in which she was quite right. It is generally a
hard struggle, requiring infinite patience, even in the clever and
successful.
One of the first things I did was to go on horseback to the English Lake
district in the summer of 1852, with the intention of continuing the
journey, still on horseback, into the mountainous regions of Scotland.
Unfortunately this project could not be executed with the horse I then
possessed, the most dangerous, sulky, resolute, and cunning brute I ever
mounted. I rode him as far as Keswick, where a horse-breaker tried him
and said his temper was incurable, recommending me to have him shot. The
advice was excellent, but I could not find it in my heart to destroy
such a fine-looking animal, so I left him in grass at Penrith, and went
on to Scotland by the usual means of travelling,--a change that I regret
to this day.
I had materials with me for painting studies in oil, and painted at
Windermere and Derwentwater. It was an inexpressible pleasure to see
these lakes, and a mental torment not to be able to paint them better.
My first sight of Windermere (or of any natural lake, for I had hitherto
seen nothing but fish-ponds and reservoirs) was enjoyed under peculiarly
impressive circumstances. I had been riding alone or walking by the side
of my horse during the night, and arrived at the lake shore by the
guidance of a star. I wrote down my first impression next day, and have
kept the words.
"I could not find the way to the little harbor of Bowness, and so went
on for a considerable distance till I came to a gate which, as I knew,
from the position of the north star, would lead directly to the lake
across the fields. There was a small and scarcely traceable footpath,
and a board to warn trespassers. However, I fastened the horse to the
gate and proceeded. I soon arrived at the shore, and was overawed by a
scene of overpowering magnificence. The day was just dawning. The water
mirrored the isles, except where the mist floated on its surface and
wreathed round their bases. The trees were massed by it into domes and
towers that seemed to float on the cloudy lake as if by enchantment. The
stars were growing pale in the yellowing east; the distant hills were
coldly blue, till far away lake and hill and sky melted into cloud.
"Opposite, I saw the dark form of an island rising between me and the
other shores, strongly relieved against the mist which crept along the
base of the opposite mountain and almost clambered to its dark summit.
The reflection of the dark upper part of the mountain (which rose clear
of the mist) fell on the lake in such a manner as to enclose that of the
island. In another direction an island was gradually throwing off its
white robe of mist, and the light showed through the interstices of the
foliage that I had taken for a crag.
"I had a pistol with me, and tried the echo, though it seemed wrong to
disturb a silence so sublime. I fired, and had time to regret that there
was no echo before a peal of musketry came from the nearer hills and
then a fainter peal from the distance, followed by an audible
rejoinder."
This is the kind of travel for the enjoyment of natural beauty. One
should be either quite alone, or have a single companion of the same
tastes, and one should be above all commonplace considerations about
hours. Samuel Palmer often walked the whole night alone, for the
pleasure of observing the beautiful changes between sunset and sunrise.
In the evening there was a fine red sunset followed by moonlight, so I
took a boat and rowed out in the moonlight alone. This first experience
of lake scenery was an enchantment, and it had a great influence on my
future life by giving me a passion for lakes, or by increasing the
passion that (in some inexplicable way) I had felt for them from
childhood. One of the earliest poems I had attempted to compose began
with the stanza,--
"A cold and chilly mist
Broodeth o'er Winandermere,
And the heaven-descended cloud hath kissed
The still lake drear."
I had already tried to paint lake scenery, in copying a picture, and my
favorite illustrations in the Abbotsford edition of Scott's works were
the lochs that I was now to see for the first time.
After a night at Ambleside I saw Rydal Water in sunshine and calm, with
faint breezes playing on its surface, and rode on to Keswick through the
Vale of St. John. The only way in which it was possible to ride the
brute I possessed was in putting him behind a carriage, which he
followed as if he had been tied to it. In this manner I reached Keswick,
after apologizing to a family party for dogging their carriage so
closely. As soon as the vehicle came to a stop opposite the hotel, my
horse, Turf, threw out his heels vigorously in the crowd. Luckily he
hurt nobody, but the bystanders told me that one of his shoes had been
within six inches of a young lady's face. A vicious horse is a perpetual
anxiety. Turf kicked in the stable as well as out of it, and hit a groom
on the forehead a few days later. The man would probably have been
killed without the leather of his cap.
Finding an artist at Keswick, Mr. J. P. Pettitt, I asked his advice and
became his pupil for a few days. I climbed Skiddaw during the night with
one of Mr. Pettitt's sons, who was a geologist and a landscape-painter
also. When we got to the top of the mountain we were enveloped in a
thick mist, which remained till we descended; but I lay down in my
waterproof on the lee side of the cairn, and slept in happy oblivion of
discomfort.
Mr. Pettitt's lessons were of some use to me, but as all my serious
education hitherto had been classical, I was not sufficiently advanced
in practical art to prepare me for color, and I ought to have been
making studies of light and shade in sepia.
There was nothing more difficult in those days than for a young
gentleman to become an artist, because no human being would believe that
he could be serious in such an intention. As I had a fine-looking horse
in the stable at the hotel, Pettitt of course took me for an amateur,
and only attempted to communicate the superficial dexterity that
amateurs usually desire. It was my misfortune to be constantly
attempting what was far too difficult for me in art, and not to find any
one ready and willing to put me on the right path. I was very well able,
already, to make studies in sepia that would have been valuable material
for future reference, whereas my oil studies were perfectly worthless,
and much more inconvenient and embarrassing.
I was enchanted with the Lake District, seeing Windermere, Derwentwater,
and Ulleswater, besides several minor lakes; but although I delighted in
all inland waters and the Lake District was so near to my own home, I
never revisited it. The reason was that, after seeing the grander
Highlands of Scotland, I became spoiled for the English Lakes. There was
another reason,--the absence of human interest on the English lakes
except of a quite modern kind, there being no old castles on shore or
island. Lyulph's Tower, on Ulleswater, though immortalized by
Wordsworth, is nothing but a modern hunting-box. Nevertheless, I have
often regretted that I did not become more familiar with Wordsworth's
country in my youth.
The mention of Lyulph's Tower reminds me that when I landed there after
a hard pull of seven miles against a strong wind, I was kindly invited
to take part in a merry picnic that was just being held there by some
farmers of the neighborhood. A very pretty girl asked me to dance, and I
afterwards played the fiddle. The scene with the dancers in the
foreground on the green sward, and the lake and mountains in the
distance, was one of the most poetical I ever beheld.
Turf had been ridden from Keswick to Penrith by the horse-breaker
already mentioned, and with infinite difficulty. I would have left him
in the breaker's hands, but he refused to mount again, saying that he
had done enough for his credit, and so had I for mine. By his advice I
took the same resolution, and as nobody in Penrith would ride the brute,
he was left to grow still wilder in a green field whilst I went on to
Scotland by the train.
I had a cousin at Greenock who was learning to be a marine constructing
engineer. He was a young man of remarkable ability, who afterwards
distinguished himself in his profession, and might no doubt have made a
large fortune if his habits had not been imprudent and unsettled. At
that time he was tied to Greenock by an engagement with one of the great
firms where he was articled. He had rooms in a quiet street, and offered
me hospitality. One day I came in unexpectedly and found a baby in my
bed, when the door opened suddenly, and a very pretty girl with dark
eyes came and took the baby away with an apology. I immediately said to
myself: "My cousin has been privately married, that pair of dark eyes
has cost him his liberty, and that child is an infantine relation of
mine!" This discovery remained a long time a secret in my own breast,
and I affected a complete absence of suspicion during the rest of my
stay at Greenock, but it was afterwards fully confirmed. My cousin had,
in fact, married at the early age of nineteen, when he was still an
articled pupil with Messrs. Caird, and living on an allowance from his
father, whom he dared not ask for an increase. He was therefore obliged
to eke out his means by teaching mechanical drawing in the evenings; but
though his marriage had been an imprudence, it was not a folly. He had,
in fact, shown excellent judgment in the choice of a wife. The dark eyes
were not all. Behind them there was a soul full of the most cheerful
courage, the sweetest affection, the most faithful devotion. For
thirty-seven years my cousin's wife followed him everywhere, and bore
his roving propensity with wonderful good humor. What that propensity
was, the reader may partly realize when I tell him that in those
_thirty_-seven years my cousin went through _eighty_-seven removals,
some of them across the greatest distances that are to be found upon the
planet. The only reason why he did not remove to all the different
planets one after another was the absence of a road to them. This
tendency of my cousin Orme had been predicted by a French phrenologist
at Manchester when he was a boy. The phrenologist had said, after
examining his "bumps," that Orme would settle in a place for a short
time and appear satisfied at first, as if it were for good, but that
very soon afterwards he would go elsewhere and repeat the process. I
never met with any other human being who had such an unsettled
disposition. The consequence was that he often quitted places where he
was extremely prosperous, and people who not only appreciated his
extraordinary talents, but were ready to reward them handsomely, in
order to go he knew not whither, and undertake he knew not what.
I left Greenock by an early steamer for Glasgow, and remember this one
detail of the voyage. The morning air was brisk and keen, so I was not
sorry to breakfast when the meal was announced, and did ample justice to
it with a young and vigorous appetite. Having eaten my third poached
egg, and feeling still ready for the more substantial dishes that
awaited me, I suddenly recollected that I had already disposed of an
ample Scotch breakfast at my cousin's. Can anything more conclusively
prove the wonderful virtue of early hours and the healthy northern air?
After visiting Glasgow and the Falls of Clyde in drenching rain, I saw
Loch Lomond, which was my first experience of a Highland lake, and
therefore memorable for me. The gradual approach, on the steamer,
towards the mountains at the upper end of the lake was a revelation of
Highland scenery. The day happened to be one of rapidly changing
effects. A rugged hill with its bosses and crags was one minute in
brilliant light, to be in shade the next, as the massive clouds flew
over it, and the colors varied from pale blue to dark purple and brown
and green, with that wonderful freshness of tint and vigor of opposition
that belong to the wilder landscapes of the north. From that day my
affections were conquered; as the steamer approached nearer and nearer
to the colossal gates of the mountains, and the deep waters of the lake
narrowed in the contracting glen, I felt in my heart a sort of
exultation like the delight of a young horse in the first sense of
freedom in the boundless pasture.
The next sunrise I saw from the top of Ben Lomond, but will spare the
reader the description. It was a delight beyond words for an
enthusiastic young reader of Scott to look upon Loch Katrine at last.
Thousands of tourists have been drawn to the same scenes by their
interest in the same poet, yet few of them, I fancy, had in the same
degree with myself the three passions for literature, for nature, and
for art. If little has come of these passions, it was certainly not from
any want of intensity in _them_, but in consequence of certain critical
influences that will be explained later. I will only say in this place,
that if the passion for art had been strongest of the three the
productive result would have been greater.
From Tarbet on Loch Lomond I went to Inverary, and the first thing I did
there was to hire a sailing-boat and go beating to windward on Loch
Fyne. I made a sketch of the ruined castle of Dundera, which stands
between the road and the loch on a pretty rocky promontory. For some
time I had a strong fancy for this castle, and wanted to rent it on
lease and restore three or four rooms in it for my own use. The choice
would have been in some respects wiser than that I afterwards made, as
Dundera has such easy access to Inverary by a perfectly level and good
road on the water's edge, and by the water itself; but the scenery of
Loch Fyne is not as attractive as that of Loch Awe, and there is always
a certain inevitable dreariness about a salt-water loch which, to my
feeling, would make it depressing for long residence.
I had travelled from Tarbet with a rather elderly couple who were very
kind to me, and afterwards invited me to their house in Yorkshire. The
lady was connected with Sir James Ross, the Arctic discoverer, and her
husband had been a friend of Theodore Hook, of whom he told me many
amusing anecdotes. They were both most amiable, cheerful people, and we
formed a merry party of three when first I saw Loch Awe, as the carriage
descended the road from Inverary to Cladich on the way to Dalmally. As I
kept a journal of this tour, I find easily the account of my first
boating on Loch Awe. It was in the month of August when we had come to a
halt at Cladich:--
"In the afternoon I made a sketch of the bridge taken from the ravine.
It occupied me four hours, as the scene was of the most elaborate
character. We dined at four o'clock, and then strolled to the lake,
which was at some distance. Two boats were lying in a small stream which
emptied itself into the lake, so I pressed one of them into my service,
and was soon out upon the water. The boat was old, badly built, and
rickety. The starboard oar was cracked, and the port oar had been broken
in two and mended with bands of iron. The bottom was several inches deep
in water, the thwarts were not securely fastened, nor were they at right
angles to the keel. Out in the loch the waves were high, and the crazy
craft rolled and pitched like a beer-barrel, the water in her washing
from side to side. However, I reached the island called 'Inishail.' It
was a striking scene. Around me were the tombs of many generations. In
the far distance the dark ruin of Kilchurn was reduced almost to
insignificance by its background of rugged hills towering into the
clouds.
"Night was coming on quickly as I rowed back to the mouth of the little
river. On reaching the inn I found that the people were getting anxious
about me."
This first row on Loch Awe has a pathetic interest for me to this day.
It was like one's first meeting with a friend who was destined to become
very dear and to exercise a powerful influence on the whole current of
one's life.
As my first impression of London had been, "This is a place an
Englishman ought to see once, but I will never come to it again," so my
first impression about Loch Awe was a profound sort of melancholy
happiness in the place and a longing to revisit it. I never afterwards
quitted Loch Awe without the same longing to return, and I have never
seen any place in the world that inspired in me that nostalgia in
anything like an equal degree.
There is an affinity between persons and places, but the Loch Awe that
won my affection exists no longer. What delighted me was the complete
unity of character that prevailed there, the lonely magnificent
mountains, the vast expanse of water only crossed occasionally by some
poor open boat, the melancholy ruins on island or peninsula, the
wilderness, the sadness, the pervading sense of solitude, a solitude
peopled only with traditions of a romantic past. It was almost as lonely
as some distant lake in the wilds of Canada that the Indian crosses in
his canoe, yet its ruined castles gave a poetry that no American waters
can ever possess. Such was Loch Awe that I loved with the melancholy
affection of youth before the experience of life had taught me a more
active and practical philosophy than the indulgence in the sweet sadness
of these reveries. But Loch Awe of to-day and of the future is as modern
and practical as the sea-lochs that open upon the Clyde. On my first
visit in 1852 there was neither steamer nor sailing-boat; now there are
fourteen steamers on the lake, four of them public, and the railway
trains pass round the skirts of Cruachan and rush through the Brandir
Pass. There is a big hotel, they tell me, just opposite Kilchurn, from
which place, by express train, you can get to Edinburgh in four hours.
The day after our arrival at Loch Awe turned out to be most beautiful (a
fine day in the Highlands seems, by contrast, far more beautiful than
elsewhere), and I shall never forget the enchantment of the head of Loch
Awe as our carriage slowly descended the hilly road from Cladich towards
Dalmally, stopping frequently for me to look and sketch. When we got
near the island, or peninsula, of Innistrynich, with its dark green oaks
and pasture-laud of a brighter green in the sunshine, and gray rocks
coming down into the calm, dark water, it seemed to my northern taste
the realization of an earthly paradise. I have lived upon it since, and
unwillingly left it, and to this day I have the most passionate
affection for it, and often dream about it painfully or pleasurably, the
most painful dream of all being that it has been spoiled by the present
owner, which happily is quite the contrary of the truth.
I went to Oban on the top of the coach in the most brilliant weather
that ever is or can be, alternate sunshine and rain, with white clouds
of a dazzling brightness. Under this enchantment, the barren land of
Lorne seemed beautiful, and one forgot its poverty. For the first time,
I saw the waters of Loch Etive, then a pale blue, stretching far inland,
and the distant hills of Morven were, or seemed to be, of the purest
azure.
When my new friends had left me at Oban, I hired a sailing-boat and two
men for a voyage amongst the Western Isles; but as she was an open boat,
the men did not like the idea of risking our lives in her on the exposed
waters of the Atlantic, so the voyage was confined to the Sound of Mull,
and I crossed the island to its western shore on foot. That voyage left
permanent recollections of grand effects and wild scenery of the kind
afterwards described by William Black in his "Macleod of Dare." As we
sailed across the Sound in the evening from Oban to Auchincraig, the sky
was full of torn rain-clouds flying swiftly and catching the lurid hues
from the sunset, whilst the distant mountains and cliffs of Mull were of
that dark purple which seems melancholy and funereal in landscape,
though it is one of the richest colors in the world. It was dangerous
weather for sailing, being very squally, and in the year 1852 I knew
nothing about the management of sailing-boats; but the men were not
imprudent, and after coasting under the cliffs of Mull we landed at
Auchincraig, where at that time there was a miserable inn. The next day
we had a glorious sail up the sound to the Bay of Aros, stopping only to
see Duart Castle. In walking across the island to Loch na Keal, we
passed through a most picturesque camp, that would have delighted
Landseer. There were hundreds of horses and innumerable dogs of the
picturesque northern breeds. It was the half-yearly market of Mull.
I shall never forget my first sight of Ulva, as we sat on the shore of
Mull waiting for the ferry-boat. Ulva lay, a great dark mass, under the
crimson west, reflected in a glassy sea. We had already seen Staffa and
Iona, pale in the distant Atlantic. Then the boat fetched us, and we
floated as in a poet's dream, till the worst of inns brought one back to
a sense of reality.
The boatman who accompanied me, whose name was Andrew, amused himself by
telling lies to the credulous inhabitants of Ulva, and one of his
inventions was that I was going to purchase the island. The other
boatman, Donald, slept in the boat at Salan, wrapped up in a sail. The
return voyage to Oban is thus described in my journal:--
"A fine young man asked me for a seat in the boat, which I granted on
condition that he would perform his share of the work. A favorable wind
carried us well over fifteen miles, half our distance, and the rest had
to be rowed. The sun set in crimson, and the crescent moon arose behind
the blue hills of Mull, over the dark tower of Duart. The scene was
shortly a festival of lights with stars in the sky and the water
brilliantly phosphorescent, so that the oar seemed to drip with fire.
Lastly, when we entered the smooth bright bay of Oban, a crescent of
lights shone around it, reflected in columns of flame upon the surface."
These were my chief experiences of the West Highlands during that first
tour, and they left what I believe to be an indelible impression, for to
this day I remember quite distinctly under what kind of effect each of
these scenes presented itself. The artistic results of the tour
consisted of sketches in oil and pencil, quite without value except to
remind me of the scenes passed through, and of the most decidedly
amateur character. I also wrote a journal, interesting to me now for the
minute details it contains, which bring the past back to me very
vividly, but utterly without literary merit. The wonder is how a youth
with so little manifest talent as may be found in these sketches and
journal could indulge in any artistic or literary ambition. My
impression is that the dull year of heavy work that I had gone through
with the Yorkshire tutor had done positive harm to me. Besides this, I
was living, intellectually, in great solitude. My guardian was very
kind, and she was a woman of sterling good sense, but she knew nothing
about the fine arts, nor could she afford me much guidance in my
reading, her own reading being limited to the Bible, and to some English
and French classics. My uncles were both extremely reserved men who did
not encourage my questions, so I was left for a while to get on without
other intellectual assistance than that afforded by books. My eldest
uncle, the owner of Hollins, said one day to my guardian, "Buy him the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica,' it will prevent him from asking so many
questions;" so she made the purchase, which gave me a large pasture, at
least for facts, and as for good literature, my little library was
beginning to be well stocked. I made no attempt at that time to keep up
my Latin and Greek, nor did I work seriously at painting, but read,
drew, and wrote very much as it happened, not subjecting myself to any
rigorous discipline, yet never remaining unoccupied.
CHAPTER XVII.
1853.
A journal.--Self-training.--Attempts in periodical literature.--The time
given to versification well spent.--Practical studies in art.--Beginning
of Mr. Ruskin's influence.--Difficulty in finding a master in
landscape-painting.--Establishment of the militia.--I accept a
commission.--Our first training.--Our colonel and our adjutant.--The
Grand Llama.--Paying off the men.
On January 1, 1853, I began to keep a journal, and continued it, with
some intermissions, till June, 1855. The journal is long and minute in
detail, and affords me a very clear retrospect of my life in those
years; but it will be needless to trouble the reader with quotations
from it.
The title page of the diary is a clear indication of my pursuits. It is
called an "Account of time spent in Literature, Art, Music, and
Gymnastics." The reader may observe that Literature comes before Art, so
that if I am now an author rather than an artist, the reason may be
found in early studies and inclination. Music and gymnastics were, in my
view, only a part of general culture, yet of considerable importance in
their way.
As a scheme of self-training, this seems sufficiently comprehensive, and
to this day I feel the good effects of it. My reading was not badly
chosen, the drawing gave some initiation into art, and exercise
developed physical activity, not yet altogether lost in mature age.
Still, the experienced reader will see at a glance that this was not the
training of a young painter who, in a craft of such great technical
difficulty and in an age of such intense competition, must give himself
up more completely to his own special pursuit.
On the first page of this diary I find an entry about an article for the
"Westminster Review." I offered two or three papers to the
"Westminster," which were declined, and then I wrote to the editor
asking him if he would be so good as to explain, for my own benefit and
guidance, what were the reasons for their rejection. His answer came,
and was both kind and judicious. "An article," he told me, "ought to be
an organic whole, with a pre-arranged order and proportion amongst its
parts. There ought to be a beginning, a middle, and an end." This was a
very good and much-needed lesson, for at that time I had no notion of a
synthetic _ordonnance_ of parts. There was, no doubt, another reason,
which the editor omitted out of consideration for the feelings of a
literary aspirant, who was too young and too insufficiently informed to
write anything that could interest readers of the "Westminster."
I worked rather hard at writing English verse, and do not at the present
time regret a single hour of that labor. My general habit was to write a
poem, sometimes of considerable length, and then destroy it; but I kept
some of these compositions, which were afterwards published in a volume.
Verse-writing was good for me at that time for a particular reason. I
did not understand the art of prose composition, which is much less
obvious than that of poetry; but being already aware that verse-writing
was an art, approached it in the right spirit, which is that of
ungrudging labor and incessant care. The value or non-value of the
result has nothing to do with the matter; the essential point is that
verse was to me a discipline, coming just at a time of life when I had
much need of a discipline. Besides, the mind of a young man is not ripe
enough in reflection or rich enough in knowledge to supply substantial
and well-nourished prose; but the freshness and keenness of his feelings
may often give life enough to a few stanzas, if not to a longer poem.
It may be objected to this advocacy of verse, that as the poet's gift is
excessively rare, the probability is that a youth who writes verse
attacks an art that he can never master. No doubt the highest degree of
the poetic gift is most rare, and so, according to Christine Nilsson,
are the gifts needed to make a _prima donna_, yet many a girl practises
singing without hoping to be a Nilsson; and there are many poets in the
world whose verses have melody and charm though their brows may never be
"cooled with laurel." The objection to verse as a trifling occupation
comes really from that general disinclination to read verse which
excuses itself by the rarity of genius. Rossetti, who had genius in his
own person, was always ready to appreciate good poetical work that had
no fame to recommend it. [Footnote: Since the above was written I have
met with an address delivered by Mr. Walter Besant, the novelist, in
which he recommends the continuous practice of versification as a
discipline in the use of language most valuable to writers of prose.]
In the way of art at this time I painted three portraits and some
landscapes that were merely studies. It is needless to enumerate these
attempts, all of no value, and generally destroyed afterwards.
An important event occurred on March 22,1853. Being in Manchester, I
bought the first volume of Ruskin's "Modern Painters." In this way I
came under the influence of Mr. Ruskin, and remained under it, more or
less, for several years. It was a good influence in two ways, first in
literature, as anything that Mr. Ruskin has to say is sure to be well
expressed, and after that it was a good influence in directing my
attention to certain qualities and beauties in nature; but in art this
influence was not merely evil, it was disastrous. I was, however, at
that time, just the young man predestined to fall under it, being very
fond of reading, and having a strong passion for natural beauty. In the
course of the year 1853 I corresponded with Mr. Ruskin about my studies,
and I have no doubt of the perfect sincerity of his advice and the
kindness of intention with which it was given; but it tended directly to
encourage the idea that art could be learned from nature, and that is an
immense mistake. Nature does not teach art, or anything resembling it;
she only provides materials. Art is a product of the human mind, the
slow growth of centuries. If you reject this and go to nature, you have
to begin all over again, the objection being that one human life is not
long enough for that.
As it is possible that some critic may say that Mr. Ruskin's influence
was not so much opposed to the tradition of art as I am representing it
to be, and considering that I shall be dead when this is published, I
quote the following passage from a memorandum found amongst the papers
of Mr. Leitch, the water-color painter, and printed in his biography:--
"I knew a young man of talent, ardent and energetic, and anxious to be a
landscape-painter, who went to Mr. Ruskin and asked his advice as to
what he should do, what school he should follow, how he should practise,
and what master he should put himself under. I was told that the answer
he got was to this effect: 'Have nothing to do with schools; put
yourself under no master. Both the one and the other are useless. As
soon as you can draw a tree, or a tower, or a rock, in an ordinary
drawing-master way, that is sufficient. Take your materials then out to
nature, and paint in _her_ school. It is the only school I know of where
you can't go wrong.'"
I had asked Mr. Ruskin to recommend me some landscape-painter in London
with whom I could study for six months. His answer was: "There is no
artist in London capable of teaching you and at the same time willing to
give lessons. All those who teach, teach mere tricks with the brush, not
true art, far less true nature." He then recommended me to "go to
William Turner, of Oxford, not for six months, but for six weeks." I was
prevented from following this advice by a technical difficulty. Turner
of Oxford was a water-color painter. I had learned water-color with two
masters, but had never liked it or felt the slightest impulse to
continue it. One man is naturally constituted for one process, another
for another. There is something in my idiosyncrasy repugnant to the
practice of water-color and favorable to oil, and this in spite of the
greater convenience of water-color, and the facility with which it may
be left off and instantaneously resumed. In after-life I learned
water-color a third time with a very able artist, and now I am able to
paint studies in that medium from nature which are truthful enough, and
people seem to like them; but hitherto I have had no enjoyment whatever
in the work. The reader will please understand that this implies no want
of appreciation of the art when it is skilfully practised by others.
There are certain instruments of music that one may listen to with
pleasure without having the slightest desire to perform upon them.
[Footnote: My estimate of the rank of water-color amongst the fine arts
has steadily risen as the true technical relations of the graphic arts
have become clearer to me. Water-color is quite as great an art as
fresco, whilst it is incomparably more convenient.]
This being so, the reader will understand how I felt about going to
William Turner of Oxford. Hour for hour, I would as willingly have read
Greek as practise water-color washes. Not to trouble Mr. Ruskin,
however, any further with my affairs, I tried to induce several
well-known oil-painters to accept me as a pupil, but always met with the
same answer, that they "did not teach." It was rather a matter of pride
in those days for a successful painter to decline to give lessons; it
proved him to be above the grade of a drawing-master.
On March 29, 1853, a little event occurred which was one of the numerous
causes that turned me aside from the steady practice of art. One of our
friends called about the impending establishment of the militia, and
offered to use his influence with Colonel Towneley to get a commission
for me in the 5th Royal Lancashire, the regiment that was to have its
headquarters at Burnley. My guardian much wished me to accept, and I did
so to please her, as I had not been able to please her by going to
Oxford. There was nothing in a military life, even for a short time
every year, that had the slightest attraction for me. The notion of
rendering a patriotic service did not occur to me, for nobody in those
days looked upon the militia seriously. We were only laughed at for our
pains, and we had a great deal of trouble and hard work in getting the
regiment, including ourselves, into something distantly resembling
military order. Before we were called up for training I got some
initiation with a line regiment.
Our colonel was the representative of a very old Catholic family, the
Towneleys of Towneley. This family had been, skilful enough to avoid
shipwreck during the contests that attended the establishment of
Protestantism in England. It had survived in increasing wealth and
prosperity, and had now reached the calm haven of a civilized age, with
tolerant and liberal institutions. Everything promised a long
continuance. The head of the family had no male heir, but his brother
John, who was a major in our regiment, had one son, a cousin of Roger
Tichborne, and on this son the hopes of continuance rested. Those hopes
have not been realized. The young man died in his youth; his father and
his uncle also died; the property is divided amongst three heiresses,
and now for the first time, since surnames were invented, there is no
longer a Towneley of Towneley.
The colonel was a man of the kindest disposition and the most gentle
manners, without much confidence in himself. For all regimental matters
he trusted the adjutant, Captain Fenton, an officer who had seen much
active service in India. Fenton had by nature the gifts of a ruler of
men. When not on duty he was as gentle as a lady, a pleasant and amiable
talker, but on the parade-ground he ruled us all like a Napoleon. He had
lost one eye; people always believed in battle, but in fact, the loss
had occurred in a tennis-court since his return from India. The other
eye seemed to have gained, in consequence, a supernatural degree of
penetration. It looked you through! One day, on the parade-ground, that
eye glared at me in such a manner that I was quite intimidated, and said
what I had to say in rather a low tone of voice. "Speak up, sir! can't
you?" thundered the adjutant. "Mister Hamerton, I tell you to speak up!"
Fenton had an extremely pretty little bay horse, that had been in a
circus, so when he rode past the companies on parade, and the band
struck up, the horse used to begin dancing, keeping time beautifully,
and indeed danced all the way from company to company. This used to put
Fenton out of temper, and as soon as ever military usages permitted it,
he would stop the band with a gesture, even in the middle of a tune; in
fact, no matter at what moment. To such of us as had a musical
disposition, this was perhaps as difficult to hear as the dancing of
Fenton's horse could be to him. [Footnote: We had a major who did not
much like the band, and when he could stop it, he would say, "Tell that
band to hold its tongue."]
During our first training there were not billets enough in Burnley to
lodge all our men, so one company had to be sent to Padiham, and mine
was selected. I was a lieutenant, and had neither captain nor ensign,
being quite alone as a commissioned officer, but we possessed an
excellent old sergeant, who had seen active service, and, of, course, he
taught me what to do. My "mess" consisted of a solitary dinner in the
inn at Padiham, sufficient, but not luxurious. My guardian had wished me
to go into the militia to live rather more with young gentlemen, and my
only society was that of the old sergeant, who punctiliously observed
the difference of rank. On account of the distance from Padiham to
Burnley (rather more than three miles), we were excused the early
parade, but went through the two others. The consequence was, that at
the end of the training, although we had marched more than the other
companies, we had had only two-thirds of their drill, and when the grand
inspection by a general took place, it was thought advisable to hide my
company and another, that was also weak in drill, though for a different
reason. Luckily, there was a sort of dell in the parade-ground, and we
were ordered to march down into it. There we stood patiently in line
during the whole time of the review, and the inspecting general never
looked at us, which was what the colonel desired. Being destitute of
military ambition, I was quite contented to remain down in the hollow.
The most modest and obscure positions are sometimes the most agreeable.
We had a major who had been a colonel in the Guards. It was whispered
that he did not know very much about drill, having probably forgotten
his acquirements. One day, however, he commanded the regiment, and I
ventured to ask him a question. He answered with a good-humored smile,
that the commanding officer was like the Grand Llama of Thibet,--he
could not be approached directly, but only through the adjutant. My
belief was, and is, that my question puzzled him, for he was far too
good-natured not to have answered it at once if he had been able. I told
the story to my brother officers, who were amused by the comparison with
the Grand Llama, and we sometimes called the major by that high-sounding
title afterwards.
As a perfectly inexperienced young officer, without anybody but an old,
over-worked and used-up sergeant to help him, and a number of drunken
Irishmen in the company to vex and trouble him by day and by night, I
had as much to do during the first training as could be expected of a
youth in my situation. The last day of the training I committed the
blunder of advancing small sums of money to a number of men, who, of
course, immediately got drunk. My ignorance of popular manners and
customs had made me unable to realize the lamentable fact that if you
pay five shillings to a man in the improvident class he will at once
invest it in five shillings' worth of intoxication. I was still in
Padiham at two in the afternoon, finishing accounts, and I had to be in
Burnley with my men in time to get them off by the evening trains. When
we started many of them were so drunk that they could not walk, and I
requisitioned a number of empty carts, and so got the drunken portion of
the company to headquarters. Then there came the final settlement of
more than eighty separate accounts. Without the adjutant, Fenton, I
should never have got through it. He was a methodical man, who
understood the business. He got a quantity of small change, piled it in
separate heaps upon a table, had each man brought up before him, and
said authoritatively, "So much is owing to you--there it is!" In this
way we got through the payments, and the drunken men were lodged in
prison for the night.
I was glad to get back to my quiet literary and artistic occupations,
and my country home. We had been so busy during our first training, and
I had been so much separated from the other officers by my duty at
Padiham, that so far as society was concerned, I might almost as well
have been on the top of Pendle Hill. Besides that, Englishmen are slow
to associate--they are shy, and they look at each other a long time
before getting really acquainted.
CHAPTER XVIII.
1853.
A project for studying in Paris.--Reading.--A healthy life.--Quinsy.
--My most intimate friend.
If there is any good in an autobiography it ought to be as an example or
a warning to others; so at the risk of seeming to moralize, which,
however, is far from my intention, I will say something in this place
about my manner of life in those days.
First with regard to art, it was not my fault if all the painters I had
applied to said that they did not take pupils. There was a young
gentleman in our neighborhood who, though a rich man's son, worked
seriously at painting, and put himself every year under the direction of
a French artist in Paris, where he studied in an atelier. I had an idea
of joining him, but my guardian (who with all her sweetness of
disposition could be authoritative when she liked) put a stop to the
project by saying that she refused her consent to any plan involving
absence from England before the expiration of my minority. She had the
usual English idea that Paris is a more immoral place than London.
Perhaps it may be, but great capitals such as Paris, London, and Vienna
have this in common, that you may be moral in them, or immoral, as you
like; and if we are to avoid a town because immorality is practised
there, we must avoid all the great and most of the smaller centres of
intelligence.
For the present I worked from nature, but not with sufficient energy or
regularity. I had not found my path, and was always dissatisfied with my
studies. In literature my reading was abundant, and included the best
English poets and essayists. I had entirely given up reading Latin and
Greek at that time, and was not just then studying any modern language
in their place. Young men both over-estimate and under-estimate their
own gifts,--they do not know themselves, as indeed how should they? I
had an impression that Nature had not endowed me with a gift for
languages. This impression was not only erroneous, but the exact
contrary of the truth, for I am a born linguist.
My life in general was healthy and active. It included a great deal of
walking exercise, sometimes five hours in a day. This, with bathing,
kept me in fair health, though I never had what is called robust health,
that which allows its possessor to commit great imprudences with
impunity. I was once near losing life altogether by an odd result from a
small accident. My horse, which was a heavy and large animal, put his
foot accidentally on mine. The accident did not prevent me from riding
out on the moors, but when I got there the pain became so violent that I
held my foot in a cold rivulet. During the night the pain returned, and
then I foolishly plunged the foot into a cold bath. The result was that
the inflammation flew to the throat, and I had a quinsy which nearly
carried me off. I remember asking for everything by writing on a slate,
and the intense longing I had for lemonade.
My most intimate friend in those days was a young solicitor in Burnley,
a man of remarkable ability and naturally polished manners. His
professional duties did not leave him very much time for reading, but he
had a mind far above the common Philistinism that cannot appreciate
literature. I must have wearied him sadly sometimes by reading my own
verses,--always a most foolish thing to do, and at this day quite
remote from my notions of an author's dignity. Handsley was wisely
indifferent to literary fame, and never wrote anything himself except
his letters, which were those of a clear-headed man of business. He took
upon himself great labors and great responsibilities, which ripened his
faculties at a very early age, and he bore them with uncommon firmness
and prudence. I never met with his superior in the practical sense that
seizes upon opportunities, and in the energy which arrives in time.
"Opportunity is kind," said George Eliot, "but only to the industrious."
Handsley was always one of those to whom Opportunity is kind. If his
career had been in Parliament I am convinced that he would have risen
high. His merits were exactly those that are most valued in an English
Cabinet Minister. At the present time he has under his management some
of the largest collieries in Lancashire, and has been for many years one
of the most influential men in the neighborhood.
CHAPTER XIX.
1853.
London again.--Accurate habits in employment of time.--Studies with Mr.
Pettitt.--Some account of my new master.--His method of technical
teaching.--Simplicity of his philosophy of art.--Incidents of his
life.--Rapid progress under Pettitt's direction.
On August 8, 1853, the writer of this book, who had promised and vowed
never to visit London again, went there to see the Royal Academy
Exhibition, and of course found it closed. If any one could have seen me
before the closed doors, knowing that I had come all the way from
Lancashire in the expectation of finding them open, he might have
derived some innocent mirth from my disappointment.
The Royal Academy being no longer accessible, I turned into the National
Gallery, and at once began to take notes in a pocket-book. This seems to
have been my habit at that time. I took notes about everything--about
painting, architecture, and even the Royal Mews. The notes are copious
and wordy. Though destitute of literary merit, they certainly serve
their purpose, for they recall things vividly enough, even in detail.
Nothing of any importance is omitted.
Although notes of that kind are unreadable, they are very useful
afterwards for reference, and my time could scarcely have been better
spent. I find I gave five hundred words to the description of Turner's
"Building of Carthage," and other pictures are treated with equal
liberality. I carried the same laborious system of note-making even into
exhibitions. In later life one learns the art of doing such work more
briefly.
Having purchased a few prints for study, I returned to Lancashire and
resumed my strict division of time. Four hours a day were given to
practical drawing, but not invariably the entry is sometimes three or
two only. When art lost an hour, literature gained it, either in study
or practical writing. I was curiously accurate in my accounts of time,
and knew to half-an-hour what was spent on this pursuit or that. Here is
an extract in evidence of this tendency:--
"Thursday, August 13, 1853. Determined to-day to study the copper Albert
Dürer 80 hours, having given 83 to the wood-cuts. I have already given
the copper 101/2 hours, so that I have 691/2 to devote to it yet. I
shall also give 40 hours to Kreutzer's violin studies, and have already
practised them 24, which leaves 16. I shall now commence a course of
poetical reading, beginning with 50 hours of Chaucer, and as I gave him
11/2 last night it leaves me exactly 481/2."
This is carrying exactness to excess, and it is not given as an example
to be followed, but it had the advantage of letting me know how my time
expenditure was running. In this way it became clear that if I intended
to be an artist the time given to practical work was insufficient. As no
painter of eminence would take a pupil I bethought me of Mr. Pettitt,
who had given me lessons at Keswick. He consented to take me, but said
that he had left the north of England for London. In the Lake District
he had been earning a small income; in London he earned twice as much,
but his expenses increased in proportion. The change, however, was a
disappointment to me, as it would have been more profitable to study
from nature under my master's direction, than to copy pictures in a
London studio.
My new London life began at the end of December, 1853. It has always
been, in my case, an effort little short of heroic to go and stay in a
town at all. My dislike to towns increases in exact mathematical
proportion to their size. The notion of going to London to study
landscape-painting seemed against nature. The negotiations with Mr.
Pettitt had been begun with the hope of a return to Derwentwater.
However, one dark and drizzly evening in December I found myself seeking
the number my new master had given me, in Percy Street. He was not
there, that was his studio only; the house was in the suburbs. We met on
the following morning in the studio, where stood an enormous picture of
Nebuchadnezzar and the Golden Image. This was conceived on the
principles of John Martin, with prodigious perspectives of impossible
architecture, and the price was a thousand pounds. The labor involved
was endless, but the whole enterprise was vain and futile from beginning
to end. Pettitt could work honestly and laboriously from
nature,--indeed, he never stinted labor in anything,--but such a large
undertaking as this piece of mingled archaeology and art was alike
beyond his knowledge and outside the range of his imagination. He was
not to blame, except for an error of judgment. The demand for his work
was feeble and uncertain, so he thought it necessary to attract
attention by a sensation picture. To finish the history of this work
without recurring to it, I have only to add that it proved in all ways,
financially and otherwise, a failure.
Mr. Pettitt was a most devoted student of nature, and his best pictures
had the character of faithful studies. He would sit down in some rocky
dell by the side of a stream in Wales, and paint rocks and trees month
after month with indefatigable perseverance; but he had no education,
either literary or artistic, and very little imaginative power. His only
safety was in that work from nature, and he would have stuck to it most
resolutely had there been any regularity in the encouragement he
received; but his income, like that of all painters who are not
celebrated, was very uncertain, and he could not quietly settle down to
the tranquil studies that he loved. Anxiety had made him imprudent; it
had driven him to try for notoriety. The Nebuchadnezzar picture, and
other mistakes of a like magnitude, were the struggles of a disquieted
mind. Pettitt had a very large family to maintain, and did nothing but
paint, paint from morning till night, except for half-an-hour after his
light lunch, when he read the "Times." As the great picture did not
advance very rapidly, he worked by gaslight after the short London
winter day, and often pursued his terrible task till the early hours of
the morning, when exhausted nature could resist no longer, and be fell
asleep on a little iron bed in the studio. There were days when he told
me he had worked twenty hours out of the twenty-four. All this was a
perfectly gratuitous expenditure of time and health that could not
possibly lead to any advantage whatever.
Pettitt was a very kind and attentive teacher, and his method was this:
He would begin a picture in my presence, give me two white canvases
exactly the same size, and then tell me to copy his hour's work twice
over. Whilst he painted I watched; whilst I painted he did not look over
me, but went on with his own work. He was always ready to answer any
question and to help me over any difficulty. In this way he soon
initiated me into the processes of oil-painting so far as I required any
initiation, for most of them were familiar to me already. Unfortunately,
Pettitt had no conception of art. This needs a short explanation, as the
reader may allowably ask how a man without any conception of art could
be even a moderately successful artist.
The answer is that men like Mr. Pettitt regard painting simply as a
representation of nature, and their pictures are really nothing but
large and laborious studies. Pettitt was a most sincere lover of nature,
but that was all; he knew little or nothing of those necessities and
conditions that make art a different thing from nature. The tendency of
his teaching was, therefore, to lead me to nature instead of leading me
to art, and this was a great misfortune for me, as my instincts were
only too much in the same direction already. I could get nature in the
country, and that in endless abundance; what I needed at that time was
some guidance into the realm of art.
Pettitt taught me to draw in a hard, clear, scientific manner. He
himself knew a little geology, and one of his sons was a well-informed
geologist. I copied studies of cliffs that were entirely conceived and
executed in the scientific spirit.
The ideas of artistic synthesis, of seeing a subject as a whole, of
subordination of parts, of concentration of vision, of obtaining results
by opposition in form, light and shade, and color, all those ideas were
foreign to my master's simple philosophy of art. In his view the artist
had nothing to do but sit down to a natural subject and copy with the
utmost diligence what was before him, first one part and then another,
till the whole was done. My master, therefore, only confirmed me in my
own tendencies, which were to turn my back on art and go to nature as
the sole authority. Mr. Ruskin's influence had impelled me in the same
direction. Every one is the product of his time and of his teachers. It
is not my fault if the essentially artistic elements in art were hidden
from me in my youth. Had I perceived them at that time they would only
have seemed a kind of dishonesty.
If Mr. Pettitt had written an autobiography it would have been extremely
interesting. He was the twenty-fifth child of his father, and five were
born after him. He began by being apprenticed to a cabinet-maker, but
did not take to the work, and was put into a printing-office. Then he
served an apprenticeship to a japanner, and married very early on
incredibly small earnings, which, however, he increased by his rapidity
in work and his incessant industry. Before the expiration of his
apprenticeship he had a shop of his own, and sold japanned tea-trays and
bellows. When he was able to rent a house, he made all the furniture
with his own hands, and took a pride in having it very good, either
solid mahogany or veneered. He saved money in the japanning business,
and then on these savings undertook to teach himself painting. His
earliest works were sold for anything they would fetch. Whilst I was in
London he recognized one of them, a small picture that he immediately
bought back for sixpence. There had been a fall in its market value,
alas! for the original price was ninepence. Pettitt had a fancy for
collecting his early daubs, as they confirmed his sense of progress.
Having acquired some knowledge of painting, he engaged himself on weekly
wages as a decorator of steamboat panels. His employers wanted quantity
rather than finish, but Pettitt liked to finish as well as he could, and
recommended his fellow-workmen to study from nature. This led to his
dismissal.
During the time of his poverty, Pettitt made an excursion into France,
and being at Paris with a companion as penniless as himself, he had to
devise means for reaching England without money. The pair had nothing of
any value but a flute, and the flute had silver keys, so it was a
precious article. With the proceeds in their pockets the friends tramped
to Boulogne on foot, and there they arrived in the last stage of
poverty. They cleaned themselves as well as they could before showing
their faces at the hotel they had patronized when richer, and there they
stayed for some days in the hope of a remittance from an uncle. That
relative was of opinion that a little hardship would surely bring the
travellers back to England, and so he sent them nothing. What was to be
done? They avowed the whole case to the hotel-keeper, who not only made
no attempt to detain them, but filled their empty purses. The story
concludes prettily, for the obdurate uncle relented on their arrival,
and at once repaid the Frenchman.
Pettitt long preceded Mr. Louis Stevenson in the idea of travelling in
France with a donkey. He, too, explored some mountainous districts in
the centre or south of France with a donkey to carry his luggage, and
the two companions slept out at nights, as Mr. Stevenson did afterwards.
At last Pettitt met with an old woman whose lot seemed to him
particularly hard. She had to walk from a hill-village down to the
valley every day, nearly twenty miles going and returning; so Pettitt
made her a present of his donkey, and she prayed for him most fervently.
Another of my master's pedestrian rambles extended for fifteen hundred
miles along the coast of Great Britain. During this excursion he
accumulated a vast quantity of sketches, truthful memoranda, almost as
accurate as the photographs which have now superseded studies of that
kind.
Pettitt had made astonishing progress considering the humble position he
started from; but unfortunately for me he was not a man of culture, even
in art. One of his friends, a journalist, who often called at the
studio, and who saw a little deeper than most people, said to me one day
that the art of painting, as practised by many fairly successful men
(and he referred tacitly to my master), might be most accurately
described as "a high-class industry."
For my part I worked very steadily when in London, and made rapid
progress. It was not quite in the right direction, unfortunately.
No reader of these pages will be able to imagine what a sacrifice that
stay in London was for me. The studio was never cleaned, and very badly
ventilated. My master did not perceive this amidst the clouds of his own
tobacco smoke, but for me, who had come from perfect cleanliness and the
pure air of our northern hills, it was almost unbearable.
CHAPTER XX.
1853-1854.
Acquaintance with R. W. Mackay.--His learning and accomplishments.--His
principal pursuit.--His qualities as a writer.--Value of the artistic
element in literature.--C. R. Leslie, R. A.--Robinson the
line-engraver.--The Constable family.--Mistaken admiration for minute
detail.--Projected journey to Egypt.--Mr. Ruskin.--Bonomi.--Samuel
Sharpe.--Tennyson.
My lodgings were at Maida Hill, and I soon became personally acquainted
with a writer whom I knew already by correspondence, Mr. R. W. Mackay,
author of "The Progress of the Intellect."
Mr. Mackay was for many years a kind friend of mine. An incident
occurred long afterwards which put an end to this friendship. I made
some reference to him in a review that was not intended to be unkind or
depreciatory in any way, as I always felt a deep respect for Mr. Mackay,
but unhappily he saw it in another light, and so it ended our
intercourse. In 1853, and for long afterwards, there was nothing to
foreshadow a rupture of this kind, and I am still able to write of my
old friend as if he had always remained so.
Mr. Mackay was primarily a scholar and secondarily an artist. He had
been educated at Cambridge, and being gifted with an extraordinary
memory, he accumulated learning in very abundant stores. As to his
memory, it is said that he once accepted a challenge to recite a
thousand lines of Virgil, and did it without error. He had a good
practical knowledge of French and German. He possessed a large
collection of water-color sketches made during his travels in Italy and
elsewhere, work of a kind that an amateur might judiciously practise, as
there was no false finish about them. They recalled scenes that had
interested him either by their natural beauty, which he appreciated, or
by association with classical literature.
I hardly like to use the word "gentleman," because it is employed in so
many different senses, but I never knew anybody who realized my
conception of that ideal more perfectly than Mr. Mackay. In him, as
Prince Leopold said of another, all culture and all refinement met. He
was extremely simple in all his ways, and averse to every kind of vanity
and ostentation. He had a sufficient fortune for a refined life, and did
not care for any kind of wasteful extravagance. All belonging to him was
simple and in good taste. He did not see very much society; that which
he did see included several men and women of distinguished ability.
Mr. Mackay's chief pursuit was one to which I would never have devoted
laborious years--theology on the negative side. His idea was that the
liberation of thought could only be accomplished by going painfully over
the whole theological ground and _explaining_ every belief and phase of
belief historically and rationally. My opinion was, and is, that all
this trouble is superfluous. The true liberation must come from the
enlargement of the mind by wider and more accurate views of the natural
universe. As this takes place, the mediaeval beliefs must drop away of
themselves, and we now see that this process is actually in operation.
So far from devoting a life to the refutation of theological error, I
would not bestow upon such an unnecessary and thankless toil the labor
of a week or a day.
The habit of study and reflection had done Mr. Mackay some harm in one
respect; it had withdrawn him too much from commonplace reality. He
always seemed to be moving in a dream, and to recall himself to the
actual world by an effort. This is a result of excessive culture that I
have observed in other cases. My conclusion is that all the culture in
the world, all the learning, all the literary skill and taste put
together, are not so well worth having as the keen and clear sense of
present reality that common folks have by nature.
Mr. Mackay was a laborious and careful writer, and he had a good style
of its kind, though it was more remarkable for strength and soundness
than for vivacity and ease. It was too much of one texture to be
attractive, and so he never became a popular author. Of course the
heterodoxy of Mr. Mackay's opinions was one great cause of his failure
to catch the public ear in England, but even that difficulty can be got
over by a great literary artist. He tried to do his best, as to literary
form, but he never condescended to write for the market in any way, and
used to maintain that if a book was to be profitable it _must_ be
written for the market.
I do not quite agree with this opinion. I should say, rather, that
literature resembles painting in being one of the fine arts, and that
when a book, like a picture, is a fine work of art, it has a great
chance of being a commercial success.
Renan's books have been very successful literary speculations, because
Renan is a first-rate artist. Mackay would have been a better artist in
literature if he had not been so much overpowered by the immense masses
of his materials.
Amongst the new friends I gained at Mr. Mackay's house was C. R. Leslie,
the painter. I was charmed with him from the first, and retain to this
day the liveliest recollection of his exquisitely urbane manners, and
even of the tones of his voice. Leslie was a man of unquestionable
genius, but entirely free from the tendency to despise other people,
which so often accompanies genius. On first meeting with him I took him
for a clergyman, and told him of it later. He felt rather flattered than
otherwise by the mistake, and I have no doubt that his modest nature
would at once refer to points on which the average clergyman would
probably be his superior. Some artists are lost in admiration of their
own works, so that the way to please them is to praise what they have
done themselves; but the way to please Leslie was to praise what
Constable had done. His admiration for Constable was quite as strong a
passion as Mr. Ruskin's admiration of Turner, though it did not express
itself in such perfervid language. I might at that time have become
Constable's pupil, indirectly. Leslie would have educated me in the art
of that master. I had nothing to do but work by myself, copying studies
and pictures by Constable in a studio of my own within a short distance
of Leslie's house, and he would have come to me often to advise.
Robinson, the eminent line-engraver, strongly urged me to put myself
under Leslie's direction, and this, I believe, was the Academician's
kind, indirect way of offering it. On the other hand, I did not wish to
hurt Pettitt by leaving him, and Constable's choice of quiet rural
subjects was to me, at that time, uninteresting. I disliked tame
scenery, not having as yet the artistic perceptions which are needed for
the appreciation of it.
Leslie introduced me to Constable's family, who were very kind, and they
showed me all the sketches of his that remained in their possession. My
love for precise and definite drawing made me unable to see the real
merits of those studies, though I was not much mistaken in thinking that
drawing of the quality I then cared for was not to be found in them.
Constable was essentially what the French understand by the word
_paysagiste_; that is, an artist who studies the every-day aspects of
common nature broadly. He would have done me much good at that time, if
I had felt interested in him, but the lover of the Western Highlands
could not bring himself to care for the fields and hedgerows about
Flatford. Pettitt, at any rate, loved our Lake District and Wales.
Again, though I had a hearty and just admiration for Leslie's unrivalled
power of painting expression in the faces of ladies and gentlemen in
drawing-rooms, I had never seen any landscape by him except tame
backgrounds, which seemed to me quite secondary, as they were.
I had at that time a mistaken belief (derived originally from Mr. Ruskin
and confirmed by Mr. Pettitt) that there was something essentially
meritorious in bestowing great labor on a work of art. It is well for an
artist to be habitually industrious, because that increases his skill,
but it is a matter of indifference whether this or that picture has cost
much or little labor, provided that the artist has clearly expressed
what he desired. Mr. Robinson, the line-engraver, gave me a good lesson
on this subject. We were looking at a drawing by Millais in Indian ink
which was penned all over in minute hatchings. I was full of admiration
for the industry of the artist, but Robinson thought it labor thrown
away. I met Mr. Ruskin personally one evening, and we examined a
water-color by John Lewis which was on a table-desk. The drawing was
fortunately glazed, for as Mr. Ruskin was holding the candle over it the
composite dropped on the glass. He pointed out the minute beauties of a
camel's eye, which was painted so carefully that even the hairs of the
eyelash were given, and the reflections on the mirror of the eye. This
praise of minute detail was at that time only too much in accordance
with my own taste. I had an intense admiration for such feats of skilled
industry as the wonderful lattices that Lewis used to paint with the
eastern sunshine streaming through them on a variety of different
surfaces. I met John Lewis himself. He was a fine-looking man, with a
beard which at that time was of the purest silvery white. I afterwards
had the advantage of a little correspondence with Lewis. He wrote well,
and expressed his opinions about art-work very clearly in his letters.
They amounted chiefly to this: Work always as much from nature as
possible, and give all the care you can.
At that time I had a settled scheme for going to travel and work in
Egypt, and it would have been better for me than Scotland on account of
the greater sameness of the effects. I mentioned this project to Mr.
Ruskin, who said that he avoided travelling in countries where he could
not be sure of ordinary comforts, such as a white table-cloth and a
clean knife and fork; still, he would put up with a great deal of
inconvenience to be near a mountain. Talking of Turner's paintings in
comparison with his water-colors, he said he would rather have half the
drawings than all the oil pictures. He compared a drawing of Nemi with
an oil picture that we could see at the same time, two works almost of
the same date, and gave reasons for preferring the water-color.
My Egyptian scheme brought me into relations with Bonomi, who at that
time was a famous traveller. Bartlett, the artist-traveller, whose works
had been very widely spread abroad by engraving, told me that when he
was ill of a fever at Baalbec he was nursed by a sheik who wore a beard
and rode an Arab horse. This sheik spoke English, and was, in fact,
Bonomi, who had adopted the manners of the wandering Arabs, and would
have remained amongst them if his English friends had not persuaded him
to return.
Bonomi was one of the liveliest little men I ever met. I feel almost
guilty of a fraud with regard to him, for his amiability towards me was
due in great part to his belief of my statement that I was going to
Egypt; yet I never went there, and shall certainly not go now. My only
excuse is that I sincerely believed the same statement myself. He said
that the effects of color and light in Egypt at morning and evening were
perfectly inconceivable. He recommended me to travel, not on the Nile
itself, but on the bank with camels, as that gave a greatly superior
view, both of the country and the river.
Mr. Samuel Sharpe was a charming, straightforward old gentleman, who
said what he thought, without any feeble concession to other people's
opinions. He did not share the prevalent enthusiasm for Turner, which
was of course in great part factitious, as many of the people who
praised Turner so warmly then had laughed at his pictures a few years
before. Mr. Sharpe thought that Turner was an unsafe guide for a young
landscape-painter to imitate. It is remarkable, as a matter of fact, how
little practical influence Turner has had upon the progress of landscape
art. Another and a stronger proof of the independence of Mr. Sharpe's
judgment was his opinion about England and Russia. He did not think it
necessary to oppose Russia's progress towards Constantinople by force,
but thought there was room enough for the two empires without collision.
If Mr. Sharpe's opinion had prevailed, there would have been no Crimean
War, but he and those who thought with him were very much isolated at
that time.
I met at his house a cousin of Miss Martineau, who told us some good
stories, especially about Tennyson. On this a brother of our host said
that he was once travelling when he met with a party of tourists, among
whom he recognized the Laureate. "Who _is_ that gentleman?" said they.
"He has been the life and soul of our party, and we cannot get a clue to
his name, for he has baffled us in every way, tearing it off his luggage
and out of the book he was reading." Mr. Sharpe betrayed the secret, not
much to the Laureate's satisfaction. When travelling in Scotland some
time afterwards I myself met with Tennyson, so a tourist kindly
explained who he was in these words: "That's Alfred Tennyson, _the
American poet_."
Such is fame!
CHAPTER XXI.
1854.
A visit to Rogers.--His home.--Geniality in poets.--Talfourd.--Sir
Walter Scott.--Leslie's picture, "The Rape of the Lock."--George
Leslie.--Robert Leslie.--His nautical instincts.--Watkiss Lloyd.--
Landseer.--Harding.--Richard Doyle.
Mr. Leslie took me one afternoon to see old Mr. Rogers, the poet. When
we arrived he was out for a drive, so we quietly examined the works of
art in the house until his return.
The interest of that house was quite peculiar to itself. Even the
arrangement of the furniture had been unaltered for years, and as the
rooms, just as we saw them, had been visited by most people of note
during nearly two generations, they had an interest from association
with famous names that could not be rivalled, at that time, by any other
rooms in London. The dining-room, for example, was exactly in the same
state as when Byron dined there, and would eat nothing but a biscuit.
Leslie said: "I have seen Mrs. Siddons sitting on the corner of that
sofa near the fire, and Walter Scott walk up to her and shake hands."
Leslie mentioned many other celebrities, but none of them were so
interesting to me as the authors of "Waverley" and "Childe Harold."
Many of the material objects about us had a history of their own. A
stand that carried an antique vase had been carved by Chantrey when a
young unknown furniture-carver, and so had the sideboard, as Chantrey
reminded Mr. Rogers long afterwards, when he was received as a guest in
the same room. The fender, chimney-piece, and ceiling had been designed
by Flaxman, the panels of a cabinet had been painted by Stothard.
We went upstairs to see some pictures in Rogers' bedroom, in itself a
very simple, homely place, with the old man's flannels warming before
the fire. The picture in that room which pleased me most was a subject
borrowed from Raphael, by Leslie,--a lady teaching her boy to read,--but
it was treated freely by Leslie from other models. The boy was his son
George (the future Academician) when young; he had already begun to be
good-looking.
As we were examining this picture, Mr. Rogers returned from his drive
and received us in the dining-room. He said, "Mr. Hamerton, I think I've
seen you before," but I said he was mistaken, so he held out his hand
and went on: "Well then, I'm very glad to see you now, especially so
well introduced. Have you been all over the house? You have the honor of
knowing a very distinguished artist. Look at that picture on the
sideboard, of the poor babes in the Tower! Don't you like it? I think it
is beautiful, beautiful. Nobody ought to be able to look at such a
picture without shedding tears. See the light on the heads--oh! it is
beautiful!" Then he began to ramble a little, but soon came back to
realities, and invited Leslie to dine the next day and meet two
distinguished friends. "I'd rather have you by yourself," he added; "you
and I could do very well without the others."
This was the Rogers of 1854,--senile, as was natural at the age of
ninety-one years and eight months, yet still retaining much of the old
Rogers, hospitable, sometimes caustic, sometimes pathetic, and always a
true lover and appreciator of the fine arts. Leslie declared him to be
the only amateur who had knowledge enough to form a good collection
without assistance.
I dined with Leslie the same day, and the talk turned upon the poets.
Leslie said that the virtue of geniality was of great value to a poet,
and that if Byron had possessed the geniality of Goldsmith, he would
have been as great a poet as Shakespeare, but that his misanthropy
spoiled all his views of life. In saying this, Leslie probably
underestimated the literary value of ill-nature. Much of Byron's
intensity and force is due to the energy of malevolence. The success of
Ruskin's earlier writings was due in part to the same cause. In
periodical literature, it was pure _méchanceté_ that first made the
"Saturday Review" successful.
Talking of Talfourd (who had lately died on the bench) Leslie said that
he was a high liver, and that led him to give an account of Sir Walter
Scott's way of life. At dinner he would eat heartily of many dishes and
drink a variety of wines. At dessert he drank port; and last of all a
servant brought him a small wooden bowl full of neat whiskey, which he
drank off. He then either wrote or talked till midnight, and refreshed
himself with a few glasses of porter before going to bed. Leslie did not
mean to imply that Scott was intemperate for a man of a robust
constitution who took a great deal of exercise, but only that, like
Talfourd, he was a high liver. It is remarkable, in connection with the
subject of Scott's own habits, that eating and drinking are so often and
so minutely described in his novels. His heroes and heroines always have
hearty appetites, except when they are laid up with illness.
A few days after our visit to Rogers, I went to see Leslie's picture of
"The Rape of the Lock," and met Robinson, the engraver, on my way. He
told me to expect the finest modern picture I had ever seen. It was
certainly one of the most perfect works of its class. The action and
expression of the sixteen figures were as lively as in a Hogarth, with
more refinement. Leslie was completely in sympathy with Queen Anne's
time, and reproduced it with unfailing zest and knowledge. He had been
very careful about details. The interior at Hampton Court had been
painted on the spot, and all the still life in the picture, even to a
fan, had been studied with equal accuracy. Mrs. Leslie's mother sat
looking at the picture, and making the liveliest comments on the subject
and the actors. She would get up without hesitation to see something
more nearly, and turn round with perfect balance of body to make her
remarks to the company. She appeared to me then to be about sixty, but
the age of her daughter made that impossible. _Her real age was
ninety-three!_ It seemed incredible that she was older than Mr. Rogers.
Her grandchildren were playfully sarcastic at times, to draw her out in
argument.
"We know, grandmamma, that you are a dandy yourself, so no wonder that
you admire the dresses in the picture."
"Yes, yes, I _do_ like people to be dressed as well as possible,--as
well, I mean, as they can really afford. I like them to wear the very
best materials as tastefully as they can." Whilst she was looking at the
picture, Mr. Leslie sat down by her side and read the passage from "The
Rape of the Lock" that his painting illustrated. It was a very
interesting scene--the master with his children about him, and his wife
and her old mother all looking at his last and greatest work, whilst he
was reading Pope's perfect verses so beautifully.
I have scarcely mentioned Leslie's sons yet. George, the future
Academician, was an intimate friend of mine in those days. He was a
clever talker, and he had the advantage--often precious to a taciturn
companion like me--of never allowing the conversation to flag for a
single instant. I think I never knew any one of the male sex, with the
exception of Francis Palgrave, who could keep up such an abundant stream
of talk as George Leslie. This led some of his friends to think that he
would never have any practical success in art, but he afterwards proved
them to be in the wrong. He had a frank, straightforward, boyish nature,
with a fund of humor, and a healthy disposition to be easily pleased.
His philosophy of life, under an appearance of careless gayety, was,
perhaps, in reality deeper than that of my learned friend Mr. Mackay;
for whilst the elderly scholar was laboring painfully and thanklessly to
elucidate the past, the young artist was enjoying the present in his own
way, and looking forward hopefully to the future. The buoyancy of
spirits that George Leslie had in those days is an excellent gift for a
young artist, because it carries him merrily over the difficulties of
his craft. His brother Robert was older and graver. He painted landscape
and marine subjects; but though his pictures have been regularly
accepted at the Academy he has had no popular success. This may be
attributed in great part to his habit of living away from London. Robert
Leslie has all his life had very strong nautical instincts, and very
likely knows more about shipping than any other artist. My belief is
that one reason why he has not been a very successful painter is that
he knows too much about nature, and lives too much in the presence
of nature, which is always overwhelming and discouraging. After
I knew him in London, Robert Leslie indulged his nautical instincts
in sailing and yacht-building, as well as in painting marine pictures.
Aided only by a single workman, he constructed a vessel of thirty-six
tons. With this and other yachts he has made himself familiar with
the southern coasts of England, and has frequently crossed the
Atlantic both on steamers and sailing-vessels. Now that we are both
getting elderly men I heartily regret not to have seen more of Robert
Leslie; but so it is in life,--so it has been particularly in _my_
life,--we are separated by distance from those who might have been our
most intimate and most valued friends. [Footnote: Robert Leslie had a
literary gift, and wrote some clever papers, which have been collected
and published under the title of "A Sea Painter's Log."]
Another friend, gained during my first stay in London, was Mr. Watkiss
Lloyd, who has given up many of the best years of his life to
intellectual pursuits. He has been much devoted to ancient Greek
literature and history, and has studied Greek art with unflagging
interest at the same time, so that he possesses an advantage over most
scholars in knowing both sides of the Hellenic intellect. He has a
manly, frank, and generous nature, with cheerful, open manners. Watkiss
Lloyd is one of several superior men amongst my acquaintances who have
not achieved popularity as authors. The reason in his case may be that
as he has never been obliged to write for money, he has never cared to
study the conditions of success. I told him once, when we were talking
on this subject, that in my opinion it was most necessary to have a
clear and definite idea of the kind of public one is addressing, and
that we ought to write to an especial public, as St. Paul wrote to the
Ephesians. Failure may be caused by having confused ideas about our
public, or by writing only for ourselves, as if our works were destined
to remain in manuscript like a private journal. A man may write what is
clear for himself, when it will require to be read twice or three times
by another. Besides this reason, I am inclined to believe that the
constant study of ancient Greek is not a good preparation for popular
English authorship. The scholar and the successful writer are two
distinct persons. They may be occasionally combined in one by accident,
but if the reader will run over in his mind the names of popular modern
authors, he will find very few distinguished scholars amongst them.
However this may be, Watkiss Lloyd is something better than a popular
author; he is an intellectual man, truly a lover of knowledge and of
wisdom. Without shutting his eyes to the evils that are in the world, he
does not forget the good. On one occasion, after a terrible malady that
had occurred to one dear to him, I said that undeserved diseases seemed
to me clear evidence of imperfection in the universe. He answered, that
as we receive many benefits from the existing order of things that we
have not merited in any way, so we may accept those evils that we have
not merited either. This struck me as a better reason for resignation
than the common assertion that we are wicked enough to deserve the most
frightful inflictions. We do not really believe that our wickedness
deserves cancer or leprosy.
I never wished to push myself into the society of celebrated persons for
the purpose of getting acquainted with them, but I plead guilty to that
degree of curiosity which likes to see them in the flesh. I knew
Landseer by sight, and probably rather astonished him once in a London
street by taking my hat off as if he had been Prince Albert. He used to
pass an evening from time to time at Leslie's house, and I met him
there. He then seemed a very jovial, merry English humorist, with a
natural talent for satire and mimicry; but there was another side to his
nature. If he enjoyed himself heartily when in company, he often
suffered from deep depression when alone. I remember seeing him by
himself when he looked the image of profound melancholy. At that time I
had warmer admiration for his art than I have now, and the general
public looked upon him as the greatest artist in England. No doubt he
was very observant, and had a wonderful memory for animals and their
ways, as well as some invention; he had also unsurpassable technical
skill, of a superficial kind, in painting.
Harding was another very clever artist whom I met at Leslie's. I had
correspondence with him a little as a teacher, and had studied his
works. He had taught many amateurs, including Mr. Ruskin and a clever
friend of mine in the North. I admired his skill, but disliked his
extreme artificiality of style, and the more I went to nature the more
objectionable did it appear to me. The kind of success which is attained
by forcing nature into drawing-masters' set forms never tempted me in
the least. Harding was at one time probably the most successful
drawing-master in England. The word "clever" characterizes him exactly.
He was clever in the art of substituting himself for nature, clever in
the wonderful facility with which he used several graphic arts
technically very different from each other, and clever especially in
that supreme tact of the successful drawing-master by which he makes the
amateur seem to get forward rapidly. He had immense confidence in
himself, and in his own theories and principles.
Another well-known artist whom I met at Leslie's was Richard Doyle. He
had great gifts of wit and invention, with a curiously small fund of
science,--genius without the knowledge that might have given strength to
genius. It is impossible, however, to feel any regret on this account,
for if Doyle's drawings had been thoroughly learned they would have lost
their _naïveté_. He was intelligent enough to make even his lack of
science an element of success, for he turned it into a pretended
simplicity. His own face was mobile and expressive, and it was evident
that he passed quickly from one idea to another without uttering more
than a small percentage of his thoughts.
I remember dancing "Sir Roger de Coverley" when Landseer and Richard
Doyle were of the set. They were both extremely amusing, but with this
difference: that whereas Landseer evidently laid himself out to be funny
in gesture and action, the fun in Doyle's case lay entirely in the play
of his physiognomy. Leslie, too, had a most expressive face--not
handsome (I mean, of course, the elder Leslie; his son George is
handsome), but most interesting, and full of meaning.
CHAPTER XXII.
1854.
Miss Marian Evans.--John Chapman, the publisher.--My friend William
Shaw.--His brother Richard.--Mead, the tragedian.--Mrs. Rowan and her
daughter.--A vexatious incident.--I suffer from nostalgia for the
country.
Mr. Mackay took me to one of the evening receptions that were given at
that time by Mr. John Chapman, the publisher. On our way he spoke of
Miss Marian Evans, then only known to a few as a translator from the
German, and to still fewer as a contributor of articles to the
"Westminster Review,"--a periodical that she partly directed. Neither
the translations nor the articles revealed anything beyond good ordinary
literary abilities. Mr. Mackay told me, however, that this Miss Evans
was a very accomplished lady, and played remarkably well on the piano.
She was at Mr. Chapman's little conversazione, and performed for us. I
remember being well pleased with the music, and thinking that she was
one of the best amateurs I had heard, but I cannot remember what she
played, nor anything about her talk, which would probably be a series of
little private conversations with people that she already knew.
Mr. John Chapman was young at that time, and a very fine-looking man. He
had entered upon the most unprofitable line of business that he could
have chosen in the England of those days, the trade in philosophic
free-thinking literature of the highest class. The number of buyers was,
of course, exceedingly limited, both by the thoughtful character of the
works published, and by the unpopularity of the opinions expressed in
them. The marvel is that such a speciality in publishing could be made
to support itself at all. As a matter of fact, some of the wealthier
free-thinkers published their works, or those of others, at their own
expense, and some helped to maintain the "Westminster Review." Things
have altered wonderfully since then. At the present day the literature
of free inquiry is presented to the world by the richest and most
eminent publishing firms, and free-thinkers have access to the most
influential and the most widely disseminated periodicals.
Some readers of this autobiography may still look upon John Chapman's
speciality with horror; but such a feeling would be unjust. The books he
published were generally high in tone, and they certainly never
condescended to the use of unbecoming language in dealing with matters
held sacred by the majority of the English people. The only object of
that modest propaganda was to win for Englishmen the right to think for
themselves, and also to express their thoughts. That battle has been
won, and, for my part, I feel nothing but respect for those who had
courage to confront the stern intolerance of the past.
My society in London was not entirely confined to the pursuers of
literature and art. I had a few other friends, especially one old
school-fellow, William Shaw, afterwards an able London solicitor. His
mind was an odd compound of manly sense in everything connected with his
profession, and boyishness in other ways. He always retained that
boyishness, which was probably an excellent thing for him as a
relaxation from serious cares. He took little interest in the fine arts,
but at a later period he had the wonderful goodness to give house-room
to some of my unpopular and unsalable pictures, and went so far, in the
way of friendship, that he actually hung them in his dining-room! He was
very fond of recalling reminiscences of our childhood, especially what
he characterized as "the great Fulledge railway swindle." When we were
little boys we undertook the construction of a miniature railway on his
father's land, and issued shares to pay for the rolling plant and the
rails. We got together rather a handsome sum in this way from various
good-natured friends, and after the expiration of some weeks could show
them a rather long embankment. Then we got tired of spade work, and the
enterprise languished. Finally the works came to a standstill, and I
believe we spent the shareholders' money on something else, for
assuredly they never saw it again. After beginning so hopefully in the
art of getting up bubble companies, it is perhaps to be regretted that
we did not continue, as we might have been eminent financiers by this
time. My friend was very active in his youth. I have seen him run by the
side of a galloping horse in a field, holding by the mane, and vault on
the animal's back, after which it went on faster than ever and leapt a
little brook or a hedge. An odd incident occurs to my recollection just
now. My friend had a susceptible heart, and a ravishing beauty was
staying at a certain, country house, so we drove over to call there that
he might see her. I went with him, and we had a dog-cart with a very
lively horse. The drive was in the form of a great circle before the
front door, so he tried to turn to the left; but the horse had decided
for the right, and between them they effected a compromise by taking a
straight cut over the lawn and flower-beds, which presented a deplorable
appearance afterwards. Any one else would have felt a little confused
after such an accident, but Shaw relied upon the good-nature of the
ladies, who always forgave him everything in consideration for his
winning ways and his handsome face.
William Shaw's brother, Richard, was the first member of Parliament who
represented Burnley. I met him in London in 1854, and remember a
description he gave of an old gentleman who was then living permanently
at the Tavistock Hotel. That old gentleman was a perfect mystery; no one
knew where he came from: he never either wrote or received a letter, he
had no settled occupation, but read all the papers, and used to swear
aloud quite dreadfully when he found any fact or opinion that displeased
him. He compensated for this bad language by shouting "Bravo! bravo! Go
it, my boy!" when he found an article to his mind. He once rambled twice
round Covent Garden market without being able to find his way out, and
on discovering that he had got back to the Tavistock, attributed all his
difficulties to the waiter, and scolded him most furiously. The mystery
about him, and his odd manners, would have been an attraction for
Dickens.
Amongst other acquaintances that I made in London was Mead, the
tragedian of Drury Lane Theatre. I recollect admiring his "Iago" very
much. His countenance, which was agreeable and bland in private life,
could be made to express all the evil passions with astonishing power.
He was rather a skilful painter, having occasionally been able to sell a
picture for twenty pounds. When he had a little time to spare, Mead
would come and work on Pettitt's great picture of the Golden Image. He
once drew my portrait, and I drew his. My guardian was not quite pleased
that I should know an actor, but Mead attracted me by the superior tone
of his conversation. It was the first time in my life that I had met
with an accomplished talker; I had known plenty of talkers who were only
fluent, but Mead had always something interesting to say, and he
invariably said it with easy finish and good taste. In a word, he was a
master of spoken English, and did not fear to make use of his power, not
having the usual English false shame which prevents our countrymen from
saying things quite perfectly. Mead had tender feelings. Once after
reading in a newspaper the account of some battle of no great
importance, as we consider such events from a distance, he suddenly
realized, in imagination, the effect of the news on the relatives of the
killed and wounded, and burst into tears. Mead was good enough to accept
on one or two occasions the simple kind of hospitality that I could
offer him at my lodgings, and I find notes in the diary recording the
happy swiftness of the hours I spent with him.
I never made the slightest attempt to enter what is specially called
"London Society," though I had some friends or acquaintances who
belonged to it. My time was entirely taken up with work and visits to a
few houses. I am astonished on looking back to those days by the extreme
kindness of people who were much older than myself, and for whom my
society could have no other attraction than the opportunity it offered
for the exercise of their own goodness. I had one merit, that of being
an excellent listener, which has been a great advantage to me through
life. A distinguished Frenchman once said to me, "You are the best
listener I ever met;" but he had been accustomed to his own countrymen
who are not generally patient or attentive for more than a few seconds
at a time, and who have the habit of interruption.
It is possible, too, that my manners may have been good, for my dear
guardian, so kind and mild about most things, could not tolerate
anything like boorishness, and never hesitated to correct me. Another
effect of her influence upon me was that I liked the society of
well-bred ladies, and felt quite at ease in it. There was a most
intelligent Danish family of ladies, Mrs. Rowan and her daughters, who
received me very kindly. They spoke English wonderfully, with something
like a slight Cumberland accent, and I believe their German was as good
as their English. Mrs. Rowan had been a friend of Thorwaldsen the
sculptor, and possessed three hundred and fifty of his original
drawings, which I did not see, as she had lent them to Prince Albert. A
singular and most vexatious incident is associated in my memory with
those drawings, and I am sure Mrs. Rowan could never think of them
without remembering it. She had (too kindly) lent them to an artist, who
returned them, indeed, but not without having exercised his own talents
in improving them, as drawing-masters do to the work of their youthful
pupils. The reader may imagine the depth of Mrs. Rowan's gratitude. Her
daughter, Frederica, whose name afterwards became generally known, was
one of the most cultivated and agreeable women I ever met. Her nature
had been a little saddened by family misfortunes (the Rowans had been a
very wealthy family in Denmark), but her quiet gravity was of a noble
kind, and if she took life seriously she had sufficient reasons for
doing so.
My studies under Mr. Pettitt went on very regularly all this time, and I
made great _apparent_ progress, although, as will be seen later, it was
not progress in the right direction. One little incident may be
mentioned in proof that I could at least imitate closely. The reader is
already aware that my master's system of teaching consisted in bringing
a picture slowly forward in my presence, whilst I was to copy what had
been done. One day, when the picture had got well forward, Mr. Pettitt
took up my copy by mistake and put it on his own easel. After he had
worked upon it for a quarter of an hour I thanked him for the
improvement. He said he had been quite unconscious of the difference,
and told me to work on his own canvas to repay him for his labor on
mine. Critics will please understand that I know how little this proves
as well as they do. It proves nothing beyond a talent for imitation and
the possession of some manual skill. I have sometimes thought in later
life that if instead of going so much to nature I had mimicked some
particular painter I might have obtained recognition as an artist.
Notwithstanding so much that was agreeable in my London life, it was
still a hard trial of resolution for me to work in a close,
ill-ventilated, and gloomy studio without any view from its window, and
in the beginning of April I returned to the country. From that day to
this I have never lived in London, which has probably been a misfortune
to me, both as artist and writer. I have been there frequently on
business, but have never stayed a day or an hour longer than the time
necessary to get through what was most pressing. It is curious, but
perfectly true, that I have never in my life felt the slightest desire
to purchase or rent any house whatever in London, and there is not a
house in all "the wilderness of brick" that I would accept as a free
gift if it were coupled with the condition that I should live in it.
CHAPTER XXIII.
1854
Some of my relations emigrate to New Zealand,--Difficulties of a poor
gentleman.--My uncle's reasons for emigration.--His departure.--Family
separations.--Our love for Hollins.
In the month of April, 1854, an event occurred which was of great
importance in our family.
My eldest uncle, Holden Hamerton, emigrated to New Zealand with all his
children, and a son and daughter of my uncle Hinde accompanied them.
This suddenly reduced our circle by eleven persons, without counting a
young family belonging to my cousin Orme.
My uncle, who was at that time a solicitor in Halifax, had reached a
very critical period in the life of a _père de famille_. His children
were grown up and expensive, and he had tried various ways of
economizing without any definite result. Amongst others, he had given up
Hopwood Hall, his mansion in Halifax, and had converted the stabling at
Hollins into a residence for his wife and the children who remained with
her. The stables were large enough to make a spacious dwelling. I
remember the regret I felt on seeing the workmen pull down the handsome
oak stalls, and remove the beautiful pavement, which was in blocks of
smooth stone carefully bevelled at the angles. My unfortunate uncle
lived like a bachelor in a small house in Halifax to be near his office,
and only came to Hollins for the Sunday.
It is, of course, very easy to criticize a comparatively poor gentleman
with a large family who is trying not to be ruined. It is easy to say
that he ought to live strictly within his income, whatever it may be;
but to do that strictly would require an iron resolution. He must cut
short all indulgences, annihilate all elegancies, set his face against
all the customs of his class. His attitude towards his wife and children
must be one of stern refusal steadily and implacably maintained. If he
relaxes--and all the influences around him tend to make him relax--the
old habits of customary expense will re-establish themselves in a few
weeks. He must cut his family off from all society, and with regard to
himself he must do what is far more difficult--cut himself off from all
domestic affection, behave like a heartless miser, and, at the very time
when he most needs a little solace and peace in his own home, constitute
himself the executor of the pitiless laws that govern the human
universe.
My uncle was not equal to all this. He could make hard sacrifices for
himself, and, in fact, did reduce his own comforts to those of a poor
bachelor, but he could not find in his heart to refuse everything to his
family; so that although they made no pretension now to anything like an
aristocratic position, my uncle still found himself to be living rather
beyond his means, and the expense of establishing his sons and daughters
in England being now imminent, and avoidable only in one way, he spent
days, and I fear also nights, of anxiety in arriving at a determination.
A journey to Scotland settled the matter. My uncle visited his eldest
son Orme, who was then at Greenock, and he discovered, as I had done,
that my cousin was married. Of course I had kept his secret, having
found it out by accident when a guest under his roof. The young man
offered to accompany his father to New Zealand, and my uncle, who loved
his eldest son, thought that this would be some compensation for leaving
England. He did not know that Orme's irresistible instinct for changing
his residence would make the New Zealand expedition no more than a
temporary excursion for him.
Another reason for emigrating to New Zealand was this: My uncle's second
son, Lewis, had abandoned the profession of the law and gone to
Australia by himself, where he was now a shepherd in the bush. He would
rejoin his father, and they would be a re-united family. All of them
would be together in New Zealand except one, my cousin Edward, who lay
in the family vault in Burnley Church. I had feelings of the strongest
fraternal affection for Edward, and if the reader cares to see his
likeness, he has only to look at the engraved portraits of Shelley,
especially the one in Moxon's double-column edition of 1847. The
likeness there is so striking that, for me, it supplies the place of
any other.
Edward died at the age of seventeen. He had a gentle and sweet nature;
but although he resembled Shelley so closely in outward appearance, he
was without any poetical tendency. His gifts were arithmetical and
mathematical, and whenever he had a quarter of an hour to spare he was
sure to take a piece of paper and cover it all over with figures. His
early death certainly spared him much trouble that he was hardly
qualified to meet. He had that dislike to physical exercise which often
accompanies delicate health, though there was no appearance of weakness
till the beginning of his fatal illness.
I well remember my uncle's last visit to his sisters. He did not say
that it was his last, but left some clean linen in the house, saying he
would want it when he came again. In this way there was a little
make-belief of hope; but I doubt if my aunts were really deceived, and I
did not quite know what to think. My uncle seemed flushed and excited,
and contradicted me rather sharply because I happened to be in error
about something of no importance. It was a hard moment for him, as he
loved his sisters, and had the deepest attachment to Hollins, where he
was born, and where he had passed the happiest days of his life. His
last visit has remained so distinct in my memory that I can even now see
clearly his great stalwart figure in the chair on the right-hand side of
the fireplace. Then he left us and passed the window, and since that day
he never was seen again at his old place. I can imagine what it must
have been to him to turn round at the avenue gate, and look back on the
gables of Hollins, knowing it to be for the last time.
His wife and the rest of his family went away without inflicting upon
themselves and us the pain of a farewell. I was present, however, at
Featherstone when my cousin Hinde left for New Zealand. One of his
sisters accompanied him out of pure sisterly devotion. She thought he
would be lonely out in the colony, so she would go and stay with him
till he married. He did not marry, and she never returned.
The colonial strength of England is founded upon these family
separations, but they are terrible when they occur, especially when the
parents are left behind in the old country. To us who remained this
wholesale emigration in our family produced the effect of a great and
sudden mortality. For my part I have received exactly one letter from
the New Zealand Hamertons since they left. It was a very interesting
letter, interesting enough to make me regret "there was but one."
My uncle's property sold well, and on leaving England he had still a
balance of ten thousand pounds in his pocket, which was more than most
emigrants set out with; but he built a good house on the estate he
purchased, and it was ruined in the war. His wife was a woman of great
courage and wonderful constitutional cheerfulness, both severely tested
by three months of incessant sea-sickness on the outward voyage. They
met with one terrible storm, during which the captain did not hope to
save the vessel, and my uncle and aunt sat together in their cabin
clasping each other's hands, and calmly awaiting death.
After their departure my guardian and her sister remained at Hollins as
tenants of the new proprietor. We still clung to the old place, but it
did not seem the same to us. On the night of the sale by auction my aunt
said to me, sadly, as we took our candlesticks to go to bed: "It is
strange to think that we positively do not know under whose roof we are
going to sleep to-night." The change was felt most painfully by her. My
guardian had a more resigned way of accepting the evils of life; she had
a kind of Christian pessimism that looked upon terrestrial existence as
not "worth living" in itself, and a little less or more of trouble and
sorrow in this world seemed to her scarcely worth considering, being
only a part of the general unsatisfactoriness of things. Her sister had
intense local attachments, and the most intense of them all was for this
place, her birthplace, where she had passed her youth. This attachment
was increased in her case by a strong, deep, and poetic sentiment that I
hardly like to call aristocratic, because that word will have other
associations (of pride in expensive living) for most readers. My aunt
had the true sentiment of ancestry, and it was painful to her to see a
place go out of a family. I have the same sentiment, though with less
intensity, and there were other reasons that made me love Hollins
very much. At that time the natural beauty that surrounded it was
quite unspoilt. We were near to the streams and the moors that I
delighted in, and the idea of being obliged to leave, as we might be
at any time by the new proprietor, was painful to a degree that only
lovers of nature will understand.
Even now, in my fifty-fourth year, I very often dream about Hollins,
about the old garden there, and the fields and woods, and the rocky
stream. Sometimes the place is sadly and stupidly altered in my dream,
and I am irritated; at other times it is improved and enriched, and the
very landscape is idealized into a nobler and more perfect beauty.
I need only add to this account of my uncle's emigration, that when he
landed on the shores of New Zealand in much perplexity as to where he
should go to find a temporary lodging, a colonist met him, and said that
he had been told by the Masonic authorities to receive him fraternally.
This he did by taking the whole family under his roof and entertaining
them as if they had been old friends, thereby giving my uncle ample time
to make his own arrangements. In a later chapter of this autobiography I
intend to give a short account of what happened to the emigrants
afterwards.
CHAPTER XXIV.
1854.
Resignation of commission in the militia.--Work from nature.--Spenser,
the poet.--Hurstwood.--Loch Awe revisited.--A customer.--I determine to
learn French well.--A tour in Wales.--Swimming.--Coolness on account of
my religious beliefs.--My guardian.--Evil effects of religious
bigotry.--Refuge in work.--My drawing-master.--Our excursion in Craven.
After returning to the country I went through another militia training,
and soon afterwards resigned my commission. According to my present
views of things I should probably not have done so, as it would be a
satisfaction to me now to feel myself of some definite use to my
country, even in the humble capacity of a militia officer; but in those
days the militia was not taken seriously by the nation, so the officers
did not take it seriously either, and, after a brief trial, a great many
of them resigned. The recognized motive for going into the militia was a
social motive, and as I never had any social ambition it mattered
nothing to me that there were a few men of rank in the regiment. I had
not any real companions in it, for I was much younger than most of my
brother officers, and it is likely enough that the society of an
inexperienced youth could offer no attraction to them. My love of my
chosen studies was accompanied by a complete indifference to amusements,
so that the cards and billiards after mess were not an attraction for
me, and my ignorance of field sports has always made me feel rather a
"muff" and a "duffer" in the society of country gentlemen.
The Colonel was always kind to me, and as I looked older than my age, he
quite forgot how young I was and procured for me a captain's commission.
As a matter of fact, I believe that a minor cannot hold a militia
captaincy, because it requires a property qualification. Somehow, the
Colonel was afterwards reminded of my age, and then thought he had made
a mistake; however, my resignation rectified it. In fairness to myself
it may be added that my military work was always done in a manner that
gained the approval of our real master, the adjutant.
One cause that certainly influenced me in leaving the regiment was the
necessity for appearing to be either a member of the Church of England
or a member of the Church of Rome. As I belonged to neither, I felt it a
hardship to be compelled to march to church every Sunday, and go through
the forms of the service. It will, of course, seem absurd to any man of
the world that such a trifle should have any weight whatever. Nobody
endowed with what men of the world call "common-sense" ever hesitates
about going through forms and ceremonies, when he can maintain or
increase his worldly position by doing so. As for me, I make no claim to
superior virtue, but cannot help feeling an invincible repugnance to
these shams. My own line had been chosen when I refused to go to Oxford
and sign the Thirty-nine Articles; the forced conformity in the militia
was a deflection of the compass, but it has pointed straight ever since,
and may it point straight to the end!
When free again, I set to work from nature, applying what Pettitt had
taught me. I drew and painted studies of rocks with great fidelity, and
as rocks are hard things, and my work was as hard as possible, there can
be no doubt that so far it was like nature. Pettitt had strengthened the
positive and scientific tendency that there is in me, so that I was
quite ardent in the pursuit of the rigid and measurable truths, neither
knowing nor caring anything about those more subtle and less manifest
truths that the cultivated artist loves. However, I painted away
diligently enough from nature, giving two long sittings each day, and
writing only in the evenings. My readings at this time were chiefly in
Shakespeare and Spenser.
I may have been attracted to Spenser partly by the belief, greatly
encouraged by the local antiquaries, that the famous Elizabethan poet
lived for some time with relations of his at Hurstwood,--a hamlet by the
side of the same stream that passes by Hollins and a mile or two above
it. The old houses at Hurstwood remained as they were in Spenser's time,
and the particular one is known where his reputed family lived.
[Footnote: The presumptive evidence in favor of the theory that Spenser
stayed at Hurstwood is very strong, and of various kinds. The reader who
takes any interest in the subject is referred to the "Transactions of
the Burnley Literary and Scientific Club," vol. iv., 1886, where he will
find a wood-cut of the house that once belonged to the Spensers of
Hurstwood.] As you ascend the stream beyond Hurstwood, you approach the
open moors, which were always a delight to me. The love of the stream
and the hills beyond frequently led me to pass the little hamlet where
Spenser is said to have lived, and in this way he seemed to belong to
our own landscape, since he must have wandered by the same river, and
looked upon the same hills. So as a boy whose daily wanderings were by
the Avon might naturally think of Shakespeare more frequently than
another, my thoughts turned often to the author of the "Faerie Queene."
I never read that poem steadily and fairly through, but I strayed about
in it, which is the right way of reading it.
My own pursuit of poetry at that time led me to think of a poem founded
on the legends of Loch Awe. To penetrate my mind more completely with
the genius of the place, I went there in the summer of 1854, and worked
at the poem, besides drawing some illustrations, of which a few were
afterwards engraved. Notwithstanding a great liking for Loch Awe, my
stay there was not particularly agreeable. I lived, of course, at the
inns, which were not very good, and having no companion, not even a
servant, I felt rather dull and lonely, especially on the wet days. A
well-known London banker was staying at the inn of Cladich at the same
time with me, so we became acquainted, and he wished to purchase one of
my studies; but as I intended to keep them all, I declined. This was
very foolish, as it would have been easy to do another of the same
subject for myself, and the mere fact of selling would have been a
practical encouragement, especially as that purchase would probably have
been followed by others. The very smallest beginnings are of importance.
It is much for a young artist to get a few pounds fairly offered by a
customer who knows nothing about him except his work, and is actuated by
no motives of friendship.
Another visitor at the same inn exercised upon me an influence of a very
different kind. He had a young daughter with him, and to keep the girl
in practice he constantly spoke French to her. I had studied the
language more than most English boys do, and yet I found myself totally
unable to follow those French conversations. This plagued me with an
irritating sense of ignorance, so I looked back on my education
generally, and found it unsatisfactory. Being conscious that my
classical attainments were not very valuable, I determined to acquire
some substantial knowledge of modern languages, and to begin by learning
French over again, so as to write and speak it easily. This resolution
remained in my mind as irrevocably settled, and was afterwards
completely carried out.
As I shall have a good deal to say about Loch Awe in future pages of
this book, I omit all description of it here. Many of the days spent
there in 1854 were rainy, and I sat alone writing my poem in a little
bedroom on the ground-floor of the inn at Cladich. Of all literary work
versification is the most absorbing, and if it is good for nothing else,
it has at least the merit of getting one well through a rainy day.
On my return from Scotland, I accompanied my guardian and her sister on
a tour in Wales. We revisited Rhyl and some other places that I had seen
with my father, including Caernarvon. This tour was of no importance in
itself; but as from Scotland I had brought the resolution that made me
seriously study French, so from Caernarvon I brought a resolution to
master the art of swimming. Being in the water one morning, I suddenly
found that I could swim after a fashion, and this led to more serious
efforts. Our stream at home was delightful for mere bathing; but the
rocks were an impediment to active exercise. I afterwards became an
accomplished swimmer, and could do various tricks in the water, such as
reading aloud from a book held in both hands, or swimming in clothes and
heavy boots, with one hand out of the water carrying a paddle and
drawing a canoe after me. I have often carried one of my little boys on
my shoulders; but they are now better swimmers than myself, and the
eldest has saved several men from drowning. It is an immense comfort, if
nothing else, to be perfectly at home in the water, and it has increased
my pleasure in boating a hundred-fold.
There is nothing further of importance to be noted for the year 1854,
except that I began to perceive a certain coolness, or what the French
call _èloignement_, in our friends, which I attributed to my religious
opinions. I never obtruded my opinions on any one, but did not conceal
them beneath the usual conventional observances, so that our neighbors
became aware that I did not think in a strictly orthodox manner, though
they were in fact completely ignorant of the true nature of my beliefs.
I remember one interesting test of my changed position in society. There
was a certain great country house where I had been on the most intimate
terms from childhood, where the boys called me by my Christian name, as
I called them by theirs, and where my guardian and I were from time to
time invited to dine, and sometimes to spend a day or two. When our
militia regiment was in training, the owner of this house invited the
officers to a grand dinner, and I, an old intimate friend, was omitted.
It was impossible that this omission could have been accidental, and it
was impossible not to perceive it. I afterwards learned that my
religious views were regarded with disapproval in that house, and there,
of course, the matter rested. At the same time, or soon afterwards, I
noticed that invitations from certain other houses also came to an end,
a matter of little consequence to me personally; but I thought that it
might indirectly be injurious to my guardian and her sister, and began
to feel that I had become a sort of social disgrace and impediment for
them.
It was probably about this time that my guardian bought for me some
religious books, in which heterodox opinions were represented as being
invariably the result of wickedness. I said it was a pity that religious
writers could not learn to be more just, as heterodoxy might be due to
simple intellectual differences. My guardian answered that she could
perceive no injustice whatever in the statement that I complained of.
This was infinitely painful to me, as coming from the person I most
loved and esteemed in all the world. Another incident embittered my
existence for some time. I had an intimate friend in Burnley, and my
guardian said that she regretted this intimacy, not for any harm that my
friend was likely to do me, but because with my "lamentable opinions" I
might corrupt his mind. My answer to attacks of this kind has always
been simple silence; when they came from other people I treated them
with unfeigned indifference; but when they came from that one dear
person, whose affection I valued more than all honors and all fame, they
cut me to the quick, and then I knew by cruel experience what a dreadful
evil religious bigotry is. For what had I ever said or done to deserve
censure? I had as good a right to my opinions as other people had to
theirs, yet I kept them within my own breast, and avoided even the
shadow of offence. My only crime was the negative one of nonconformity.
Even in my latter years, the same old spirit of intolerance pursues me.
The nearest relation I have left in England said to my wife that she
hoped my books had not an extensive sale, so that their evil influence
might be as narrowly restricted as possible. As for her, she would not
even look into them. [Footnote: In writing this autobiography I often
suddenly remember some forgotten incident of past times. Here is one
that has just occurred to me. When walking out in 1853, I met a boy who
shouted after me, "You're the fellow that thinks we are all like rats!"
He had probably heard my opinions discussed in his family circle--how
justly and how intelligently his exclamation shows.]
My refuge in those days was that best of all refuges--occupation. I was
constantly at work on my different pursuits, and led a very healthy life
at Hollins. The greatest objection to it was an evil that I have had to
put up with in several different places, and that is intellectual
isolation, especially on the side of art. I had nobody to speak to on
that subject, except my old drawing-master, Mr. Henry Palmer. He had
inevitably fallen into the usual routine of futile teaching, which is
the fault of an uneducated public opinion, and of which the
drawing-masters themselves are the first victims, so I did not take
lessons from him; but he felt a warm and earnest interest in the fine
arts, and we talked about old masters and modern masters for hours
together in my study at Hollins, and in our walks. We once made a
delightful sketching excursion together into the district of Craven, and
I remember that at Bolton Abbey we met with a wonderful German who could
sit in the presence of nature and coolly make trees according to a
mechanical recipe. He might just as well have drawn the scenery of the
Wharfe in the heart of Berlin.
CHAPTER XXV.
1855.
Publication of "The Isles of Loch Awe and other Poems."--Their sale.
--Advice to poetic aspirants.--Mistake in illustrating my book of
verse.--Its subsequent history.--Want of art in the book.--Too much
reality.--Abandonment of verse.--A critic in "Fraser."--Visit to Paris
in 1855.--Captain Turnbull.--Ball at the Hôtel de Ville.--Louis
Napoleon and Victor Emmanuel.
My volume, "The Isles of Loch Awe and other Poems," appeared the day I
came of age, September 10, 1855. It was published at my own expense, in
an edition of two thousand copies, of which exactly eleven were sold in
the real literary market. The town of Burnley took thirty-six copies,
from a friendly interest in the author, and deserves my deepest
gratitude--not that the thirty-six copies quite paid the expenses of
publication!
Perhaps some poetic aspirant may read these pages, and if he does, he
may accept a word of advice.
The difficulty in publishing poems is to get them fully and fairly read
and considered by some publisher of real eminence in the trade. It is
difficult to appreciate poetry in manuscript, and there is such a
natural tendency to refuse anything in the form of metre, that it is
well to smooth the way for it as much as possible. I would, therefore,
if I had to begin again, get my poems put into type, and a private
edition of one hundred copies should be printed. A few of these being
sent to the leading publishers, I should very soon ascertain whether any
one of them was inclined to bring out the work. If they all declined, my
loss would be the smallest possible, and I should possess a few copies
of a rare book. If one publisher accepted, I should get an appeal to the
public, which is all that a young author wants. [Footnote: A single copy
clearly printed by the type-writing machine would now be almost as good
for the purpose as a small privately printed edition.]
I committed a great error in illustrating my book of verse. The
illustrations only set up a conflict of interest with the poetry, and
did no good whatever to the sale, whilst they vastly increased the cost
of publication. Poetry is an independent art, and if it cannot stand on
its own merits, the reason must be that it is destitute of vitality.
The subsequent history of this volume of poems is worth telling to those
who take an interest in books. It was published at six shillings, and as
the sale had been extremely small, I reduced the price to half-a-crown.
The reduction brought on a sale of about three hundred copies, and there
it stopped. I then disposed of the entire remainder to a wholesale buyer
of "remainders" for the modest sum of sixpence per copy. Since I have
become known as a writer of prose, many people have sought out this book
of verse, with the wonderful and unforeseen result that it has resumed
its original price. I myself have purchased copies for five shillings
each that I had sold for sixpence (not a profitable species of
commerce), and I have been told that the book is now worth six
shillings, exactly my original estimate of its possible value to an
enlightened and discriminating public.
Emerson wrote that the English had many poetical writers, but no poet,
and this at a time when Tennyson was already famous. The same spirit of
exclusion, in a minor degree, will deny the existence of all poets
except three, or perhaps four, in a generation. It would be presumptuous
to hope to be one of the three; but I do not think it was presumptuous
in me to hope for some readers for my verse. As this autobiography
approached that early publication, I read the volume over again, with a
fresh eye, after an interval of many years, exactly as if it had been
written by somebody else. There is poetry in the verse, and there is
prose also, my fault having been, at that time, that I was unable to
discriminate between the two. I had not the craft and art to make the
most of such poetical ideas as were really my own. These defects are
natural enough in a very young writer who could not possibly have much
literary skill. Amongst other marks of its absence, or deficiency, must
be reckoned the facility with which I allowed the mere matter-of-fact to
get into my verse, not being clearly aware that the matter-of-fact is
death to poetic art, and that nothing whatever is admissible into poetry
without being first idealized. Another cause of inferiority was that my
emotions were too real. The consequence of reality in emotion is very
curious, being exactly the contrary of what one would naturally expect.
Real emotion expresses itself simply and briefly, and often quite feebly
and inadequately. [Footnote: Amongst the uneducated genuine emotion is
often voluble; but poets usually belong to the educated classes.] The
result, of course, is that the reader's feelings are not played upon
sufficiently to excite them. Feigned, or artistic emotion, on the
contrary, leaves the poetic artist in the fullest possession of all his
means of influence, and he works upon the reader's feelings by slow or
by sudden effects at his own choice. [Footnote: Two diametrically
opposite opinions on this subject are held by actors, some of whom think
that in their profession emotion ought to be real, others that it ought
to be feigned. I know nothing about acting; but have always found in
literature and art, and even in the intercourse of life, that my own
real emotions expressed themselves very inadequately.]
The failure of "The Isles of Loch Awe" occasioned me rather a heavy
loss, which had the effect of making me economical for two or three
years, during which I did not even keep a horse. I also came to the
conclusion that nobody wanted my verses, and (not having either the
inspiration of Shelley and Keats, or the dogged determination of
Wordsworth) I gave up writing verse altogether, and that with a
suddenness and completeness that astonishes me now. Young men are
extreme in their hopes and in their discouragements. I had expected to
sell two thousand copies of a book of poetry by a totally unknown
writer, and because I did not immediately succeed in the hopeless
attempt I must needs break with literature altogether! It did not occur
to me to pursue the art of prose composition, which is quite as
interesting as that of verse, and ten times more rewarding in every
sense.
My book had been, on the whole, very kindly received by the reviews, and
a very odd incident occurred in connection with a well-known periodical.
At that time "Fraser's Magazine" was one of the great authorities, and a
contributor to it was so pleased with my poems that he determined to
write an important article upon them. One of his friends knew of this
intention, and told me. He revealed to the contributor, accidentally,
that he had given me this piece of information, on which the contributor
at once replied that since the author of the volume had been made aware
that it was to be reviewed, it was evident that his knowledge of the
fact had made it impossible to write the article. Does the reader
perceive the impossibility? I confess that it is invisible for me.
However, by this trifling incident my book missed a most important
review, which, at that time, might have classed it amongst the
noticeable publications of the period.
My commercial non-success in poetry threw me back more decidedly upon
painting, and this in combination with the resolution to learn French
well, of which something has been already said, made me go to Paris in
the autumn of 1855. I was at that time so utterly ignorant of modern
languages, as they are spoken, that in the train between Calais and
Paris I could not be certain, until I was told by an Englishman who was
more of a linguist than myself, which of my fellow-travellers were
speaking French and which Italian. I made such good use of my time in
Paris that when returning to England on the same railway, after the
short interval of three months, I spoke French fluently (though not
correctly) for the greater part of the way, and did not miss a syllable
that was said to me.
I had no knowledge of Paris and its hotels, so let myself be guided by a
fellow-traveller. We went to the Hôtel du Louvre, then so new that it
smelt of plaster and paint. In those days, big, splendid hotels were
almost unknown in Europe. The vast dining-hall, with its palatial
decoration, impressed my inexperience very strongly. During my stay in
the Hôtel du Louvre, I made the acquaintance of some English officers.
One was a splendid-looking man of about twenty-eight, physically the
finest Englishman I was ever personally acquainted with, and another was
a much older and more experienced officer on leave of absence from
India, where he ruled over a considerable territory. His name was
Turnbull, and I have been told since by another Indian officer, that
Captain Turnbull was the original of Colonel Newcome. Certainly, he was
one of the kindest, most amiable, and most unpretending gentlemen I ever
met. These two officers were invited to the ball at the Hôtel de Ville
that was given by the Parisian municipality to the Emperor and King
Victor Emmanuel, and it happened that the young military Adonis had not
his uniform with him, whilst the idea of going to the ball without it,
and appearing only like a commonplace civilian, was so vexatious as to
be inadmissible. He therefore refused to go, and transferred his card to
me; so I went with Captain Turnbull, who had a cocked hat like a
general, and was taken for one. Some French people, by a stretch of
imagination, even took him for Prince Albert!
The Hôtel de Ville was very splendid on a night of that kind, and when,
long afterwards, I saw it as a blackened ruin, the details of that past
splendor all came back to me. The most interesting moment was when the
crowd of guests formed in two lines in the great ball-room, and the
Emperor and King took their places for a short time on two thrones,
after which they slowly walked down the open space. I happened to be
standing near a French general, who kindly spoke a few words to me, and
just after that the Emperor came and shook hands with him, asking a
friendly question. In this way I saw Louis Napoleon very plainly; but
the more interesting of the two souvenirs for me is certainly that of
the immortal leader of men who was afterwards the first King of Italy.
As for Louis Napoleon, the sight of him in his glory called to mind an
anecdote told of him by Major Towneley in our regiment. When an exile in
London, he spoke to the major of some project that he would put into
execution _quand je serai Empereur_. "Do you really still cherish hopes
of that kind?" asked the sceptical Englishman. "They are not merely
hopes," answered Louis Napoleon, "but a certainty." He believed firmly
in the re-establishment of the Empire, but had no faith whatever in its
permanence. This uneasy apprehension of a fall was publicly betrayed
afterwards by the unnecessary plebiscitum. In a conversation with a
French supporter of the Empire, Louis Napoleon said, "So long as I am
necessary my power will remain unshakable, but when my hour comes I
shall be broken like glass!" He believed himself to be simply an
instrument in the hands of Providence that would be thrown away when no
longer of any use.
We who saw the sovereigns of France and Sardinia walking down that
ball-room together, little imagined what would be the ultimate
consequences of their alliance--the establishment of the Italian
kingdom, then of the German Empire, with the siege of Paris, the
Commune, and the total destruction of the building that dazzled us by
its splendor, and of the palace where the sovereigns slept that night.
Now they sleep far apart,--one in the Pantheon of ancient Rome, in the
midst of the Italian people, who hold his name in everlasting honor; the
other in an exile's grave in England, with a name upon it that is
execrated from Boulogne to Strasburg, and from Calais to Marseilles.
CHAPTER XXVI.
1855.
Thackeray's family in Paris.--Madame Mohl.--Her husband's encouraging
theory about learning languages.--Mr. Scholey.--His friend, William
Wyld.--An Indian in Europe.--An Italian adventuress.--Important meeting
with an American.--Its consequences.--I go to a French hotel.--People at
the _table d'hôte_.--M. Victor Ouvrard.--His claim on the Emperor.--M.
Gindriez.--His family.--His eldest daughter.
Captain Turnbull knew some English people in the colony at Paris, so he
introduced me to two or three houses, and if my object had been to speak
English instead of French, I might have gone into the Anglo-Parisian
society of that day. One house was interesting to me, that of
Thackeray's mother, Mrs. Carmichael Smith. Her second husband, the
major, was still living, and she was a vigorous and majestic elderly
lady. She talked to me about her son, and his pursuit of art, but I do
not remember that she told me anything that the public has not since
learned from other sources. I soon discovered that she had very decided
views on the subject of religion, and that she looked even upon
Unitarians with reprobation, especially as they might be infidels in
disguise. My own subsequent experience of the world has led me to
perceive that, when infidels wear a cloak, they generally put on a more
useful and fashionable one than that of Unitarianism--they assume the
religion that can best help them to get on in the world. However, I was
not going to argue such a point with a lady who was considerably my
senior, and I was constantly in expectation of being examined about my
own religious views, knowing that it would be impossible for me to give
satisfactory answers. I therefore decided that it would be better to
keep out of Mrs. Carmichael Smith's way, and learned afterwards that she
had a reputation for asserting the faith that was in her, and for
expressing her disapproval of everybody who believed less. For my part,
I confess to a cowardly dread of elderly religious Englishwomen. They
have examined me many a time, and I have never come out of the ordeal
with satisfaction, either to them or to myself.
Thackeray's three daughters were in Paris at that time. I remember Miss
Thackeray quite distinctly. She struck me as a young lady of uncommon
sense and penetration, and it was not at all a surprise to me when she
afterwards became distinguished in literature. Thackeray himself was in
London, so I did not meet him.
I went occasionally in the evening to see that remarkable woman, Madame
Mohl. She was the oddest-looking little figure, with her original
notions about toilette, to which she was by no means indifferent. In the
year 1855 she still considered herself a very young woman, and indeed
was so, relatively to the great age she was destined to attain. After I
had been about six weeks in Paris, her husband gave me the first bit of
really valuable encouragement about speaking French that I had received
from any one.
"Can you follow what is said by others?"
"Yes, easily."
"Very well; then you may be free from all anxiety about speaking--you
will certainly speak in due time."
An eccentric but thoroughly manly and honest Englishman, named Scholey,
was staying at the Hôtel du Louvre at the same time with Captain
Turnbull. He was an old bachelor, and looked upon marriage as a snare;
but I learned afterwards that he had been in love at an earlier period
of his existence, and that the engagement had been broken off by the
friends of the young lady, because Scholey combined the two great
defects of honesty and thinking for himself in religious matters. So
long as people prefer sneaks and hypocrites to straightforward
characters like Scholey, such men are likely to be kept out of polite
society. A dishonest man will profess any opinion that you please, or
that is likely to please you, so long as it will advance his interest.
If, therefore, a lover runs the risk of breaking off a marriage rather
than turn hypocrite, it is clear that his sense of honor has borne a
crucial test.
"I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more!"
Scholey spoke French fluently, and, as he lived on the edge of England,
he often crossed over into France. I deeply regret not to have seen much
more of him. One of his acts of kindness, in 1855, was to take me to see
his old friend William Wyld, the painter, with whom I soon became
acquainted, and who is still one of my best and most attached friends.
Wyld lived and worked at that time in the same studio, in the Rue
Blanche, where he is still living and working in this present year
(1887), an octogenarian with the health and faculties of a man of fifty.
There was, in those days, an Indian staying at the Hôtel du Louvre, who
spoke English very well, but not French, so he was working at French
diligently with a master. This Indian was always called "the Prince" in
the hotel, though he was not a prince at all, and never pretended to be
one, but disclaimed the title whenever he had a chance. He lived rather
expensively, but without the least ostentation, and had very quiet
manners. He progressed well with his French studies, but did not stay
long enough to master the language. I was very much interested in him,
as a young man is in all that is strange and a little romantic. He
talked about India with great apparent frankness, saying, that naturally
the Indians desired national independence, but were too much divided
amongst themselves to be likely to attain it in our time. The Mutiny
broke out rather more than a year afterwards, and then I remembered
these conversations.
"The Prince" had some precious and curious things with him, which he
showed me; but his extreme dislike to attracting attention made him
dress quite plainly at all times, especially when he went out, which was
usually in a small brougham. Now and then an English official, from
India, or some military officer, would call upon him, and sometimes they
spoke Arabic or Hindostanee.
There was a lady at the hotel who has always remained in my memory as
one of the most extraordinary human beings I ever met. She was an
Italian, good-looking, yet neither pretty nor handsome, and, above all,
intelligent-looking. She dressed with studiously quiet taste, and used
to dine at the _table d'hôte_ with the rest of us. Besides her native
Italian, she spoke French and English with surprising perfection, and
her manners were so modest, so unexceptionable in every way, that no one
not in the secret would or could have suspected her real business, which
was to secure a succession of temporary husbands in the most respectable
manner, and without leaving the hotel. Her linguistic accomplishments
gave her a wide field of choice, and representatives of various nations
succeeded each other at irregular but never very long intervals. As I
shall be dead when this is published, perhaps it may be as well to say
that I was not one of the series. The reader may believe this when he
remembers that I was very economical for the time being, in consequence
of the loss on my book of poems. After a while my French teacher
informed me that "the Prince" had been caught by the fair Italian, who
established herself quietly somewhere in his suite of rooms. People did
not think this very wrong in a Mahometan, but after his departure from
Paris I happened to be studying some old Italian religious pictures in
the Louvre, and suddenly became aware that the same lady was looking at
a Perugino near me. This time she was with the Prince's successor,--a
most respectable English gentleman, and so far as absolute correctness
of outward appearance went, there was not a more presentable couple in
the galleries. It is my opinion that she succeeded more by her good
manners and quiet way of dressing than by anything else. She must have
been a real lady, who had fallen into that way of life in consequence of
a reverse of fortune.
After a while I came to the conclusion that I was too much with English
people at the Hôtel du Louvre, and an incident occurred which altered
the whole course of my future life, and is the reason why I am now
writing this book in France. I had been up late one night at the Opera,
and the next morning rose an hour later than usual. An American came
into the breakfast-room of the hotel and found me taking my chocolate.
Had I risen only half-an-hour earlier, I should have got through that
cup of chocolate and been already out in the streets before the American
came down. To have missed him would have been never to know my wife,
never even to see her face, as the reader will perceive in the sequel,
and the consequences of not marrying her would have been incalculable.
One of them is certain in my own mind. The modest degree of literary
reputation that makes this autobiography acceptable from a publisher's
point of view has been won slowly and arduously. It has been the result
of long and steadfast labor, and there is no merely personal motive that
would have ever made me persevere. Consequently, the existence of this
volume, and any meaning that now belongs to the name on its title page,
are due to my getting up late that morning in the Hôtel du Louvre.
The American and I being alone in the breakfast-room, and shamefully
late, were drawn together by the sympathy created by an identical
situation, and began to talk. He gave some reasons for being in Paris,
and I gave mine, which was to learn French. We then agreed that to get
accustomed to the use of a foreign language the first thing was to
surround ourselves with it entirely, and that this could not be done in
a cosmopolitan place like the Hôtel du Louvre.
"I have a French friend," the American said, "who could give you the
address of some purely French hotel where you would not hear a syllable
of English."
After breakfast he kindly took me to see this friend, who was a merchant
sitting in a pretty and tidy counting-house all in green and new oak.
The merchant spoke English (he had lived in America) and said, "I know
exactly what you want,--a quiet little French hotel in the Champs
Élysées where you can have clean rooms and a well-kept _table d'hôte_."
He wrote me the address on a card, and I went to look at the place.
The hotel, which exists no longer, was in the Avenue Montaigne. It
suited my tastes precisely, being extremely quiet, as it looked upon a
retired garden, and the rooms were perfectly clean. There was only one
story above the ground-floor, and here I took a bedroom and sitting-room
looking upon the garden. The house was kept by a widow who had very good
manners, and was, in her own person, a pleasant example of the
cleanliness that characterized the house. I learned afterwards (not from
herself) that she had been a lady reduced to poor circumstances by the
loss of her husband, and that her relations being determined that she
should do something for her living, had advanced some money on condition
that she set up an establishment. Having no experience in hotel-keeping,
she soon dissipated the little capital and lived afterwards on a
pittance in the strictest retirement.
When I took my rooms the small hotel seemed modestly prosperous. There
were about a dozen people at the _table d'hôte_, but they did not all
stay in the house. We had an officer in the army who had brought his
young provincial wife to Paris, a beautiful but remarkably unintelligent
person, and there were other people who might be taken as fair specimens
of the better French _bourgeoisie_. The most interesting person in the
hotel was an old white-headed gentleman whose name I may give, Victor
Ouvrard, a nephew of the famous Ouvrard who had been a great contractor
for military clothes and accoutrements under Napoleon I. Victor Ouvrard
was living on a pension given by a wealthy relation, and doing what he
could to push a hopeless claim on Napoleon III. for several millions of
francs due by the first Emperor to his uncle. I know nothing about the
great contractor except the curious fact that he remained in prison for
a long time rather than give up a large sum of money to the Government,
saying that by the mere sacrifice of his liberty he was earning a
handsome income. The nephew was what we call a gentleman, a model of
good manners and delicate sentiments. He would have made an excellent
character for a novelist, with his constantly expressed regret that he
had not a speciality.
"Si j'avais une spécialité!" he would say, as he tapped his snuff-box
and looked up wistfully to the ceiling--"si j'avais seulement une
spécialité!" He felt himself humiliated by the necessity for accepting
his little pension, and still entertained a chimerical hope that if the
Emperor did not restore the millions that were due, he might at least
bestow upon him enough for independence in his last years. There had
been some slight indications of a favorable turn in the Emperor's mind,
but they came to nothing. Meanwhile M. Victor Ouvrard lived on with
strict economy, brushing his old coats till they were threadbare, and
never allowing himself a vehicle in the streets of Paris. He was an
excellent walker, and we explored a great part of the town together on
foot. He kindly took patience with my imperfect French, and often gently
corrected me. The long conversations I had with M. Ouvrard on all sorts
of subjects, in addition to my daily lessons from masters, got me
forward with surprising rapidity. I observed a strict rule of abstinence
from English, never calling on any English people, with the single
exception of Mr. Wyld, the painter, nor reading any English books. When
M. Ouvrard was not with me in the streets of Paris, I got up
conversations with anybody who would talk to me, merely to get practice,
and in my own room I wrote French every day. Besides this, for physical
exercise, I became a pupil in a gymnasium, and worked there regularly.
One thing seemed strange in the way they treated us. When we were as hot
as possible with exercise, at the moment of leaving off and changing our
dress, men came to the dressing-rooms to sponge us with ice-cold water.
They said it did nothing but good, and certainly I never felt any bad
effects from the practice.
The ice-cold water reminds me of a ridiculous incident that occurred in
the garden of the Tuileries. M. Ouvrard and I were walking together in
the direction of the palace, when we saw a Frenchman going towards it
with his eyes fixed on the edifice. He was so entirely absorbed by his
architectural studies that he did not notice the basin just in front of
him. The stone lip of the basin projects a little on the land side, so
that if you catch your foot in it no recovery is possible. This he did,
and was thrown violently full length upon the thin ice, which offered
little resistance to his weight. The basin is not more than a yard deep,
so he got out and made his way along the Rue de Rivoli, his clothes
streaming on the causeway. Some spectators laughed, and others smiled,
but M. Ouvrard remained perfectly grave, saying that he could not
understand how people could be so unfeeling as to laugh at a misfortune,
for the man would probably take cold. Perhaps the reader thinks he had
no sense of humor. Yes, he had; he was very facetious and a hearty
laugher, but his delicacy of feeling was so refined that he could not
laugh at an accident that seemed to call rather for his sympathy.
A French gentleman who was staying at the hotel had a friend who came
occasionally to see him, and this friend was an amiable and interesting
talker. He had at the same time much natural politeness, and seeing that
I wanted to practise conversation he indulged me by patiently listening
to my bad French, and giving me his own remarkably pure and masterly
French in return. His name, I learned, was Gindriez, and he was living
in Paris by the tolerance of the Emperor. He had been Prefect of the
Doubs under the second Republic, and had resigned his prefecture as soon
as the orders emanating from the executive Government betrayed the
intention of establishing the Empire. As a member of the National
Assembly he had voted against the Bonapartists, and was one of the few
representatives who were concerting measures against Napoleon when he
forestalled them by striking first. After the _coup d'état_ M. Gindriez
fled to Belgium, but returned to Paris for family reasons, and was
permitted to remain on condition that he did not actively set himself in
opposition to the Empire. M. Gindriez looked upon his own political
career as ended, though he could have made it prosperous enough, and
even brilliant, by serving the power of the day. A more flexible
instrument had been put into his prefecture, a new legislative body had
been elected to give a false appearance of parliamentary government, and
an autocratic system had been established which M. Gindriez believed
destined to a prolonged duration, though he felt sure that it could not
last forever. Subsequent events have proved the correctness of his
judgment. The Empire outlasted the lifetime of M. Gindriez, but it did
not establish itself permanently.
It was a peculiarity of mine in early life (which I never thought about
at the time, but which has become evident in the course of this
autobiography) to prefer the society of elderly men. In London I had
liked to be with Mackay, Robinson the engraver, and Leslie, all
gray-headed men, and in Paris I soon acquired a strong liking for M.
Ouvrard, M. Gindriez, and Mr. Wyld. They were kind and open, and had
experience, therefore they were interesting; my uncles in Lancashire
had, no doubt, been kind in their own way, that is, in welcoming me to
their houses, but they were both excessively reserved. Being at that
time deeply interested in France, I was delighted to find a man like M.
Gindriez who could give me endless information. His chief interest in
life lay in French politics; art and literature being for him subjects
of secondary concern, but by no means of indifference, and the plain
truth is that he had a better and clearer conception of art than I
myself had in those days, or for long afterwards. There was also for me
a personal magnetism in M. Gindriez, which it was not easy to account
for then, but which is now quite intelligible to me. He had in the
utmost strength and purity the genuine heroic nature. I came to
understand this in after years, and believe that it impressed me from
the first. It is unnecessary to say more about this remarkable character
in this place, because the reader will hear much of him afterwards. It
is enough to say that I was attracted by his powers of conversation and
his evident tenderness of heart.
When we had become better acquainted, M. Gindriez invited me to spend an
evening at his house after dinner, and I went. He was living at that
time on a boulevard outside the first wall, which has since been
demolished. His _appartement_ was simply furnished, and not strikingly
different in any way from the usual dwellings of the Parisian middle
class. I had now been absent for some weeks from anything like a home,
and after living in hotels it was pleasant to find myself at a domestic
fireside. M. Gindriez had several children. The eldest was a girl of
sixteen, extremely modest and retiring, as a well-bred _jeune fille_
generally is in France, and there was another daughter, very pretty and
engaging, but scarcely more than a child; there were also two boys, the
eldest a very taciturn, studious lad, who was at that time at the
well-known college of Sainte Barbe. Their mother had been a woman of
remarkable beauty, and still retained enough of it to attract the eye of
a painter. She had also at times a certain unconscious grace and dignity
of pose that the great old Italian masters valued more than it is valued
now. M. Gindriez himself had a refined face, but my interest in him was
due almost entirely to the charm and ease of his conversation.
In writing an autobiography one ought to give impressions as they were
received at the time, and not as they may have been modified afterwards.
I am still quite able to recall the impression made upon me by the
eldest daughter in the beginning of 1856. I did not think her so pretty
as her sister, though she had a healthy complexion, with bright eyes and
remarkably beautiful teeth, whilst her slight figure was graceful and
well formed; but I well remember being pleased and interested by the
little glimpses I could get of her mind and character. It was a new sort
of character to me, and even in the tones of her voice there was
something that indicated a rare union of strength and tenderness. The
tenderness, of course, was not for me, a foreign temporary guest in
those days, but I found it out by the girl's way of speaking to her
father. I perceived, too, under an exterior of cheerfulness, rising at
times to gayety, a nature that was really serious, as if saddened by a
too early experience of trouble.
The truth was, that in consequence of her father's checkered career,
this girl of sixteen had passed through a much greater variety of
experience than most women have known at thirty. Her mother, too, had
for some time suffered almost continuously from ill-health, so that the
eldest daughter had been really the active mistress of the house. Her
courage and resolution had been put to the test in various ways that I
knew nothing about then, but the effects of an uncommon experience were
that deepening of the young nature which made it especially interesting
to me. Afterwards I discovered that Eugénie Gindriez had read more and
thought more than other girls of her age. This might have been almost an
evil in a quiet life, but hers had not been a quiet life.
We soon became friends in spite of the French conventional idea that a
girl should not open her lips, but it did not occur to me that we were
likely ever to be anything more than friends. Had the idea occurred,
the obstacle of a difference in nationality would have seemed to me
absolutely insuperable. I thought of marriage at that time as a
possibility, but not of an international marriage. In fact, the
difficulties attending upon an international marriage are so
considerable, and the subsequent practical inconvenience so troublesome,
that only an ardently passionate and imprudent nature could overlook
them.
I, for my part, left Paris without being aware that Mademoiselle
Gindriez had anything to do with my future destiny; but she, with a
woman's perspicacity, knew better. She thought it at least probable, if
not certain, that I should return after long years; she waited
patiently, and when at last I did return there was no need to tell on
what errand.
An incident occurred that might have been a partial revelation to me and
a clear one to her. Before my departure from Paris, M. Ouvrard said to
me that he had been told I was engaged to "une Française."
"What is her name?"--he mentioned another young lady. Now to this day I
remember that when he spoke of a French marriage as a possibility for me
I at once saw, mentally, a portrait of Eugénie Gindriez. However, as a
French marriage was _not_ a possibility, I thought no more of the
matter.
CHAPTER XXVII
1856.
Specialities in painting.--Wyld's practice.--Projected voyage on the
Loire.--Birth of the Prince Imperial.--Scepticism about his inheritance
of the crown.--The Imperial family.--I return home.--Value of the French
language to me.
Being entirely absorbed in the study of French during my first visit to
Paris, I did little in the practice of art. My Lancashire neighbor, who
was studying in Paris, worked in Colin's atelier, and I have since
regretted that I did not at that time get myself entered there, the more
so that it was a decent and quiet place kept under the eye of the master
himself, who had long been accustomed to teaching. My friend had
certainly made good progress there. I was unfortunately influenced by
two erroneous ideas, one of them being that the studies of a
figure-painter could be of no use in landscape, [Footnote: This idea had
been strongly confirmed by Mr. Pettitt.] and the other that it was wiser
to be a specialist, and devote myself to landscape exclusively. It is
surprising that the notion of a limited speciality in painting should
have taken possession of me then, as in other matters I have never been
a narrow specialist, or had any tendency to become one.
The choice of a narrow speciality may be good in the industrial arts,
but it is not good in painting, for the reason that a painter may at any
time desire to include something in his picture which a specialist could
not deal with. To feel as if the world belonged to him a painter ought
to be able to paint everything he sees. There is another sense in which
speciality may be good: it may be good to keep to one of the graphic
arts in order to effect that intimate union between the man and his
instrument which is hardly possible on any other terms.
Wyld would have taught me landscape-painting if I had asked him, and I
did at a later period study water-color with him; but his practice in
oil did not suit me, for this reason: it was entirely tentative, he was
constantly demolishing his work, so that it was hard to see how a pupil
could possibly follow him. The advantage in working under his eye would
have been in receiving a great variety of sound artistic ideas; for few
painters know more about _art_ as distinguished from nature. However, by
mere conversation, Wyld has communicated to me a great deal of this
knowledge; and with regard to the practical advantages of painting like
him they would probably not have ensured me any better commercial
success, as his style of painting has now for a long time been
completely out of fashion.
My scheme in 1856 was to make a great slow boat voyage on the Loire,
with the purpose of collecting a quantity of sketches and studies in
illustration of that river; and my ardor in learning to speak French had
for an immediate motive the desire to make that voyage without an
interpreter. I have often regretted that this scheme was never carried
out. I have since done something of the same kind for the Saône, but my
situation is now entirely different. I am now obliged to make all my
undertakings _pay_, which limits them terribly, and almost entirely
prevents me from doing anything on a great scale. For example, these
pages are written within a few miles of Loire side; the river that flows
near my home is a tributary of the Loire; I have all the material outfit
necessary for a great boating expedition, and still keep the strength
and the will; but no publisher could prudently undertake the
illustration of a river so long as the Loire and so rich in material, on
the scale that I contemplated in 1856.
It is unnecessary to trouble the reader with my crude impressions of
European painting in the Universal Exhibition of that year. I no more
understood French art at that time than a Frenchman newly transplanted
to London can understand English art. The two schools require, in fact,
different mental adjustments. Our National Gallery had sufficiently
prepared me for the Louvre, which I visited very frequently; and there I
laid the foundations of a sort of knowledge which became of great use
many years afterwards, though for a long time there was nothing to show
for it.
No historical event of importance occurred during my stay in Paris,
except the birth of the Prince Imperial. I was awakened by the cannon at
the Invalides, and having been told that if there were more than
twenty-one guns the child would be a boy, I counted till the
twenty-second, and then fell asleep again. There existed, even then, the
most complete scepticism as to the transmission of the crown. Neither M.
Gindriez, nor any other intelligent Frenchman that I met, believed that
the newly born infant had the faintest chance of ever occupying the
throne of France. Before the child's birth I had seen his father and
mother and all his relations at the closing ceremony of the Universal
Exhibition, and thought them, with the exception of the Empress, a
common-looking set of people. They walked round the oblong arena in the
Palais de l'Industrie exactly as circus people do round the track at the
Hippodrome. The most interesting figure was old Jerome--interesting, not
for himself, as he was a nonentity, but as the brother of the most
famous conqueror since Caesar.
Being called back to England on a matter of business, I cut short my
stay in Paris, and arrived at Hollins without having advanced much as an
artist, but with an important linguistic acquirement. The value of
French to me from a professional point of view is quite incalculable.
The best French criticism on the fine arts is the most discriminating
and the most accurate in the world, at least when it is not turned aside
from truth by the national jealousy of England and the consequent
antipathy to English art. At the same time, there are qualities of
delicacy and precision in French prose which it was good for me to
appreciate, even imperfectly.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
1856.
My first encampment in Lancashire.--Value of encamping as a part of
educational discipline.--Happy days in camp.--The natural and the
artificial in landscape.--Sir James Kay Shuttleworth's Exhibition
project.--I decline to take an active part in it.--His energetic and
laborious disposition.--Charlotte Brontë.--General Scarlett.
The Loire expedition having been abandoned for the year 1856, and the
Nile voyage put off indefinitely, I remained working in the north of
England, discouraged, as to literature, by the failure of the book of
verse, and without much encouragement for painting either; so the summer
of 1856 was not very fruitful in work of any kind.
Towards autumn, however, I took courage again, and determined to paint
from nature on the moors. This led to the first attempt at encamping.
It is wonderful what an influence the things we do in early life may
have on our future occupations. In 1886, exactly thirty years later, I
made the Saône expedition, for which two _absolutely essential_
qualifications were an intimate knowledge of the French language and a
practical acquaintance with encamping. The Roman who said that fifteen
years made a long space in human life would have appreciated the
importance of thirty, yet across all that space of time what I did in
1856 told just as effectually as if it had been done the year before.
_Moral_ (for any young man who may read this book): it is impossible to
say how important the deeds of twenty-one may turn out to have been when
we look back upon them in complete maturity. All we know about them is
that they are likely to be recognized in the future as far more
important than they seemed when they were in the present.
Encamping is now quite familiar to young Englishmen in connection with
boating excursions, and it has even been adopted in American pine
forests for the sake of health; but in 1856 only military men and a few
travellers knew anything about encampments. I was led into this art, or
amusement (for it is both), by a very natural transition. Here are the
three stages of it.
1. You want to paint from nature in uncertain weather, and you build a
hut for shelter.
2. The hut is at some distance from a house, and you do not like to
leave it, so you sleep in it.
3. The accommodation is found to be narrow, and it is unpleasant to have
one little room for everything, so you add a tent or two outside and
keep a man. Hence a complete little encampment.
Everybody considered me extremely eccentric in 1856 because I was led
into encamping; but it was an excellent thing for me in various ways. A
young man given up to such pursuits as literature and art needs a closer
contact with common realities than aesthetic studies can give. The
physical work attendant upon encamping, and the constant attention that
_must_ be given to such pressing necessities as shelter and food, give
exactly that contact with reality that educates us in readiness of
resource, and they have the incalculable advantage of making one learn
the difference between the necessary and the superfluous. I look back
upon early camping experiments with satisfaction as an experience of the
greatest educational value. Even now, in my sixth decade, I can sleep
under canvas and arrange all the details of a camp with indescribable
enjoyment, and (what is perhaps better still) I can put up cheerfully
with the very humblest accommodation in country inns, provided only that
they are tolerably clean.
The arrangements of my hut on the moor near Burnley have been described
in detail in "The Painter's Camp," so it is unnecessary to give a
minute account of them in this place. I was entirely alone, except
the company of a dog, and had no defence but a revolver. That month
of solitude on the wild hills was a singularly happy time, so happy
that it is not easy, without some reflection, to account for such
a degree of felicity. I was young, and the brisk mountain air
exhilarated me. I walked out every day on the heather, which I
loved as if my father and mother had been a brace of grouse.
Then there was the steady occupation of painting a big foreground study
from nature, and the necessary camp work that would have kept morbid
ideas at a distance if any such had been likely to trouble me. As for
the solitude, and the silence broken only by wind and rain, their effect
was not depressing in the least. Towns are depressing to me--even Paris
has that effect--but how is it possible to feel otherwise than cheerful
when you have leagues of fragrant heather all around you, and blue
Yorkshire hills on the high and far horizon?
A noteworthy effect of this month on the moors was that on returning to
Hollins, which was situated amongst trim green pastures and plantations,
everything seemed so astonishingly artificial. It came with the force of
a discovery. From that day to this the natural and the artificial in
landscape have been, for me, as clearly distinguished as a wild boar
from a domestic pig. My strong preference was, and still is, for wild
nature. The unfortunate effects of this preference, as regards success
in landscape-painting, will claim our attention later.
The grand scheme for an Exhibition of Art Treasures at Manchester, in
1857, suggested to Sir James Kay Shuttleworth the idea of having an
Exhibition at Burnley in the same year to illustrate the history of
Lancashire. He thought that a certain proportion of the visitors to the
Manchester Art Treasures would probably be induced to visit our
little-known but prosperous and rising town. His scheme was of a very
comprehensive character, and included a pictorial illustration of
Lancashire. There would have been pictures of Lancashire scenery as well
as portraits of men who have distinguished themselves in the history of
the county, and whose fame has, in many instances, gone far beyond its
borders. All the mechanical inventions that have enriched Lancashire
would also have been represented.
Having thought this over in his own mind, Sir James wanted an active
lieutenant to aid him in carrying his idea into execution, and as he
knew me he asked me to be the practical manager of the Exhibition. I was
to travel all over the county, see all the people of importance, and
borrow, whenever possible, such of their pictures and other relics as
might be considered illustrative of Lancashire history. Sir James had
many influential friends, I myself had a few, and it seemed to him that
by devoting my time to the scheme heartily I might make it a success. My
reward was to be simply a very interesting experience, as I should see
almost all the interesting things and people in my native county.
Sir James did his best to entice me, and as he was a very able man with
much knowledge of the world, he might possibly have succeeded had I not
been more than usually wary. Luckily, I felt the whole weight of my
inexperience, and said to myself: "Whatever we do it is _certain_ that
mistakes will be committed, and very probable that some things will be
damaged. All mistakes will be laid to my door. Then the Exhibition
itself may be a failure, and it is disagreeable to be conspicuously
connected with a failure." I next consulted one or two experienced
friends, who said, "Sir James will have the credit of any success there
may be, and you, as a young useful person, comparatively unknown, will
get very little, whilst at the same time you will be burdened with heavy
anxieties and responsibilities." I therefore firmly declined, and as Sir
James could not find any other suitable assistant, his project was never
reaped.
It seems odd that the existence of this Lancashire Exhibition should
have depended on the "yes" or "no" of a lad of twenty-three; yet so it
did, for if I had consented the scheme would certainly have been carried
into execution, whether successfully or not it is impossible to say. The
enterprise would have greatly interested and occupied me, for I have a
natural turn for organizing things, being fond of order and details, and
I should have learned a great deal and seen many people and many houses;
still, the negative decision was the wiser.
Sir James Kay Shuttleworth was certainly one of the remarkable people I
have known. At that time he was unpopular in Burnley on account of his
separation from his wife, who had been the richest heiress in the
neighborhood, the owner of a fine estate and a grand old hall at
Gawthorpe. People thought she had been ill-used. Of this I really know
(of my own knowledge) absolutely nothing, and shall print no hearsays.
Sir James himself was an ambitious and very hard-working man, who passed
through life with no desire for repose. Public education, in the days
before Board Schools, was his especial subject, and he owed his
baronetcy to his efforts in that cause. The Tory aristocracy of the
neighborhood disliked him for his liberal principles in politics, and
for his brilliant marriage, which came about because the heiress of
Gawthorpe took an interest in his own subjects. Perhaps, too, they were
not quite pleased with his too active and restless intellect. He made
one or two attempts to win a position as a novelist, but in connection
with literature future generations will know him chiefly as the kind
host of Charlotte Brontë, who visited him at Gawthorpe.
I regret now that I never met Charlotte Brontë, as she was quite a near
neighbor of ours; in fact, I could have ridden or walked over to Haworth
at any time. That village is just on the northeast border of the great
Boulsworth moors, where my hut was pitched. At the time of my encampment
there Charlotte Brontë had been dead about eighteen months. She was
hardly a contemporary of mine, as she was born seventeen years before
me, and died so prematurely; still, when I think that "Jane Eyre" was
written within a very few miles of Hollins, [Footnote: I have not access
to an ordnance map, but believe that the distance was hardly more than
eight miles across the moors. Haworth is only twelve miles from Burnley
by road.] and that for several years, during which I rode or walked
every day, Charlotte Brontë was living just on the other side of the
moors visible from my home, I am vexed with myself for not having had
assurance enough to go to see her. Since those days a hundred ephemeral
reputations have risen only to be quenched forever in the great ocean of
the world's oblivion, but the fame of "Jane Eyre" is as brilliant as it
was when the book astonished all reading England forty years ago.
[Footnote: I am writing in 1888.]
Amongst the distinguished people belonging to the neighborhood of
Burnley was General Scarlett, who led the charge of the Heavy Cavalry at
Balaclava,--brilliant feat of arms much more satisfactory to military
men than the fruitless sacrifice of the Light Brigade, which, however,
is incomparably better known. I recollect General Scarlett chiefly
because he set me thinking about a very important question in political
economy. I happened to be sitting next him at dinner when the talk
turned upon wine, and the General said, "The Radicals find fault with
the economy of the Queen's household because they say that the wine
drunk there costs sixteen thousand a year. I don't know what it costs,
but that is of no consequence." I then timidly inquired if he did not
think it was a waste of money, on which, in a kind way, he explained to
me that "if the money were paid and put into circulation it did not
signify what it had been spent upon." I knew there was something
fallacious in this, but my own ideas were not clear upon the subject,
and it did not become me to set up an argument with a distinguished old
officer like the General. Of course the right answer is that there is
always a responsibility for spending money so as to be of use not only
to the tradesman who pockets it, _but to the consumers also_. If the
wine gave health and wisdom it would hardly be possible to spend too
much upon it.
CHAPTER XXIX.
I visit the homes of my forefathers at Hamerton, Wigglesworth, and
Hellifield Peel.--Attainder and execution of Sir Stephen Hamerton.--
Return of Hellifield Peel to the family.--Sir Richard.--The Hamertons
distinguished only for marrying heiresses.--Another visit to the Peel,
when I see my father's cousin.--Nearness of Hellifield Peel and Hollins.
In one of these years (the exact date is of no consequence) I visited
the old houses in Yorkshire which had belonged to our family in former
times. The place we take our name from, Hamerton, belonged to Richard de
Hamerton in 1170. I found the old hall still in existence, or a part of
it, and though the present building evidently does not date from the
twelfth century, it dates from the occupation of my forefathers. At the
time of my visit there was some very massive oak wainscot still
remaining.
The situation is, to my taste, one of the pleasantest in England. The
house is On a hill, from which it looks down on the valley of Slaidburn.
Steep green pastures slope to the flat meadows in the lower ground,
which are watered by a stream. There are many places of that character
in Yorkshire, and they have never lost their old charm for me. I cannot
do without a hill, and a stream, and a green field. [Footnote: Since
this was written I have been compelled to do without them by the
necessity for living close to an art-centre, a necessity against which I
rebelled as long as I could. Even to-day, however, I would joyously give
all Paris for such a place as Hollins or Hamerton (as I knew them), with
their streams and pastures, and near or distant hills.]
My forefathers lived at Hamerton, more or less, from a time of which
there is no record down to the reign of Henry VIII., but their principal
seat in the time of their greatest prosperity was Wigglesworth Hall. I
arrived there in time to see masons demolishing the building. One or two
Gothic arched door-ways still remained, but were probably destroyed the
next week. Just enough, of the house was preserved to shelter the
occupant of the farm.
For me this unnecessary destruction is always distressing, even in
foreign countries. It is excusable in towns, where land is dear; but in
the country the site of an old hall is of such trifling value that it
might surely be permitted to fall peaceably to ruin.
The family of De Arches, to which Wigglesworth originally belonged, bore
for arms _gules, three arches argent_. The coincidence struck me
forcibly when I saw the Gothic arches still standing amongst the ruins.
The place came into the possession of our family by the marriage of Adam
de Hamerton, in the fourteenth century, with Katharine, heiress of Elias
de Knoll of Knolsmere. His father, Reginald de Knoll, had married
Beatrix de Arches, heiress of the manor of Wigglesworth. These estates,
with others too numerous to mention, remained in our family till they
were lost by the attainder of Sir Stephen Hamerton, who joined the
insurrection known as "The Pilgrimage of Grace" in the reign of Henry
VIII.
During these excursions to old houses I visited Hellifield Peel, still
belonging to the chief of our little clan. The Peel is an old border
tower, embattled, and with walls of great thickness. It is large enough
to make a tolerably spacious, but not very convenient, modern house, and
my great uncle spoiled its external appearance by inserting London sash
windows in the gray old fortress wall. On this occasion I did not see
the interior, not desiring to claim a relationship that had fallen into
abeyance for half-a-century; yet I felt the most intense curiosity about
it, and for more than twenty years afterwards I dreamed from time to
time I got inside the Peel, and saw quite a museum of knightly armor
[Footnote: The first Sir Stephen Hamerton was made a knight banneret in
Scotland by Richard, Duke of Gloucester, in the reign of Edward IV. He
married Isabel, daughter of Sir William Plumpton, of Plumpton, and a
letter of his is still extant in the Plumpton correspondence.] and other
memorials which, I regret to say, have not been preserved in reality.
Hellifield Peel was built by Laurence Hamerton in 1440. When the second
Sir Stephen was executed for high treason and his possessions
confiscated, the manor of Hellifield was preserved by a settlement for
his mother during her life. After that it was granted by the king to one
George Browne, of whom we know nothing positively except that he lived
at Calais, and after changing hands several times it came back into the
Hamerton family by a fine levied in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The
owners then passed the manor to John Hamerton, a nephew of Sir Stephen.
The attainted knight left an only son, Henry, who is said to have been
interred in York Minster on the day when his father was beheaded in
London. Whitaker thought it "not improbable that he died of a broken
heart in consequence of the ruin of his family." Henry left no male
issue.
The career of Sir Stephen seems to have been doomed to misfortune, for
there were influences that might have saved him. He had been in the
train of the Earl of Cumberland, the same who afterwards held Skipton
Castle against the rebels. Whitaker says "he forsook his patron in the
hour of trial." This seems rather a harsh way of judging a Catholic, who
believed himself to be fighting for God and His spoliated Church against
a tyrannical king. I notice that in our own day the French Republican
Government cannot take the smallest measure against the religious
houses, cannot even require them to obey the ordinary law of the
country, but there is immediately an outcry in all the English
newspapers; yet the measures of the Third Republic have been to those of
Henry VIII. what that same Third Republic is to the First. All that can
be fairly urged against Sir Stephen Hamerton is that "after having
availed himself of the King's pardon, he revolted a second time."
There is nothing else, that I remember, in the history of our family
that is likely to have any interest for readers who do not belong to it.
Sir Richard Hamerton, of Hamerton, married in 1461 a sister of the
bloody Lord Clifford who was slain at Towton Field, and that is the
nearest connection that we have ever had with any well-known historical
character.
Through marriages we are descended, in female lines, from many
historical personages, [Footnote: Some in the extinct Peerage, and
others belonging to royal families of England and France which have
since lost their thrones by revolution.]--a matter of no interest to the
reader, though I acknowledge enough of the ancestral sentiment to have
my own interest in them quickened by my descent from them.
Another consequence of belonging to a well-connected old family was that
I sometimes, in my youth, met with people who were related to me, and
who were aware of it, although the relationship was very distant. I
recollect, for instance, that one of the officers in our militia
regiment remembered his descent from our family, and though I had never
seen him before it was a sort of _lien_ between us.
The Hamertons do not seem to have distinguished themselves in anything
except marrying heiresses, and in that they were remarkably successful.
At first a moderately wealthy family, they became immensely wealthy
by the accumulation of heiresses' estates, and after being ruined
by confiscation they began the same process over again; but being
at the same time either imprudent or careless, or too much burdened
with children (my great-grandfather had a dozen brothers and sisters),
they have not kept their lands. One of my uncles said to me that
the Hamertons won property in no other way than by marriage, and
that they were almost incapable of retaining it; he himself had the one
talent of his race, but was an exception to their incapacity. In justice
to our family I may add that we are said to make indulgent husbands and
fathers,--two characters incompatible with avarice, and sometimes even
with prudence when the circumstances are not easy.
On a later occasion I made a little tour in Craven with a friend who had
a tandem, and we stopped at Hellifield, where I sketched the Peel.
Whilst I sat at work the then representative of the family, my father's
first cousin, came out upon the lawn; but I did not speak to him, nor
did he take any notice of me. He was a fine, hale man of about eighty.
The _nearness_ of Hellifield to Hollins was brought home to me very
strongly on that occasion. It was late afternoon when I finished my
sketch, and yet, as we had very good horses, we reached home easily the
same evening. So near and yet so far! As I have said already in the
third chapter, my grandfather's wife and children never even saw his
brother's house, and during my own youth the place had seemed as distant
and unreal as one of the old towers that I had read about in northern
poetry and romance.
CHAPTER XXX.
1857.
Expedition to the Highlands in 1857.--Kindness of the Marquis of
Breadalbane and others.--Camp life, its strong and peculiar
attraction.--My servant.--Young Helliwell.--Scant supplies in the
camp.--Nature of the camp.--Necessity for wooden floors in a bad
climate.--Double-hulled boats.--Practice of landscape-painting.--Changes
of effect.--Influences that governed my way of study in those
days.--Attractive character of the Scottish Highlands.--Their scenery
not well adapted for beginners.--My intense love of it.
In the year 1857 I made the expedition to the Highlands which afterwards
became well known in consequence of my book about it.
The Marquis of Breadalbane (the first Marquis) granted me in the kindest
way permission to pitch my camp wherever I liked on his extensive
estate, and at the same time gave me an invitation to Taymouth Castle.
The Duke of Argyll gave me leave to encamp on an island in Loch Awe that
belonged to him, and Mr. Campbell of Monzie granted leave to encamp on
his property on the Cladich side of the lake. I ought to have gone to
Taymouth to thank Lord Breadalbane and accept the hospitality he had
offered, but it happened that he had not fixed a date, so I avoided
Taymouth. This was wrong, but young men are generally either forward or
backward. The Marquis afterwards expressed himself, to a third person,
as rather hurt that I had not been to see him.
My advice to any young man who reads this book is always to _show_ that
he appreciates kindness when it is offered. There is not very much of it
in the world, but there is some, and it is not enough merely to feel
grateful; we ought to accept kindness with visible satisfaction. One of
my regrets now is to have sometimes failed in this, usually out of mere
shyness, particularly where great people were concerned. Here is another
instance. When going to Inverary on the steamer, I made the acquaintance
of a very pleasant Scotchman, who turned out to be the Laird of Lamont,
on Loch Fyne side. He took an interest in my artistic projects, and very
kindly invited me to go and see him. Nothing would have been easier,--I
was as free as a fish, and might have sailed down Loch Fyne any day on
my own boat,--yet I never went.
The book called "A Painter's Camp" gave a sufficient account of my first
summer in the Highlands, which was not distinguished by much variety, as
I remained almost exclusively at Loch Awe; but the novelty of camp life
_by choice_ seems to have interested many readers, though they must have
been already perfectly familiar with camp life _by necessity_ in the
practice of armies and the experience of African travellers. The true
explanation of my proceedings is the intense and peculiar charm that
there is about encamping in a wild and picturesque country. I had tasted
this on the Lancashire moors, and I wanted to taste it again. Just now,
whilst writing, I have on my table a letter from an English official in
Africa, who tells me of his camp life. He says: "The wagon was generally
my sleeping quarter. I had two tents and a riding horse, and very seldom
slept in a house or put the horse in a stable. _Such a life was ever,
and is now, to me the acme of bliss. No man can be said to have really
lived who has not camped out in some such way, and I know well that you
especially will say Amen! to this sentiment._ Since 1848, I have lived
altogether for about six years in the open, and have never caught a
cold. Only, through imprudent uncovering of the head, once in 1855,
whilst drawing the topography of a mountain, I was struck down by
sunstroke."
The reasons for this intense attraction in camp life are probably
complex. One certainly is that it brings us nearer to nature, but a
still deeper reason may be that _it revives obscure associations that
belong to the memory of the race, and not to that of the individual_.
Camping is in the same category with yachting, fishing, and the
chase,--a thing practised by civilized man for his amusement, because it
permits him to resume the habits of less civilized generations. The
delight of encamping, for a young man in vigorous health, is the
enforced activity in the open air that is inseparably connected with it.
I had only one servant, a young man from the moorland country on the
borders of Lancashire and Yorkshire, perfectly well adapted to life in
the Highlands. He had excellent health, and was physically a good
specimen of our north-English race. It was a pleasure to see his tall
straight figure going over the roughest ground with no appearance of
hurry, but in fact with such unostentatious swiftness that few sportsmen
could follow him. I was myself active enough then, and accustomed to
wild places, but he always restrained himself when we did any mountain
work together. He afterwards became well known as the "Thursday" of the
"Painter's Camp," but I may give his real name here, which was Young
Helliwell. Temperate, hardy, and extremely prudent, not to be caught by
any allurements of vulgar pleasure, he lived wisely in youth, and will
probably have fewer regrets than most people in his old age.
Young had studied the art of simple cookery at Hollins, so he was able
to keep me tolerably well when we happened to have anything to eat,
which was not always. There were no provision shops on Lochaweside;
Inverary was at some distance in one direction and Oban in the other,
and as I had never given a thought to feeding before, I was an utterly
incompetent provider. The consequence was that we fasted like monks,
except that our abstinence was not on any regular principle; in fact,
sometimes we had so little to eat for days together that we began to
feel quite weak. This gave us no anxiety, and we only laughed at it,
undereating being always more conducive to good spirits than its
opposite, provided that it is not carried too far.
The camp consisted of three structures,--my hut, which was made of
wooden panels with plate-glass windows; a tent for Young, with a wooden
floor, and wooden sides to the height of three feet; lastly, a military
bell-tent that served for storing things. My hut was both painting-room
and habitation, but it would have been better to have had a separate
painting-room on rather a larger scale. Mr. Herkomer afterwards imitated
the hut for painting from nature in Wales, and he introduced a clever
improvement by erecting his hut on a circular platform with a ring-rail,
so that it could be turned at will to any point of the compass. Young's
tent was, in fact, also a kind of hut with a square tent for a roof.
In a climate like that of the West Highlands, wooden floors at least are
almost indispensable; but a camp so arranged ceases to be a travelling
camp unless you have men and horses in your daily service like a Shah of
Persia. It may be moved two or three times in a summer.
I have always had a fancy for double-hulled boats (now generally called
catamarans), and had two of them on Loch Awe. This eccentricity was
perhaps fortunate, as my boats were extremely safe, each hull being
decked from stem to stern and divided internally into water-tight
compartments. They could therefore ship a sea with perfect impunity, and
although often exposed to sudden and violent squalls, we were never in
any real danger. One of my catamarans would beat to windward tolerably
well, but she did not tack quickly, and occasionally missed stays.
However, these defects were of slight importance in a boat not intended
for racing, and small enough to be always quite manageable with oars.
Since those days I have much improved the construction of catamarans, so
that their evolutions are now quicker and more certain. They are
absolutely the only sailing-boats that combine lightness with safety and
speed.
As to the practice of landscape-painting, I very soon found that the
West Highlands were not favorable to painting from nature on account of
the rapid changes of effect. Those changes are so revolutionary that
they often metamorphose all the oppositions in a natural picture in the
course of a single minute. I began by planting my hut on the island
called Inishail, in the middle of Loch Awe, with the intention of
painting Ben Cruachan from nature, but soon discovered that there were
fifty Cruachans a day, each effacing its predecessor, so my picture got
on badly. If I painted what was before me, the result was like playing
successfully a bar or two from each of several different musical
compositions in the vain hope of harmonizing them into one. If I tried
to paint my first impression, it became increasingly difficult to do
that when the mountain itself presented novel and striking aspects.
Every artist who reads this will now consider the above remarks no
better than a commonplace, but in the year 1857 English
landscape-painting was going through a peculiar phase. There was, in
some of the younger artists, a feeling of dissatisfaction with the
slight and superficial work too often produced from hasty water-color
sketches, and there was an honest desire for more substantial truth
coupled with the hope of attaining it by working directly from nature.
My critical master, Mr. Ruskin, saw in working from nature the only hope
for the regeneration of art, and my practical master, Mr. Pettitt,
considered it the height of artistic virtue to sit down before nature
and work on the details of a large picture for eight or ten weeks
together. I was eagerly anxious to do what was considered most right,
and quite willing to undergo any degree of inconvenience. The truth is,
perhaps, that (like other devotees) I rather enjoyed the sacrifice of
convenience for what seemed to me, at that time, the sacred cause of
veracity in art.
The Highlands of Scotland were intensely attractive to me, as being a
kind of sublimation of the wild northern landscape that I had already
loved in my native Lancashire; but the Highlands were not well chosen as
a field for self-improvement in the art of painting. A student ought not
to choose the most changeful of landscapes, but the least changeful; not
the Highlands or the English Lake District, but the dullest landscape he
can find in the south or the east of England. Norfolk would have been a
better country for me, as a student, than Argyllshire. If, however, any
prudent adviser had told me to go to dull scenery in those days, it
would have been like telling a passionate lover of great capitals to go
and live in a narrow little provincial town. I hated dull, unromantic
scenery, and at the same time had the passion for mountains, lakes, wild
moorland, and everything that was rough and uncultivated,--a passion so
predominant that it resembled rather the natural instinct of an animal
for its own habitat than the choice of a reasonable being. I loved
everything in the Highlands, even the bad weather; I delighted in clouds
and storms, and have never experienced any natural influences more in
harmony with the inmost feelings of my own nature than those of a great
lake's dark waters when they dashed in spray on the rocks of some lonely
islet and my boat flew past in the gray and dreary gloaming.
"Le paysage," says a French critic, "est un état d'âme." He meant that
_what we seek_ in nature is that which answers to the state of our own
souls. What is called dreary, wild, and melancholy scenery afforded me,
at that time, a kind of satisfaction more profound than that which is
given by any of the human arts. I loved painting, but all the
collections in Europe attracted me less than the barren northern end of
our own island, in which there are no pictures; I loved architecture,
and chose a country that is utterly destitute of it; I delighted in
music, and pitched my tent where there was no music but that of the
winds and the waves.
The Loch Awe of those days was not the Loch Awe of the present. There
was no railway; there was not a steamer on the lake, either public or
private; there was no hotel by the waterside, only one or two small
inns, imperceptible in the vastness of the almost uninhabited landscape.
The lake was therefore almost a solitude, and this, added to the
wildness of the climate and the peculiarly simple and temporary
character of my habitation, made nature much more profoundly impressive
than it ever is amidst the powerful rivalry of the works of man. The
effect on my mind was, on the whole, saddening, but not in the least
depressing. It was a kind of poetic sadness that had nothing to do with
low spirits. I have never been either merry or melancholy, but have kept
an equable cheerfulness that maintains itself serenely enough even in
solitude and amidst the desolate aspects of stony and barren lands. As
life advances, it is wise, however, to seek the more cheering influences
of the external world, and those are rather to be found in the brightest
and sunniest landscape, with abundant evidence of happy human
habitation; some southern land of the vine where the chestnut grows high
on the hills, and the peach and the pear ripen richly in innumerable
gardens.
CHAPTER XXXI.
1857-1858.
Small immediate results of the expedition to the Highlands.--Unsuitable
system of work.--Loss of time.--I rent the house and island of
Innistrynich.--My dread of marriage and the reasons for
it.--Notwithstanding this I make an offer and am refused.--Two young
ladies of my acquaintance.--Idea of a foreign marriage.--Its
inconveniences.--Decision to ask for the hand of Mdlle. Gindriez.--I go
to Paris and am accepted.--Elective affinities.
The immediate artistic results of the expedition to the Highlands were
very small. I had gone there to paint detailed work from nature, when I
ought to have gone to sketch, and so adapt my work to the peculiar
character of the climate.
The tendency then was to detail, and the merit and value of good
sketching were not properly understood. There has been a complete
revolution, both in public and in artistic opinion, since those days.
The revival of etching, which in its liveliest and most spontaneous form
is only sketching on copper, the study of sketches by the great masters,
the publication of sketches by modern artists of eminence in the
artistic magazines, have all led to a far better appreciation of
vitality in art, and consequently have tended to raise good sketching
both in popular and in professional estimation. At the Paris Exhibition
of 1889 the Grand Prizes for engraving were given to an English
sketching etcher, Haden, and to two French etchers, Boilvin and Chauvel.
In 1857, I and many others looked upon sketching as defective work,
excusable only on the plea of want of time to do better. The omissions
in a sketch, which when intelligent are merits, seemed to me, on the
contrary, so many faults. In a word, I knew nothing about sketching. My
way was to draw very carefully and accurately, and then fill in the
color and detail in the most painstaking fashion from nature. I went by
line and detail, nobody having ever taught me anything about mass and
tonic values, still less about the difference between art and nature,
and the necessity for transposing nature into the keys of art. The
consequence was a great waste of time, and of only too earnest efforts
with hardly anything to show for them.
Here I leave this subject of art for the present, as it will be
necessary to recur to it later.
My guardian, like all women, had an objection to what was not customary,
and as my camp was considered a piece of eccentricity, she wanted me to
take a house on Lochaweside. The island called Innistrynich, which is
near the shore, where the road from Inverary to Dalmally comes nearest
to the lake, had a house upon it that happened to be untenanted. There
were twelve small rooms, and the camping experience had made me very
easy to please. It was possible to have the whole island (about thirty
acres) as a home farm, so I took it on a lease. This turned out a
misfortune afterwards, as I got tied to the place, not only by the
lease, but by a binding affection which was extremely inconvenient, and
led to very unfortunate consequences.
My dear guardian had another idea. Though she had prudently avoided
marriage on her own account, she thought it very desirable for me, and
sometimes recurred to the subject. Her heart complaint made her own life
extremely precarious, and she wished me to have the stay and anchorage
of a second affection that might make the world less dreary for me after
she had left it. At the same time it may be suspected that she looked to
marriage as the best chance of converting me to her own religious
opinions, or at least of obtaining outward conformity. To confess the
plain truth, I had a great dread of marriage, and not at all from any
aversion to feminine society, or from any insensibility to love.
My two reasons were these, and all subsequent observation and experience
have confirmed them. For a person given up to intellectual and artistic
pursuits there is a special value in mental and pecuniary independence.
So far as I could observe married men in England, they enjoyed very
little mental independence, being obliged, on the most important
questions, to succumb to the opinions of their wives, because what is
called "the opinion of Society" is essentially feminine opinion. In our
class the ladies were all strong Churchwomen and Tories, and the men I
most admired for the combination of splendid talents with high
principle, were to them (so far as they knew anything about such men)
objects of reprobation and abhorrence. No mother was ever loved by a son
more devotedly than my guardian was by me, and yet her intolerance would
have been hard to bear in a wife. Kind as she always was in manner, the
theological injustice which had been instilled into her mind from
infancy made her look upon me as bad company for my friends, as a
heretic likely to contaminate their orthodoxy. I could bear that, or
anything, from her, but I determined that if I married at all it should
not be to live under perpetual theological disapprobation.
The other grave objection to marriage was the dread of losing pecuniary
independence. I cared nothing for luxury and display, having an
unaffected preference for plain living, and being easily bored by the
elaborate observances of fine society, so that comparative poverty had
no terrors for me on that account; but there was another side to the
matter. A student clings to his studies, and dreads the interference
that may take him away from them. An independent bachelor can afford to
follow unremunerative study; a married man, unless he is rich, must lay
out his time to the best pecuniary advantage. His hours are at the
disposal of the highest bidder.
There was a young lady in Burnley for whom I had had a boyish attachment
long before, and whom I saw very frequently at her father's house in the
years preceding 1858. He was a banker in very good circumstances, and a
kind friend of mine, as intimate, perhaps, as was possible considering
the difference of years. He had been a Wrangler at Cambridge, and now
employed his forcible and fully matured intellect freely on all subjects
that came in his way, without deference to the popular opinions of the
hour. These qualities, rare enough in the upper middle class of those
days, made him very interesting to me, and I liked my place in an
easy-chair opposite to his, when he was in the humor for talking. He had
three handsome daughters, and his eldest son had been my school-fellow,
and was still, occasionally at least, one of my companions. Their mother
was a remarkably handsome and amiable lady, so that the house was as
pleasant as any house could be. We had music and played quintets, and
the eldest daughter sometimes played a duet with me. She was a good
amateur musician, well educated in other ways, and with a great charm of
voice and manner. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that
the old boyish attachment revived on my side, though there was nothing
answering to it on hers.
My good friend, her father, sometimes talked to me about marriage, and
expressed the regret that in a state of civilization like ours, and in
our class, a family of children should be a cause of weakness instead of
strength. In a primitive agricultural community, sons are of great
value, they are an increase of the family force; in a highly-civilized
condition, they only weaken the father by draining away his income.
"Daughters," said my friend, "are of use in primitive societies and in
the English middle class, because they do the work of the house, and
spare servants; but our young ladies do nothing of the least use, and
require to be first expensively educated, and afterwards expensively
amused." My friend then went into details about the cost of his own
family, which was heavy without extravagance or ostentation. All this
was intended to warn me, but I asked if he had any objection to me
personally as a son-in-law. He answered, with all the kindness I
expected, that there was no objection to make (he was too intelligent to
see anything criminal in my philosophical opinions), and that in what he
had said about the costliness of marriage he had spoken merely as a
friend, thinking of the weight of the burden I might be taking upon
myself, and the inconvenience to my own life in the future.
One afternoon his daughter and I were alone together, playing a duet,
when I asked her if she would have me, and she laughingly declined. I
remember being so little hurt by the refusal that I said: "That is not
the proper way to refuse an, offer; you ought to express a little
regret--you might say, at least, that you are sorry." Then the young
lady laughed again, and said: "Very well, I will say that I am sorry, if
you wish it." And so we parted, without any further expression of
sentiment on either side.
I never could understand why men make themselves wretched after a
refusal. It only proves that the young lady does not care very much for
one, and it is infinitely better that she should let him know that
before marriage than after. It was soon quite clear to me that, in this
case, the young lady's decision had been the wise one. We were not
really suited for each other, and we should never have been happy, both
of us, in the same kind of existence. Perhaps she was rather difficult
to please, or indifferent to marriage, for she never accepted anybody,
and is living still (1889) in happy independence as an old maid, within
a short distance of Hellifield Peel. I had a little indirect evidence,
thirty years afterwards, that she had not forgotten me. Most likely she
will survive me and read this. If she does, let the page convey a
complete acknowledgment of her good sense.
This was the only offer of marriage I ever made in England. There was a
certain very wealthy heiress whose uncle was extremely kind to me, and
he pushed his kindness so far as to wish me to marry her. She was
well-bred, her manners were quite equal to her fortune, and she had a
good appearance, but the idea of marriage did not occur to either of us.
Some time afterwards, her uncle said to a friend of mine: "I cannot
understand Hamerton; I wanted him to marry my niece, and he has gone and
married a French woman." "Oh!" said the other, "that was only to
improve his French!"
There was another case that I would have passed in silence, had not
people in Lancashire persistently circulated a story of an offer and a
refusal. A young lady, also a rich heiress, though not quite so rich as
the other, had a property a few miles distant from mine. She was a very
attractive girl, very pretty, and extremely intelligent, and we were
very good friends. To say, in this case, that the idea of marriage never
occurred would he untrue; but when I first knew her she was hardly more
than a child, and afterwards it became apparent to me that to live
happily in her house I should have to stifle all my opinions on
important subjects, so I never made the offer that our friends and
perhaps she herself expected. Whether she would have accepted me or not
is quite another question. Had I made any proposal I should have
accompanied it by a very plain statement of my obnoxious opinions on
religion and politics, and these would almost certainly have produced a
rupture. After my marriage, and before hers, we met again in the old
friendly way. I was paying a call with my wife, in a country house in
Lancashire, when a carriage came up the drive--_her_ carriage--and the
lady of the house, extremely fluttered, asked me if I had no objection
to meet Miss ----. "On the contrary," I said, "I like to meet old
friends." The young lady visibly enjoyed the humor of the situation, and
the embarrassment of our hostess. We talked easily in the old way, and
afterwards my wife and I left on foot, and _her_ carriage passed us,
rather stately, with servants in livery. "There goes your most dangerous
rival," I said to my wife, and told her what story there was to tell.
"She is much prettier than I am," was the modest answer, "and evidently
a good deal richer; and she is a charming person." In due time Miss ----
married very suitably. Her husband is a good Churchman and Conservative,
who takes a proper interest in the pursuits belonging to his station.
My guardian was of opinion that with my philosophical convictions, which
were at that time not only unpopular, but odious and execrated in our
own class in England, I should have to remain an old bachelor. She
herself would certainly never have married an unbeliever, and
although her great personal affection for me made her glad to
have me in the house, she must have felt that it was like sheltering
a pariah. Her sister once heard some rumor or suggestion, connecting
my name with that of a pious young lady, and looked upon it as a
sort of sacrilege. Under these circumstances I came at last to
the conclusion that, being under a ban, I would at least enjoy my
liberty, either by living my own life as a bachelor, or else by
marrying purely and simply according to inclination, without any
reference to the opinion of other people.
It was at this time that the idea of a foreign marriage first occurred
to me as a possibility. I had never thought of it before, and if such an
idea had entered my head, the clear foresight of the enormous
inconveniences would have immediately expelled it. A foreign marriage
is, in fact, quite an accumulation of inconveniences. One of the two
parties must always be living in a foreign country, and in all their
intercourse together one of the two must always be speaking a foreign
language. The families of the two parties will never know each other or
understand each other properly; there will be either estrangement or
misunderstanding. And unless there is great largeness of mind in the
parties themselves, the difference of national customs is sure to
produce quarrels.
All this was plain enough, and yet one morning, when I was writing on my
desk (a tall oak desk that I used to stand up to), the idea suddenly
came, as if somebody had uttered these words in my ear: "Why should you
remain lonely all your days? Eugénie Gindriez would be an affectionate
and faithful wife to you. She is not rich, but you would work and fight
your way."
I pushed aside the sheet of manuscript and took a sheet of note-paper
instead. I then wrote, in French, a letter to a lady in Paris who knew
the Gindriez family, and asked her if Mademoiselle Eugénie was engaged
to be married. The answer came that she was well, and that there had
been no engagement. Soon afterwards I was in Paris.
I called on M. Gindriez, but his daughter was not at home. I asked
permission to call in the evening, and she was out again. This was
repeated two or three times, and my wife told me afterwards that the
absences had not been accidental. At last we met, and there was nothing
in her manner but a certain gravity, as if serious resolutions were
impending. Her sister showed no such reserve, but greeted me gayly and
frankly. After a few days, I was accepted on the condition of an annual
visit to France.
From a worldly point of view, this engagement was what is called in
French _une folie_, on my part, and hardly less so on the part of the
young lady. We had, however, a kind of inward assurance that in spite of
the difference of nationality and other differences, we were, in truth,
nearer to each other than most people who contract matrimonial
engagements. The "elective affinities" act in spite of all appearances
and of many realities.
We have often talked over that time since, and have confessed that we
really knew hardly anything of each other, that our union was but an
instinctive choice. However, in 1858 I had neither doubt nor anxiety,
and in 1889 I have neither anxiety nor doubt.
CHAPTER XXXII.
1858.
Reception at home after engagement.--Preparations at Innistrynich.--I
arrive alone in Paris.--My marriage.--The religious ceremony.--An
uncomfortable wedding.--The sea from Dieppe.--London.--The Academy
Exhibition of 1858.--Impressions of a French woman.--The Turner
collection.--The town.--Loch Awe.--The element wanting to happiness.
On returning home after my engagement I was greeted very affectionately
at the front door by my dear guardian, who expressed many wishes for my
future happiness; but her sister sat motionless and rigid in an
arm-chair in the dining-room, and did not seem disposed to take any
notice of me. From that time until long after my marriage she treated me
with the most distant coldness, varied occasionally by a bitter
innuendo.
I said nothing and bore all patiently, looking forward to a speedy
deliverance. There was much in the circumstances to excuse my aunt, who
was intensely aristocratic and intensely national. She was the proudest
person I ever knew, and would have considered any marriage a misalliance
for me if my wife's family had not had as long a pedigree as ours, and
as many quarterings as the fifteen that adorned our shield. Being a
stanch Protestant, she was not disposed to look favorably on a Roman
Catholic, unless she belonged to one of the old English Catholic
families. Her ideas of the French nation were those prevalent in England
during the wars against Napoleon. She had probably counted upon me to do
something to lift up a falling house, and instead of that I was going to
marry she knew not whom. It is impossible to argue against national and
class prejudices; the fact was simply that my wife's family belonged to
the educated French middle class. Her uncle was a well-to-do attorney in
Dijon, [Footnote: Very nearly in the same social position as my own
father. His daughter afterwards married the grandson and representative
of the celebrated Count Français de Nantes, who filled various high
offices in the State, and was grand officer of the Legion of Honor and
Peer of France. A fine portrait of him by David is amongst their family
pictures.] and her father had gone through a perfectly honorable
political career, both as deputy and prefect. My wife herself had been
better educated than most girls at that time, and both spoke and wrote
her own language not only correctly, but with more than ordinary
elegance,--a taste she inherited from her father. As to her person, she
dressed simply, but always with irreproachable neatness, and a
scrupulous cleanliness that richer women might sometimes imitate with
advantage. These were the plain facts; what my aunt imagined is beyond
guessing.
Before my marriage I went to Loch Awe, to prepare the house on
Innistrynich and furnish it. Of all strange places in the world for a
young Parisienne to be brought to, surely Innistrynich was the least
suitable! My way in those days was the usual human way of thinking, that
what is good for one's self is good for everybody else. Did I not know
by experience that the solitude of Loch Awe was delightful? Must not my
Paradise be a Paradise for any daughter of Eve?
It was a charming bachelor's paradise the morning I left for Paris, a
bright May morning, the loch lying calm in its great basin, the islands
freshly green with the spring. At Cladich the people, who knew I was
going to fetch a bride, threw old shoes after the carriage for luck. It
did not rain rice at Loch Awe in those days.
I was an excellent traveller then, and did not get into a bed before
arriving in Paris. There was a day in London between two nights of
railway, a day spent in looking at pictures and making a few purchases.
At Paris I went to a quiet hotel in the Cité Bergère. I was utterly
alone; no relation or friend came with me to my marriage. Somebody told
me a best man was necessary, so I asked a French acquaintance to be best
man, and he consented. The morning of my wedding there was a _garçon_
brushing the waxed oak floor on the landing near my door. I had a
flowered white silk waistcoat, and the man said: "Monsieur est bien beau
ce matin; on dirait qu'il va à une noce." I answered: "Vous avez bien
deviné; en effet, je vais à une noce." It was unnecessary to give him
further information.
The marriage was a curious little ceremony. My wife's father had friends
and acquaintances in the most various classes, who all came to the
wedding. Some men were there who were famous in the Paris of those days,
and others whom I had never heard of, but all were alike doomed to
disappointment. They expected a grand ceremony in the church, and
instead of that we got nothing but a brief benediction in the vestry, by
reason of my heresy and schism. The benediction was over in five
minutes, and we left in the pouring rain, whilst a crowd of people were
waiting for the ceremony to begin. My wife, like all French girls, would
have liked an imposing and important marriage, and lo! there was nothing
at all, not even an altar, or a censer, or a bell!
However, we had been legally married at the _mairie_ with the civil
ceremonial, and as we were certainly blessed in the vestry, nobody can
say that our union was unhallowed. I shall always remember that
benediction, for, brief as it was, it cost me a hundred francs.
[Footnote: Including what I had to pay for being called a schismatic by
the Archbishop of Paris, or his officials.] A magnificent mass on my
daughter's marriage cost me only sixty, which was a very reasonable
charge.
Words cannot express how odious to me are the fuss and expense about a
wedding. There was my father-in-law, a poor man, who thought it
necessary (indeed, he was compelled by custom) to order a grand feast
from a famous restaurant and give a brilliant ball, as if he had been
extremely happy to lose his daughter, the delight of his eyes and the
brightness of his home. Everything about our wedding was peculiarly
awkward and uncomfortable. I knew none of the guests, I spoke their
language imperfectly, and was not at ease, then, in French society; we
had to make talk and try to eat. The family was sad about our departure,
the sky was gray, the streets muddy and wet. In an interval of tolerable
weather we went for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne to get through the
interminable afternoon.
It was pleasanter when, a day or two later, my wife and I were looking
out upon the sea from Dieppe. She had never seen salt water before, and
as it happened to be a fine day the vast expanse of the Channel was all
a wonderful play of pale greens and blues, like turquoise and pale
emerald. There were white clouds floating in the blue sky, and here and
there a white sail upon the sea. My wife was enchanted with this, to her
fresh young eyes, revelation of a novel and unimaginable beauty. It was
a new world for her, and that hour was absolutely the only hour in her
life during which she thoroughly enjoyed the sea; for she is the worst
of sailors, and now cannot even endure the smell of salt water at a
distance.
The first thing we did in London was to go and see the Exhibition of the
Royal Academy. My wife, like her father, took a keen interest in art,
and had been rather well acquainted with French painting for a girl of
her age. When she got into an English Exhibition she looked round in
bewildered amazement. It was, for her, like being transported into
another planet. In 1858 the difference between French and English
painting was far more striking than it is to-day. French color, without
being generally good, was subdued; in fact, most of it was not color at
all, but only gray and brown, with a little red or blue here and there
to make people believe that there was color. The English, on the other
hand, were trying hard for real color, but the younger men were in that
crude stage which is the natural "ugly duckling" condition of the
genuine colorist. The consequence was an astounding contrast between the
painting of the two nations, and to eyes educated in France English art
looked outrageous to a degree that we realize with the greatest
difficulty now. At a later period my wife became initiated into the
principles and tendencies of English painting, and then she began to
enjoy it. I took her to see the Turner collection in 1858, and that
seemed to her like the ravings of a madman put on canvas; but a few
years later she became a perfectly sincere admirer of the noblest works
of Turner. I may add that in 1858 my wife was already, in spite of her
difficulty in understanding what to her were novelties, far more in
sympathy with art generally than I was myself. She had lived in a great
artistic centre, whilst I had lived with nature in the north, and cared,
at that time, comparatively little about the art of the past, my hopes
being concentrated on a kind of landscape-painting that was to come in
the future, and to unite the effects I saw in nature with a minute
accuracy in the drawing of natural forms. The kind of painting I was
looking forward to was, in fact, afterwards realized by Mr. John Brett.
My wife's first impressions of London generally were scarcely more
favorable than her impressions of English painting, but they were of a
very different order. If the painting had appeared too bright, the town
appeared too dingy. London is extremely dismal for all French people,
whose affection for their own country leads them to the very mistaken
belief that the skies, in France, are bright all the year round. My wife
now prefers London to any place in the world except Paris; in fact, she
has a strong affection for London, the consequence of the kindness she
has received there, and also of the enlightened interest she takes in
everything that is really worth attention.
We went straight from London to Glasgow, and thence to Loch Awe, which
happened at that time to be enveloped in a dense fog that lasted two
days, so that when I told my wife that there was a high mountain on the
opposite side of the lake she could hardly believe it. In fact, nothing
was visible but a still, gray, shoreless sea.
I was now, as it seemed, in a condition of great felicity, being in the
place I loved best on earth with the person most dear to me.
Unfortunately, the union of many different circumstances and conditions
is necessary to perfect happiness, if happiness exists in the world. The
element lacking in my case was success in work, or at least the inward
assurance of progress. There was our beautiful island home, in itself as
much a poem as a canto of "The Lady of the Lake," with its ancient oaks,
its rocky shore, its green, undulating, park-like pasture; there was the
lake for sailing and the mountain for climbing, and all around us a
country of unlimited wealth of material for the sketcher. Amidst all
this, with a too earnest and painful application, I set myself to do
what had never been done,--to unite the color and effect of nature to
the material accuracy of the photograph.
MEMOIR
OF
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON
1858-1894
CHAPTER I.
1858.
My first sight of Loch Awe.--Arrival at Innistrynich.--Our domestic
life.--Difficulties about provisions.--A kitchen garden.
When Philip Gilbert Hamerton asked me to marry him, he conscientiously
attempted to explain how different my life would be in the Highlands of
Scotland from that to which I had been accustomed in Paris. He said how
solitary it was, especially in the winter-time; how entirely devoid of
what are called the pleasures of a metropolis--to which a Parisian lady
has the reputation of being such a slave (he knew, however, that it was
not my case); and already his devotion to study was such that he
requested me to promise not to interfere with his work of any kind that
he deemed necessary,--were it camping out, or sailing in stormy weather
to observe nature under all her changing aspects, either of day or
night.
Still, the picture he drew of our future existence was by no means all
in dark colors, for with the enthusiasm of an artist he described the
glories of the Highlands, the ever-varying skies, the effects of light
and shadow on the mountains, the beauties of the lovely isles, and the
charm of sailing on the moonlit and mysterious lake. He also made me
acquainted with the numerous legends of Loch Awe (he had told them in
verse, but I was ignorant of English), which would lend a romantic
atmosphere to our island-home. He was so sensitive to the different
moods of nature that his descriptions gave to a town-bred girl like me
an intense desire to witness them with my own eyes; and when I did see
them there was no _désillusion_, and the effect was so overpowering that
it seemed like the revelation of a new sense in me. The first glimpse I
had of Loch Awe, from the top of the coach, was like the realization of
a fantastic and splendid dream; I could not believe it to be a reality,
and thought of some mirage; but my husband was delighted by this first
impression.
We reached Innistrynich shortly before nightfall, and I was taken to the
keeper's cottage to warm myself, whilst the luggage was being conveyed
across the bay to the house. Though it was the end of May, the weather
had been so cold all the way that I felt almost benumbed after the
drive; for, being accustomed to the climate of France, I had taken but
scanty precautions in the way of wraps, believing them to be superfluous
at that time of the year. My husband, having begged the keeper's wife to
take care of me, she carried her assiduities to a point that quite
confused me, for I could not remonstrate in words, and she was so
evidently prompted by kindness that I was fearful of hurting her by
opposing her well-meant but exaggerated attentions. She swathed me in a
Scotch plaid, and placed the bundle I had become in a cushioned and
canopied arm-chair by the peat-fire, the smoke and unaccustomed odor of
which stifled me; then she insisted upon removing my boots and
stockings, and chafed my feet in her hands, to bring back a little
warmth. Lastly, she hospitably brought me what she thought the best
thing she had to offer, a hot whiskey toddy. To please her, and also to
relieve my numbness, I tried my best to drink what seemed to me a horrid
mixture, but I could not manage it, and could not explain why, and the
poor woman remained lost in sorrowful bewilderment at my rejection of
the steaming tumbler. Just then my husband came back, and after thanking
the keeper's wife, rowed me over to Innistrynich.
It was then quite dark, and impossible to see the island, even the
outside of the cottage; but when the door was open, it showed the
prettiest picture imaginable: the entrance was brilliantly illuminated,
and our two servants--a maid and a young lad ("Thursday" of the
"Painter's Camp"), both healthy and cheerful-looking, were standing
ready to relieve us of our wraps. The drawing-room had an inviting glow
of comfort, with the generous fire, the lights of the elegant candelabra
playing amongst the carvings of the oak furniture, and the tones of the
dark ruddy curtains harmonizing with the lighter ones of the
claret-colored carpet; an artistic silver set of tea-things, which my
husband had secretly brought from Paris with the candelabra, had been
spread on the table ready for us, and my appreciation of the taste and
thoughtfulness displayed on my behalf gladdened and touched the donor.
I had never before partaken of tea as a meal, but it was certainly a
most delightful repast to both of us.
After a short rest, my husband showed me the arrangements of the house,
rich in surprises to my foreign notions, but none the less interesting
and pleasant.
Our drawing-room was to serve as dining-room also, for the orthodox
dining-room had been transformed into a studio and sitting-room; they
stood opposite to each other. A little further along the corridor
came the two best bedrooms, which, at first sight, gave to a Parisian
girl a sensation of bareness and emptiness, corrected later by habit.
Everything necessary was to be found there,--large brass bedsteads
with snowy coverings, all the modern contrivances for the toilet,
chests of drawers, each surmounted by a bright looking-glass;
even a number of tiny and curious gimcracks ornamented the narrow
mantelpiece; but to a French eye the absence of curtains to the bed, and
the unconcealed display of washing utensils, suggested a _cabinet de
toilette_ rather than a bedroom. This simplicity has now become quite
fashionable among wealthy French people, on account of its healthiness:
the fresh air playing more freely and remaining purer than in rooms
crowded with stuffed seats, and darkened by elaborate upholstery.
On the upper story were four other rooms, used as laboratory,
store-room, and servants' rooms; whilst on the ground-floor we had a
scullery, a large kitchen, a laundry,--that I used afterwards as a
private kitchen, when my husband provided it with a set of French brass
pans and a charcoal range,--a spare room, which was turned into a
nursery by and by, and lastly, a repository for my husband's not
inconsiderable paraphernalia.
The first days after our arrival were devoted to sailing or rowing on
the lake, to acquaint me with its topography; soon, however, we made
rules to lose no time, for we had both plenty of work before us.
My husband, at that time, knew French pretty well; he could express
everything he wished to say, and understood even the _nuances_ of the
language, but his accent betrayed him at once as an Englishman, and
there lingered in his speech a certain hesitation about the choice of
words most appropriate to his meaning. As for me, my English had
remained that of a school-girl, and my husband offered me his
congratulations on my extremely limited knowledge, for this reason--that
I should have little to unlearn. We agreed, to begin with, that one of
us ought to know the other's language thoroughly, so as to establish a
perfect understanding, and as he was so much more advanced in French
than I in English, it was decided that for a time he should become my
pupil, and that our conversations should be in my mother-tongue.
On my part I devoted two hours a day to the study of English grammar,
and to the writing of exercises, themes, and versions. This task was
fulfilled during my husband's absence, or whilst he was engaged with his
correspondence; and in the afternoon I used to read English aloud to
him, while he drew or painted either at home or out of doors. It was his
own scheme of tuition, and proved most satisfactory, but required in the
teacher--particularly at the beginning--an ever-ready attention to
correct the pronunciation of almost every word, and to give the
translation of it, together with a great store of patience to bear with
the constantly recurring errors; for not to mar my interest in the works
he gave me to read, I was exempted from the slow process of the
dictionary. He was himself the best of dictionaries--explaining the
differences of meaning, giving the life and spirit of each term, and
always impressing this truth, that rarely does the same expression
convey exactly the same idea in two languages. He frequently failed to
give word for word, because he would not give an approximate
translation; but he was always ready with a detailed explanation, and so
taught me to enter into the peculiar genius of the language; so that if
I did not become a good translator, I learned early to think and to feel
in sympathy with the authors I was studying.
If the weather allowed it, Gilbert generally took me out on the lake,
and according to the prevailing wind, chose some particular spot for a
study. These excursions lasted about half the day or more, and then some
sort of nourishment was required; but as my ignorance of the language
prevented me from giving the necessary orders, the responsibility of the
commissariat entirely devolved upon him; and I may candidly avow that
the results were a continual source of surprise to me. Being
unacquainted with English ways, I presumed that it was customary to live
in the frugal and uniform fashion prevalent at Innistrynich; namely, at
breakfast: ham or bacon; sometimes eggs, with or without butter,
according to circumstances; toast--or scones, if bread were wanting--and
coffee. At lunch: dry biscuits and milk. At tea-time, which varied
considerably _as to time_, ranging from five if we were in the house, to
eight or nine if my husband was out sketching: ham and eggs again, or a
little mutton--chop or steak, if the meat were fresh, cold boiled
shoulder or leg if it was salted; and a primitive sort of crisp, hard
cake, which Thursday always served with evident pleasure and pride,
being first pastry-cook and then partaker of the luxury. I often
wondered how Englishmen could grow so tall and so strong on such food;
for I was aware within myself of certain feelings of weakness and
sickness never experienced before, but which I was ashamed to confess so
long as men whose physical organizations required more sustenance
remained free from them. One day, however, the reason of this difference
became clear to me. My husband had proposed to show me Kilchurn Castle,
which he was going to sketch, and we started early after the first light
breakfast, with Thursday to manage the sails. On turning round
Innistrynich we met a contrary wind, and had to beat against it: it was
slow work, and at last I timidly suggested that it might perhaps be
better to turn back to get something to eat; but Gilbert triumphantly
said he was prepared for the emergency, and had provided ... a box of
figs!!!... yes, and he opened it deliberately and offered me the first
pick. I could not refrain from looking at Thursday, whose face betrayed
such a queer expression of mingled amusement and disappointed
expectation that I burst out laughing heartily, at which my husband, who
had been meditatively eating fig after fig, looked up wondering what was
the matter. I then asked if that was all our meal, and he gravely took
out of the box two bottles of beer and a flask of sherry, the look of
which seemed to revive Thursday's spirits wonderfully. As for me, who
drank at that time neither beer nor wine, and whose taste for dry figs
was very limited, I hinted that something more--bread, for
instance--would not have been superfluous. The opportunity for ridding
himself of cares so little in harmony with his tastes and artistic
pursuits was not lost by my husband, and I was then and there invested
with the powers and functions of housekeeper.
This was the plan adopted for the discharge of my new duties. In the
morning I studiously wrote, as an exercise, the orders I wished to give,
and, after correction, I learned to repeat them by word of mouth till I
could be understood by the servants. It succeeded tolerably when my
husband was accessible, if an explanation was rendered necessary on
account of my foreign accent; but there was no way out of the difficulty
if he happened to be absent.
Ever since I knew him I had noticed his anxiety to lose no time, and to
turn every minute to the best account for his improvement. Throughout
his life he made rules to bind his dreamy fancy to active study and
production; they were frequently altered, according to the state of his
health and the nature of his work at the time; but he felt the necessity
of self-imposed laws to govern and regulate his strong inclination
towards reflection and reading. He used to say that when people allowed
themselves unmeasured time for what they called "thinking," it was
generally an excuse for idle dreaming; because the brain, after a
certain time given to active exertion, felt exhausted, and could no
longer be prompted to work with intellectual profit; that, in
consequence, the effort grew weaker and weaker, till vague musings and
indistinct shadows gradually replaced the powerful grasp and clear
vision of healthy mental labor.
On the other side, it must be said that he was too much of a poet to
undervalue the state of apparent indolence which is so favorable to
inspiration, and that he often quoted in self-defence the words of
Claude Tillier,--"Le temps le mieux employé est celui que l'on perd."
Aware of his strong propensity to that particular mental state, he
attempted all his life to restrict it within limits which would leave
sufficient time for active pursuits. His love of sailing must have been
closely connected with the inclination to a restful, peaceful, dreamy
state, for although fond of all kinds of boating, he greatly preferred a
sailing-boat to any other, and never wished to possess a steamer, or
cared much to make use of one.
Still, he took great pleasure in some forms of physical exercise: he
could use an oar beautifully; he was a capital horseman, having been
used to ride from the age of six, and retained a firm seat to the last;
he readily undertook pedestrian excursions and the ascent of mountains.
He often rode from Innistrynich to Inverary or Dalmally (when our island
became a peninsula in dry weather, or in winter when the bay was frozen
over); but he found little satisfaction in riding the mare we had then,
which was mainly used as a cart-horse to fetch provisions, for the
necessaries of life were not very accessible about us. We had to get
bread, meat, and common grocery from Inverary, and the rest from
Glasgow, so that we soon discovered that the whole time of a male
servant would be required for errands of different kinds. Not
unfrequently was the half of a day lost in the attempt to get a dozen
eggs from the little scattered farms, or a skinny fowl, or such a rare
delicacy as a cabbage. Sometimes Thursday came back from the town
peevish and angry at his lost labor, having found the bread too hard or
too musty, and mutton unprocurable; as to the beef which came
occasionally from Glasgow, it was usually tainted, except in
winter-time, and veal was not to be had for love or money, except in a
condition to make one fearful of a catastrophe.
There was also the additional trouble of unloading the goods on the side
of the road, of putting them into the boat, to be rowed across the bay;
then they must be carried to the house either by man or horse. Merely to
get the indispensable quantity of fuel in such a damp climate, when
fires have to be kept up for eight or oftener nine months in the year,
was a serious matter, and my husband complained that he was constantly
deprived of Thursday's services. He then decided to take as a gardener,
out-of-door workman, and occasional boatman, a Highlander of the name of
Dugald, whom he had employed sometimes in the latter capacity, for he
knew something of boats, having been formerly a fisherman.
There were some outbuildings on the island; one of them contained two
rooms, which Dugald and his wife found sufficient for them (they had no
children), and this became the gardener's cottage. Another was used as a
stable, and the smallest as a fowl-house and carpenter's shop, for now
we had come to the conclusion that we could not possibly live all the
year round on the island without a small farm, to provide us, at least,
with milk, cream, butter, and eggs; so we bought two cows, and also a
small flock of sheep, that we might always be sure of mutton--either
fresh or salted. This did not afford a great variety of _menus_, but it
was better than starvation.
Vegetables, other than potatoes and an occasional cabbage, being
unseen--and I believe unknown--at Loch Awe, and my husband's health
having suffered in consequence of the privation, we had the ambition of
growing our own vegetables, and a great variety of them too. Dugald was
set to dig and manure a large plot of ground, though he kept mumbling
that it was utterly useless, as nothing could or would grow where oats
did not ripen once in three years, and that Highlanders, who knew so
much better than foreigners, "would not be fashed" to attempt it.
However, as he was paid to do the work, he had to do it; and it was
simple enough, for he had no pretensions to being a gardener; the choice
of seeds and the sowing of them were left to Gilbert, who had never
given a thought to it before, and to me, who knew absolutely nothing of
the subject. In this emergency we got books to guide us, bought and
sowed an enormous quantity of seeds, and to our immense gratification
some actually sprouted. Our pride was great when the doctor came to
lunch with us for the first time, and we could offer him radishes and
lettuce, which he duly wondered at and appreciated. Of course we had to
put up with many failures, but still it was worth while to persevere,
as, in addition to carrots, onions, turnips,--which grew to
perfection,--potatoes and cabbages, we had salads of different kinds,
small pumpkins, and fine cauliflowers. I soon discovered that peat was
extremely favorable to them, so we had a trench made in peaty soil,
where they grew splendidly.
Although very well satisfied on the whole with our attempt, we thought
it absorbed too much of my husband's time, and he soon requested me to
go on with it by myself, and frankly avowed that he could not take any
interest in gardening, even in ornamental gardening. This lack of
interest seemed strange to me, because he liked to study nature in all
her phenomena, but it lasted to the end of his life; he did not care in
the least for a well-kept garden, but he liked flowers for their colors
and perfumes,--not individually,--and trees for their forms, either
noble or graceful, and especially for their shade. He could not bear to
see them pruned, and when it became imperative to cut some of their
branches, he used to complain quite sadly to his daughter--who shared
his feelings about trees--and he would say: "Now, Mary, you see they are
at it again, spoiling our poor trees." And if I replied, "But it is for
their health; the branches were trailing on the ground, and now the
trees will grow taller," he slowly shook his head, unconvinced. When we
took the small house at Pré-Charmoy, he was delighted by the wildness of
the tiny park sloping gently down to the cool, narrow, shaded river,
over which the bending trees met and arched, and he begged me not to
interfere with the trailing blackberry branches which crept about the
roots and stems of the superb wild-rose trees, making sweet but
impenetrable thickets interwoven with honeysuckle, even in the midst of
the alleys and lawns.
And now to return to the domestic arrangements arrived at by mutual
consent. Upon me devolved the housekeeping, provisioning, and care of
the garden, with the help of a maid, occasionally that of Dugald's wife
as charwoman, and pretty regularly that of Dugald himself for a certain
portion of the day; that is, when he was not required by my husband to
man the boat or to help in a camping-out expedition. It was agreed that
Thursday should be considered as his master's private servant.
CHAPTER II.
1858.
Money matters.--Difficulties about servants.--Expensiveness of our mode
of life.
My husband had a little fortune, sufficient for his wants as a bachelor,
which were modest; it would have been larger had his father nursed it
instead of diminishing it as he did by his reckless ways, and especially
by entrusting its management during his son's minority to a very kind
but incapable guardian in business matters, and to another competent but
dishonest trustee, who squandered, unchecked, many important sums of
money, and made agreements and leases profitable to himself, but almost
ruinous to his ward. As to the other trustee, he never troubled himself
so far as to read a deed or a document before signing it. Still, what
remained when my husband came of age was amply sufficient for the kind
of life he soon chose, that of an artist; and he hoped, moreover, to
increase it by the sale of his works.
He was, however, aware of the future risks of the situation when he
asked in marriage a girl without fortune, and he told me without reserve
what we had to expect.
An important portion of his income was to cease after fourteen
years--the end of the lease of a coal-mine; but he felt certain that he
would be able by that time to replace it by his own earnings, and
meanwhile we were to live so economically and so simply that, as we
thought, there was no need for anxiety; so we convinced my parents--with
the persuasion that love lent us--that after all we should not be badly
off.
Soon after the completion of our household organization, however, I
began to fear that a very simple way of living might, under peculiar
conditions, become expensive. A breakfast consisting of ham and eggs is
not extravagantly luxurious, but if the ham comes to thrice the original
price when carriage and spoilage are allowed for, and if to the sixpence
paid for half-a-dozen eggs you add the wages of a man for as many hours,
you find to your dismay that though your repast was simple, it was not
particularly cheap. Whichever way we turned we met with unavoidable and
unlooked-for expenses. Perhaps an English lady, accustomed to the
possibilities of such a place, and to the habits of the servants and the
customs of the country, might have managed better--though even to-day I
don't see clearly what she could have done; as for me, though I had been
brought up in the belief that Paris was one of the most expensive places
to live in, and though I was perfectly aware of its prices,--having kept
my father's house for some years, on account of my mother's weak state
of health,--I was entirely taken by surprise, and rather afraid of the
reckoning at the end of the year. No one who has not attempted that kind
of primitive existence has any idea of its complications. A mere change
of servant was expensive--and such changes were rather frequent, on
account of their disgust at the breach of orthodox habits, and the lack
of followers; or their dismissal was rendered inevitable by their
incapacity or unwillingness, or their contempt for everything out of
their own country. We had a capital instance of this characteristic in a
nurse who came from Greenock, and who thoroughly despised everything in
the Highlands. One night, my husband and myself were out of doors
admiring a splendid full moon, by the light of which it was quite easy
to read. The nurse Katharine was standing by us, holding baby in her
arms, and she heard me express my admiration: unable to put up with
praises of a Highland moon, she exclaimed deliberately, "Sure, ma'am,
then, you should see the Greenock moon; this is nothing to it."
This change of servants was of serious moment to us, both in the way of
time and money, for we had to go to Glasgow or Greenock to fetch new
ones, besides paying for their journeys to and fro, and a month's wages
if they did not give satisfaction, which was but too often the case.
Once it happened that a steamer, bringing over a small cargo of
much-needed provisions, foundered, and we were in consequence nearly
reduced to a state of starvation.
Also, after paying princely prices for laying hens, we only found empty
shells in the hen-coop, the rats having sucked the eggs before us.
Gilbert, to save our eggs, bought a vivacious little terrier, who killed
more fowls than rats; and as to the few little chickens that were
hatched--despite the cold and damp--they gradually disappeared, devoured
by the birds of prey, falcons and eagles, which carried them off under
my eyes, even whilst I was feeding them.
Another very important item of expense lay in the different materials
required for my husband's work of various kinds, and of which he ordered
such quantities that their remnants are still to be found in his
laboratory as I write. Papers of all sorts of quality and size--for
pen-and-ink, crayons, pastel, water-color, etching, tracing; colors dry
and moist, brushes, canvases, frames, boards, panels; also the
requisites for photography. It was one of my husband's lasting
peculiarities that, in his desire to do a great quantity of work, and in
the fear of running short of something, he always gave orders far
exceeding what he could possibly use. He also invariably allowed
himself, for the completion of any given work, an insufficiency of time,
because he did not, beforehand, take into account the numerous
corrections that he was sure to make; for he was constantly trying to do
better.
Our journeys also contributed to swell considerably the total of our
expenditure. Before we were married he promised my parents that he would
bring me over once a year, for about a month; for it was a great
sacrifice on their part to let their eldest child go so far away, and,
even as it was, to remain separated for so long at a time. My husband's
relations had also to be considered, and he decided that every time we
went to France we would stay a week at least with his maiden aunts, who
had brought him up, and a few days with the family of his kind uncle,
Thomas Hamerton of Todmorden; then a short time in London to see the
Exhibitions and his friends. The same itinerary was to be followed on
our return.
My parents living then in Paris, where even at that time rents were high
and space restricted, my husband's dislike to confinement did not allow
him to remain satisfied with the single room they could put at our
disposal; moreover, in order to work effectively, peace and perfect
quiet were absolutely indispensable to him; so he took lodgings close to
my parents', and whilst I spent as much of my time with them as I could
spare, he wrote or read in the noiseless rooms we had taken _entre cour
et jardin_. Of course the rent of the lodgings was an additional
expense. Altogether, when we summed up the accounts after the first
year, we were dismayed to see what was the cost of such an unpretentious
existence; but with youthful hope we counted upon the income that art
could not fail to bring shortly.
CHAPTER III.
1858.
Painting from nature.--Project of an exhibition.--Photography.--Plan of
the "Painter's Camp."--Topographic Art.--Charm of our life in the
Highlands.
Mr. Hamerton has himself explained in his autobiography what were his
artistic tendencies and aims: he meant to be topographically true in his
rendering of nature, and was unluckily greatly influenced by the
Pre-Raphaelites, who were, at the time of our marriage, attracting great
attention. I was totally unprepared for that kind of art, and the most
famous specimens of it which my husband took me to see in London only
awoke an apprehension as to what I might think of his own pictures when
they were shown to me. The old masters in the Louvre, even the yearly
Salons, where, under my father's guidance, I had learned to admire
Troyon, Corot, and Millet, had given me an education which fell short of
enabling me to recognize the merits of the new school. It was in vain
that my husband pointed out the veracity of the minutest detail, in vain
that he attempted to interest me in the subjects or praised the scheme
of color; I did not understand it as art, and I received an impression,
perfectly remembered to this day, and which I hardly hope to convey to
others in words: it was for my eyes what unripe fruit is for the teeth.
It was a long time before my husband completed a picture at
Innistrynich, because he had resolved, at first, to paint only from
nature, and was constantly interrupted by changes of effect. After many
attempts, he came to the conclusion that he would only paint local color
out-of-doors, and in order to study effects rapidly, he made hasty
sketches with copious notes written in pencil. Still, he was not
satisfied, the sketch, however quickly traced, retarding the taking of
notes, so that the effect had vanished before they were completed. After
giving mature consideration to another scheme of study, he decided to
make careful pen-and-ink topographical drawings of the most striking
features of the scenery, such as Ben Cruachan, Glen Etive, Ben Vorlich,
Glencoe, etc., and to have them reproduced in large quantities, so that,
when upon the scene represented by any of them, he would only have to
note the most impressive effects, the sketch having become unnecessary.
I wished him to take these memoranda in water-colors or pastels, for it
seemed to me very difficult, when the effect was out of the memory, to
revive it in its entirety by hundreds of minute observations covering
the whole sheet of paper. I had another reason for wishing to see him
work more in colors--it was his want of dexterity with them, which I
thought practice only could give; but he said it was too slow for
out-of-door study, and should be reserved for winter-time and bad
weather. Another point upon which we could not agree was the amount of
truth to which an artist ought to bind himself; he said "nothing less
than topographic truth," and he took infinite pains in the measurement
of mountain peaks, breadth of heather-patches, and length of running
streams. To his grievous disappointment, when the conscientious and
labored study was shown to me, I could not but repeat that if it were
true it did not look so to me, since it produced none of the sensations
of the natural scene. "You would like me to exaggerate, then?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered, "if that is the way to make it _look_ true." But he
persevered in his system. He used to camp out a week, sometimes a
fortnight, wherever he made choice of a subject, and returned to the
same spot several times afterwards, with his printed studies of outlines
to take notes of effects.
He was fond of elaborating schemes, and I told him sometimes that I
wished he would allow things to go on more simply, that he would paint
his pictures straightforwardly, and try for their reception in the
Academy; but he answered that most certainly they would be rejected if
painted with so little care, and that he thought the best plan was to go
on patiently during the summer as he had begun, then to paint in winter
from his studies, and produce, not an odd picture now and then, but a
series of pictures illustrating the most remarkable characteristics of
Highland scenery, which he would put before the public in a private
exhibition of his own, under the title of "Pictures from the Highlands,
by P. G. Hamerton." And before one of the pictures was begun, he had
made the model of a die bearing this inscription, to be stamped on the
frames of the pictures, as well as on the studies. Mr. Hamerton had
taken lessons from a photographer in Paris, at the time of his first
visit there, thinking it might be a help in the prosecution of his
scheme, and now he was always trying to get some photographs of the
scenes among which he camped. They were generally very poor and feeble,
the weather being so often unpropitious, and the process (paper process)
so imperfect and tedious. Still, it was the means of giving pleasure to
our relations and friends by acquainting them with our surroundings.
Here is a passage from one of my father's letters in acknowledgment of
the photograph of our house: "J'ai reçu avec infiniment de plaisir votre
lettre et la photographie qui l'accompagnait. Cette petite image nous
met en communication plus directe, en nous identifiant pour ainsi dire,
à votre vie intérieure. Merci donc, et de bon coeur."
Although my husband firmly believed that nature had meant him to be an
artist, and helped nature as much as he could by his own exertions, the
literary talent which was in him would not be stifled altogether, and
under pretext of preparing a way for his artistic reputation, made him
undertake the "Painter's Camp."
It may be easily realized that with his elaborate system of study, which
required journeys and camping out, the taking of photographs, painting
indoors in wet weather, together with a course of reading for culture
and pleasure, and in addition literary composition, Gilbert's time was
fully occupied; still he was dissatisfied by the meagre result, and
fretted about it. He had, at the cost of much thought and money,
organized a perfect establishment, with wagons, tents, and boats, to go
and stay wherever he pleased; but wherever he went or stopped he almost
invariably met with rain and mist, and though he could draw or paint
inside the tent, he still required to see his subject, and how could he
possibly when the heavy rain-clouds enveloped the mountains as if in a
shroud, or when the mist threw a veil over all the landscape? I remember
going with him to camp out in Glencoe in delightful weather, which
lasted (for a wonder) throughout the journey and the day following it,
after which we were shut inside the tents by pouring or drizzling rain
for six consecutive days, when the only possible occupation was reading,
so that at last we were beaten back home with a few bad photographs and
incomplete sketches as the fruits of a week's expedition.
At first we did not attach much importance to the weather, even if it
wasted time. My husband had taken the island on a lease of four years,
and it seemed to us that almost anything might be achieved in the course
of four years; we were so young, both of us--he twenty-four, and I
nineteen--that we had not yet realized how rapidly time flows--and it
flowed so delightfully with us as to make everything promising in our
eyes. The rain might be troublesome and interfere with work, but were
not the splendid colors of the landscape due to it? The lake might be
stormy, and the white foam of its waves dash even upon the panes of our
windows, but the clouds, driven wildly over the crests of the hills, and
rent by peaks and crags, cast ever-hanging shadows along their swift
course, and the shafts of the sun darting between them clothed the
spaces between in dazzling splendor. Our enjoyment of natural beauty was
not marred by considerations about the elements which produced it:
whether the rich color of the shrivelled ferns on the hillside had been
given by the fierce heat of a sun which, at the same time, had dried up
the streams and parched the meadows, we did not inquire; and if the
grandeur of the stormy lake on a dark night, with the moaning of the
breakers on the rocky shore, and the piercing shrieks of the blast,
involved the fall and ruin of many a poor man's cottage and the
destruction of hundreds of uprooted trees, we were so entranced in
admiration as to give no thought to the consequences. We derived
pleasure from everything, study or contemplation, fair weather or foul;
a twilight ramble on the island by the magnificent northern lights, or a
quiet sail on the solitary lake perfumed with the fragrance of the
honeysuckle or of the blue hyacinths growing so profusely on Inishail
and the Black Isles.
Well, we were happy; we did not stop to consider if we were _perfectly_
happy; but it was, without a doubt, the happiest time of our lives, for
we have always turned back to it with deep regret, and, as my husband
has expressed it in the "Painter's Camp"--"It is so full of
associations and memories which are so infinitely dear and sweet and
sacred, that the very word 'Highlands' will lay a sudden charm on my
heart forever."
Although we made no dissection of our happiness to know what it was made
of, there was a powerful element in it which I discern clearly now: we
were satisfied with ourselves, thinking we were fulfilling our duty to
the best of our understanding; if we erred, it was unconsciously. Since
then we have not been so positive, and sometimes have questioned the
wisdom of those days. But who can tell?... If my husband had not lived
those four years of Highland life he would not have been the man he
became, and his literary gift, though perhaps developed in some other
way, would never have acquired the charm which influenced afterwards so
many minds and hearts.
CHAPTER IV.
1858.
English and French manners.--My husband's relatives.--First journey to
France after our marriage.--Friends in London.--Miss Susan Hamerton.
The summer of 1858 had been unusually warm and pleasant in the
Highlands, and my husband had put many a study in his portfolios, in
spite of the interruptions to his work caused by a series of boils,
which, though of no importance, were exceedingly painful and irritating,
being accompanied by fever and sleeplessness: they were the result of a
regimen of salted meat and an insufficiency of fresh vegetables; for of
course those we succeeded in growing the first year were only fit for
the table towards the end of summer.
We had not been so solitary as I had expected, for with the warm weather
a few families had come back to their residences on the shores of the
lake, and had called upon us. I had felt rather timid and awkward, as I
could not speak English; but the ladies being kindly disposed, and
generally knowing a little French, we managed to get on friendly terms,
particularly when left to ourselves, for I was very much afraid of
Gilbert's strictures--I will explain for what reasons in particular. He
was, as I have said before, a very good and competent teacher, but very
exacting, and he had repeatedly said that he could put up better with my
faults were they the usual recognized mistakes of a foreigner, but that
unluckily mine were vulgarisms. This was very humiliating, as I must
confess I took a little pride in my French, which had been often praised
as elegant and pure, and this had fostered in me a taste for
conversation such as was still to be enjoyed in intelligent French
society at that time, and of which I had never been deprived at home, my
father being an excellent conversationalist, and receiving political
friends of great talent as orators and debaters, such as Michel de
Bourges, Baudin, Madier-de-Montjau, Boysset, and many others, as well as
literary people.
On the other hand, it must be explained that I was unknown to my
husband's relations, and aware of some prejudices against me among them,
particularly on the part of his Aunt Susan,--the younger of the two
sisters who had brought him up. She only knew that I was French, a Roman
Catholic, and without fortune; all these defects were the very opposite
of what she had dreamt of for her nephew, and her disappointment had
been so bitter when she had heard of his engagement that, to excuse it
in her own eyes, she had convinced herself that a French girl could only
be flippant, extravagantly fond of amusement, and neglectful of homely
duties; a Roman Catholic must of necessity be narrow-minded and bigoted,
and the want of fortune betrayed low birth and lack of education. These
views had been expressed at length to my betrothed, together with severe
reproaches and admonitions, and it was in vain that he had attempted to
justify his choice; his aunt persisted in attributing it solely to a
passion he had been too weak to master. At last our marriage drawing
near, Gilbert wrote to his aunt that if her next letter contained
anything disrespectful to me he would return it, and do the same for the
following ones, without opening them; and the correspondence had ceased.
It was quite different with his aunt Mary, who must also have been
disappointed by his marriage, for with her aristocratic tastes and
notions she had desired for her nephew a bride of rank, and an heiress
to put him again in the station befitting the family name, to which his
education and talents seemed to entitle him. But she had confidence in
his judgment, and loved him with so generous a love that she
congratulated him warmly when he was accepted, and wrote me an
affectionate letter of thanks, and a welcome as a new member of the
family.
Of course my husband had often talked to me about his aunts; not much
was said of Miss Susan, but a great deal of his dear guardian, who had
been like a mother to him, and who now wrote encouragingly to me from
time to time about my English, and my new life. He praised both his
aunts for their good management of a small income, for the position they
had been able to retain in society, and particularly for their lady-like
manners and good breeding; explaining sometimes that I should probably
find it different in some respects from French _comme-il-faut_, and
mentioning in what particulars. I felt that he would be very sensitive
about the opinions his aunts would form of me, and I dreaded that of
Miss Susan Hamerton. He had put me on my guard on some points; for
instance, about the French custom of always addressing people as
Monsieur or Madame, which was hard for me to relinquish, as it seemed
rude; and I was also told not to be always thanking servants for their
services (as we do in France), if I wished to be considered well-bred.
But besides what was pointed out to me, I noticed many other things
which ought to be toned down in my nature and habits, if I meant to
acquire what I heard called lady-like manners. I was at that time very
vivacious, merry, and impulsive, and so long as I had lived in France
this natural disposition had been looked upon as a happy one, and rather
pleasant than otherwise; but I did not notice anything resembling it in
our visitors, who were said to be real ladies, or lady-like. They looked
to my French eyes somewhat indifferent and unconcerned: it is true that
they were all my seniors by at least half-a-score of years, but the fact
did not put me more at ease. However, as they showed great kindness, and
frequently renewed their visits and invitations, I was led to think that
their judgment had not gone against me, and this gave me some courage
for the day of my meeting with my Aunt Susan. And that day was drawing
near, my husband having promised his relations that we should visit them
after six months, which was the delay granted to me to learn a little
English; and although I could not and dared not speak it at the end of
the allotted time, no respite was allowed.
It was arranged that after our stay in Lancashire we should go on to
Paris. This news was received with great joy and thankfulness in my
family, where we had not been expected so soon, and where the sorrow for
my absence was still so keen that my father wrote to my husband: "Chaque
fois que je rentre je m'attends à la voir accourir au devant de moi et
chaque désillusion est suivie de tristesse. Il n'est pas jusqu'au piano
dont le mutisme me fait mal. J'ai beau me dire que ces impatiences, ces
chagrins sont de la faiblesse: je le sais, je le sens, et je n'en suis
pas plus fort."
The love of improvements, which was one of Gilbert's characteristics,
had led him to plan a road on the island, which should go from the house
to the lowest part of the shore, where the lake dried up in summer, so
as to facilitate the conveyance of goods, which could then be carted
without unloading from Inverary to the barn or kitchen-door. He gave
very minute directions to Thursday and Dugald, and set them to their
work just before we left for France, telling them that he expected to
find the road finished on our return.
We started in November, and arrived at Todmorden on a wet day; and just
before leaving the railway carriage we were much amused by a gentleman
who answered the query "Is this Todmorden?" by letting down the window
and thrusting his hand out, after which he gravely said: "It is raining;
it must be Todmorden."
My husband's uncle, Thomas Hamerton, with his two daughters, was
awaiting us at the station to welcome us and take us to his house, where
we found Mrs. Hamerton, who received us very kindly, but called me Mrs.
Philip Gilbert, because she despaired of ever pronouncing my Christian
name rightly. I begged her to call me "niece," and her husband gave the
example by calling me "my niece Eugeneï." Our cousins Anne and Jane
spoke French very creditably, although they had never been in France,
and we were soon on friendly terms. When my husband was away, they
translated my answers to their mother's numerous questions about our
life in the Highlands, my occupations, tastes, French habits, and what
not. Although my powers of expression in English were very limited, I
understood the greater part of what was said, and Mrs. Hamerton and my
cousins being so encouraging, I did not feel so timid, and if I had
stayed longer I should most certainly have made rapid progress. On that
score my husband--P. G., as they called him in the family circle--was
taken to task and scolded for having been too severe with "his poor
little foreign wife." His cousins, with whom he was on brotherly terms,
were much pleased with the soft French pronunciation of the name
Gilbert, and dropped the P. G. decisively, to the great wonder of their
mamma.
The following day was fixed by my husband as the day of our trial,--that
is, for our visit to his aunts, who lived on a steep eminence above
Todmorden, in a pleasant house, "The Jumps." Aunt Mary, in order to
spare me, had offered to come down to meet us at her brother's; but as
she suffered from some kind of heart complaint (the knowledge of which
kept her loving nephew in constant alarm) we were afraid of the effect
that fatigue and emotion might have, and preferred to encounter Miss
Susan Hamerton.
The reception was typical of the different dispositions towards us. Aunt
Mary was standing at the door, straining her eyes to see us sooner, and
came forward to embrace me and to receive the kisses of her beloved
nephew; then she whispered that "she had hoped Susan would have gone
away on a visit to her friends; but she had remained obdurate to all
hints and entreaties." So there was nothing for it but to meet her,
since she would have it so; and with a beating heart I was led to the
drawing-room by my husband. That the reader may not be misled into
believing that a life-long estrangement resulted from the following
scene, I will quote a passage from the preface to "Human Intercourse,"
which gives the unforeseen result of my acquaintance with Miss Susan
Hamerton.
"A certain English lady, influenced by the received ideas about human
intercourse which define the conditions of it in a hard and sharp
manner, was strongly convinced that it would be impossible for her to
have friendly relations with another lady whom she had never seen, but
was likely to see frequently. All her reasons would be considered
excellent reasons by those who believe in maxims and rules. It was plain
that there could be nothing in common. The other lady was neither of the
same country, nor of the same religious and political parties, nor of
the same generation. These facts were known, and the inference deduced
from them was that intercourse would be impossible. After some time the
English lady began to perceive that the case did not bear out the
supposed rules; she discovered that the younger lady might be an
acceptable friend.
"At last the full, strange truth became apparent--that she was
singularly well adapted, better adapted than any other human being, to
take a filial relation to the elder, especially in times of sickness,
when her presence was a wonderful support. Then the warmest affection
sprang up between the two, lasting till separation by death, and still
cherished by the survivor."
But the first meeting held out no such promise. There, on the couch, was
an elderly lady, sitting stiff and straight, with a book in her hands,
from which her eyes were never raised, even when she acknowledged our
entrance by a studiously slow, chilling, and almost imperceptible bend
of the head. I saw my husband's face flush with anger as we bowed to my
new relation; but I pressed his hand entreatingly, and we sat down,
attempting to ignore the hostile presence, and to talk as if we found
ourselves in ordinary circumstances. Poor Aunt Mary, thinking it must be
unendurable to me, soon proposed that we should go to the dining-room
for refreshments, and her proposition was accepted with alacrity. We
left the dining-room with the same ceremonial which had followed our
entrance, and were rewarded by the same frigid and distant movement of
the silent figure on the sofa. We remained some time with Aunt Mary, and
took an affectionate leave of her, my husband giving a promise that on
our return journey we would stay a few days at "The Jumps," whether her
sister chose to be at home or away.
I have related this episode at some length, although it seems to concern
me more than my husband, because the influence it had on his life was so
important. It is almost certain that if Miss Susan Hamerton had behaved
towards us like her sister, my husband would never have thought of going
to live in France. At the end of our lease at Innistrynich, he would
have chosen a residence in some picturesque part of England, and would
have easily induced his aunts to settle as near as possible to us. Their
example and advice in household matters would have been invaluable to
me, whilst the affectionate intercourse would have grown closer and
dearer as we came to know each other better. However, this was not to
be.
We soon left Todmorden after our visit to "The Jumps," and when we
reached Paris there were great rejoicings in my family, where my husband
was fully appreciated. He liked to talk of politics, literature, and art
with my father, whose experience was extensive, and whose taste was
refined and discriminating; he awoke in his son-in-law an interest in
sculpture which hitherto had not been developed, but which grew with
years. As to my mother, brothers, and sister, they loved him for his
kindness, and also because he had made a life of happiness for me.
In Paris we went to see everything of artistic interest, but especially
of architectural interest. I knew nothing of architecture myself, but
was naturally attracted by beauty, and my husband guided my opinions
with his knowledge. I noticed with surprise his indifference to most of
the pictures in the Museum of the Louvre, and he explained, later, that
he could not appreciate them at that period in the development of his
artistic taste, which was at that time retarded by the Pre-Raphaelite
influence. There was certainly a great evolution of mind between this
state of quasi-indifference and the fervid enthusiasm which made him say
to me when we came to live in Paris: "At any rate there is for me, as a
compensation for the beauty of natural scenery, an inexhaustible source
of interest and study in the Louvre."
The Museum of the Luxembourg containing several pictures by modern
artists, whose merits he recognized, was frequently visited by us--and
he admired heartily among others, Rosa Bonheur, Daubigny, Charles
Jacque, and especially Troyon, whose works went far to shake his faith
in topographic painting, and sowed the first seeds of the French
school's influence on his mind.
At the expiration of the month we returned to London, and stayed with
friends; my husband introduced me to Mr. and Mrs. Mackay, to Mrs. Leslie
and her family, to the sons and daughters of Constable, of whom he
speaks in his autobiography, and they all received me very kindly, and
told me what hopeful views they entertained of his future career. We
also called upon Millais, for whose talent my husband had a great
admiration. He received us quite informally, and we had a long talk in
French, which he pronounced remarkably well; he explained it to me by
saying that he belonged to a Jersey family.
It was also during this London visit that Mr. Hamerton made the
acquaintance of Mr. Calderon, who also spoke French admirably,--an
acquaintance which was to ripen into friendship, and last to the end of
my husband's life. He also went to all the winter exhibitions, public or
private, where he stood rooted before all the works which could teach
him something of his difficult art; and when we left he was certain of
having acquired new knowledge.
Miss Susan Hamerton having said to Aunt Mary that she had no objection
to our being her sister's guests, we went straight to "The Jumps" after
leaving London. This time she received us with polite coldness,--like
perfect strangers,--but she was not insulting, only at times somewhat
ungenerously sarcastic with me, who was not armed to parry her thrusts.
I felt quite miserable, for I did not wish to widen the gap between her
and her nephew, and on the other hand I did not see how our intercourse
could be made more pleasant by any endeavors of mine, for I was ignorant
of the art of ingratiating myself with persons whom I felt adverse to
me, and I must avow that I had also a certain degree of pride which
prevented me from making advances when unfairly treated. I had always
lived in an atmosphere of confidence, love, and goodwill,--perhaps I had
been a little spoilt by the kindness of my friends, and now it seemed
hard to be a butt for ill-natured sarcasms. These shafts, however, were
seldom, if ever, let loose in the presence of my husband, who would not
have tolerated it; the want of welcome being as much as he could bear.
Still, there was no doubt that matters had slightly mended since our
first visit, and an undeniable token of this was the fact of Miss Susan
Hamerton extending her hand to each of us at parting. Had I been told
then that this reluctant hand would become a firm support for me; that
these cold eyes would he filled with warm tears of love, and that I
should be tenderly pressed to this apparently unsympathizing bosom, I
could not have believed it. Yet the day came when Aunt Susan proved my
dearest friend, and when Mr. Thomas Hamerton said to his nephew, "Susan
loves you much, no doubt, but Eugénie is A1 for her."
CHAPTER V.
1859.
Visits from friends and relatives.--A Frenchman in the Highlands.--
Project of buying the island of Innistrynich.
When we arrived at Innistrynich from the Continent, all our neighbors
had left Loch Awe, and we had only as occasional visitors the doctor and
our landlord--the rare and far-between calls of the minister ceasing
with the fine days; but we were not afraid of our solitude _à deux_, and
we had the pleasant prospect of entertaining Aunt Mary and Anne Hamerton
early in the summer, as well as the husband of my godmother, M.
Souverain, a well-known Parisian publisher, whose acquaintance Mr.
Hamerton had made through my father, and who had promised to come to see
us. Meanwhile, we resumed our usual rules of work, and my husband began
several oil pictures at once, so as to lose no time in having to wait
for the drying of the colors.
As he had made great progress in his French, he proposed that we should
change our parts, and that nothing but English should be spoken, read,
or written by me, except my letters to French correspondents. I delayed
my submission a while, for it seemed that if I could not speak--even to
him--confidentially and with perfect ease, that indeed would be
solitude. At last I yielded to his entreaties, strengthened by my
father's remonstrances, and some months of constantly renewed endeavors
not always successful, and sometimes accompanied by weariness,
discouragement, and tears--began for me, my teacher never swerving from
his rule, not even when, despairing of making myself understood, I used
a French word or expression. On such occasions he invariably shook his
head and said: "I do not understand French; speak English," at the same
time helping me out of my difficulty as much as he could.
Aunt Mary and Anne Hamerton had promised to come to see us during the
summer, and we had repeated our invitation in the beginning of the
spring of 1859, but Aunt Mary wrote to her nephew: "I am looking forward
with great pleasure to my visit to you and Eugénie, but I think I had
_better_ NOT come till the little cherub has come, because anybody would
know better what to do than I should."
She wrote again on June 6, 1859: "I am very glad indeed that Eugénie and
the dear little boy are doing well; give my very best love to Eugénie,
and tell her that now Anne and I are looking forward with great pleasure
to visiting you as soon as we can."
They came in July, and Aunt Mary was delighted with the beauty of the
scenery, with the strong and healthy appearance of her little
grand-nephew, whom she held in her arms as much and as long as her
strength allowed, but especially by the recovered affectionate intimacy
with my husband, and also by the certainty of our domestic happiness.
Anne Hamerton greatly enjoyed the excursions on land and water, and so
the days passed pleasantly. When my husband was painting, either in his
studio or out-of-doors, we sat near him and read aloud by turns. Aunt
Mary was very fond of Moore's poetry, and read it well and feelingly,
though her voice was rather tremulous and weak. To Anne were given
passages of "Modern Painters" as examples of style, and Lamartine's
"Jocelyn" for French pronunciation. I fear that Aunt Mary's appreciation
of it was more imaginary than real. "The Newcomes" fell to my lot, being
easier than poetry, and gave rise to many a debate about its superiority
or inferiority to Thackeray's other works. As an author he was not
justly appreciated by Aunt Mary, who, on account of her aristocratic
loyalty, did not forgive him for "The Four Georges."
We had also a good deal of music; my husband, having been accustomed to
play duets with his cousin, soon resumed the practice, and though I had
not encouraged him as a solo-player, I liked well enough to listen to
his violin with a piano accompaniment. Anne's playing was only mediocre,
but as she did not attempt anything above her skill, it was pleasant
enough; she accompanied all the French songs I had brought with me, and
they were numerous, for at that time there was no _soirée_ in
Paris--homely or fashionable--without _romances_; the public taste was
not so fastidious as it has since become, and did not expect from a
school-girl the performance of an operatic prima donna. When out in the
boat on a peaceful and serene night, my husband rowing us slowly on the
glassy water, it seemed that the melodies which rose and spread in the
hazy atmosphere were the natural complement to these enchanted hours.
Anne often sang "Beautiful Star" or "Long Time Ago," and I was always
asked for "Le Lac" or "La Chanson de Fortunio."
The arrival of Monsieur Souverain added a new element of cheerfulness to
our little party: he was so thoroughly French--that is, so ignorant of
other habits than French ones, so naïvely persuaded of their superiority
to all others, so keenly alive to any point of difference, and so openly
astonished when he discovered any, always wondering at the reason for
this want of similarity--that he was a perpetual source of interest to
our lady visitors. He could not speak English, but he always addressed
Aunt Mary in his voluble and rapid Parisian French, and she was all
smiles, and appeared to enjoy extremely his run of anecdotes about
French celebrities she had never heard of. Now and then she let fall a
word or sometimes a phrase totally irrelevant to what he had been
saying, but which in his turn he politely pretended to appreciate,
although he had not understood a single syllable of it. It was most
amusing to see them walking side by side, evidently enjoying each
other's society and animated conversation; only we remarked that they
were careful to remain well out of profane hearing by keeping a good
deal in front of us, or else loitering behind.
We had been awaiting M. Souverain for some days, no date having been
fixed, when one morning our attention was aroused by loud and prolonged
shouts coming from that part of the road which affords a view of
Innistrynich, before descending to the bay. With the help of his
telescope, my husband soon discovered a small, spare human form, now
waving a pocket-handkerchief, and now making a speaking-trumpet of both
hands to carry its appeal as far as the island. "It must be M.
Souverain," Gilbert said, as he sent a shout of welcome, and ran to the
pier to loosen the boat and row it across the bay.
He had scarcely landed our visitor when enthusiastic ejaculations met
our ears: "Mais c'est le Paradis terrestre ici!" "Quel pays de rêve!"
"Quel séjour enchanteur!" Then, with a change of tone habitual to him,
and a little sarcastic: "Yes, but as difficult to find as dream-land; I
thought I should have to turn back to France without meeting with you,
for no one seemed to be aware of the existence of the 'lac Ave' any more
than of 'Ineestreeneeche,' and I was beginning to suspect your
descriptions to have been purely imaginary, when _un trait de lumière_
illuminated my brain. I bought a map of Scotland, and without troubling
myself any longer with the impossible pronunciation of impossible names,
I stuck a pin on the spot of the map that I wanted to reach and showed
it either to a railway _employé_ or to a _matelot_, and I was sure to
hear 'All right,'--I have learnt that at least. But upon my life, to
this day I can't explain why no one seemed to understand me, even at
Inverary, at the hotel. I asked: 'Quel chemin doit on prendre pour aller
chez Monsieur Amertone, dans l'île d'Ineestreeneeche sur le lac Ave?'
That was quite plain, was not it?... Well, they only shook their heads
till I gave them the address you had written for me, then of course they
came out with 'All right,' and a good deal besides which was of no
consequence to me, and at last I am here 'all right.' But why on earth
do they spell Londres, London; Glascow, Glasgow; and Cantorbéry,
Canterbury? It is exceedingly puzzling to strangers." My husband was
greatly tickled, and rather encouraged this flow of impressions; he
thought it extremely interesting in a cultivated and intelligent man who
was far from untravelled, for he had been in Spain, Belgium, Germany,
Italy, and Algeria, and who still evinced a childlike wonder at every
unfamiliar object. For instance, he would say: "Now, Mr. Hamerton, I am
sure you can't justify this queer custom in English hotels, of putting
on the table a roast of eight pounds' weight, _at least_, or a whole
cheese. I can't eat all that, then why serve it me?... And why also
those immense washing-basins? They are so cumbersome and heavy that it
is almost as much as I can achieve to empty them: I don't take a bath in
them, I take it in a _baignoire_, and I have not to empty it."
The conversation, however, often ran on serious subjects, and M.
Souverain heard with deep interest from my husband an account of his
plans, both literary and artistic, and said once: "If you intend to
devote your life to painting Highland scenery, and since your wife loves
this admirable island as much as you do, why should not you buy it and
secure the benefit of the improvements you are carrying on? It is
somewhat solitary at times, no doubt, but as you will be obliged to go
to London and Paris every year at least, you might arrange to do so in
winter and enjoy society there, and a change at the same time. You tell
me that your property yields at present but a very poor income,--why
not sell it, or part of it, since it has no attraction for you, and live
here, on your own property, free of rent?"
Gilbert himself had entertained the idea, and had developed it to me
with flattering possibilities and speculations, but I was already
beginning to fear that our present existence was too exquisite to last.
We had received bad news from Uncle Thomas about the rents; the mill was
not let, and would require a heavy outlay before it could find a tenant;
the machinery was old, out-of-date, and would have to be replaced by new
with the modern improvements, and the cottages surrounding the mill were
likely to remain tenantless so long as the mill did not work, or the
rents be but irregularly forthcoming. In fact, our income was already
insufficient, and my husband was seriously considering whether he ought
to borrow in order to set up the mill again, or whether it would be more
profitable to sell the property and draw upon the capital as we required
it, till he could sell his pictures. At last he decided to consult his
uncle, who was a prudent man of business, and had a long experience as
landed proprietor. After due consideration Mr. T. Hamerton advised him
to go to the necessary expense for repairs to the mill.
Meanwhile M. Souverain was growing more enchanted with Loch Awe day by
day, and could not bear the idea that we might be turned out of
Innistrynich some day by a new owner (for the present one was getting
old, and had said that at the end of our lease he would put it up for
sale), so he tempted my husband by the almost irresistible offer of a
third of the purchase money, in consideration of having two rooms
reserved for himself and his wife--my godmother--during two of the
summer months. But Aunt Mary's secret desire--and perhaps hope--of
seeing us established at a future time nearer to herself, suggested some
very weighty considerations against the project. "When your child or
maybe children grow up and have to attend school, will you resign
yourselves to send them so far as will be inevitable if you are still
here?" she said; "and will your healths be able to stand the severity of
the climate when you are no longer so young? The distance from a doctor
is another serious affair in case of sickness, and I myself, as well as
Eugénie's parents, am on the downward course, and may soon be deprived
of the possibility of undertaking so fatiguing a journey." All this had
been foreseen by her nephew, of course, but his attachment to the place
was such that he found ready answers to all objections. "Our children
would be educated at home--the climate, though damp, was not more
severe or unhealthy than the average--doctors were of no good, generally
speaking--and we might visit our relations more frequently in case they
were unable to come to us."
So the question remained open.
Gilbert, thinking it desirable to give his guests a more extensive
acquaintance with the surrounding country than his boats could afford,
proposed to take a carriage, which would be ferried from Port Sonachan
to the other side of the lake, after which we might drive as much as
possible along the shores till we reached Ardhonnel Castle. If we
arrived early we would visit the ruins and the island; if too late, it
would be reserved for the following morning, as we intended to spend the
night at the inn, and to resume our drive in time to be back at
Innistrynich for dinner.
We started merrily,--Aunt Mary, Anne Hamerton, M. Souverain, my
husband, myself, and baby; for our guests kindly insisted upon my being
one of the party, in spite of my small encumbrance, which I could not
leave behind. I did my best to be excused, but they were unanimous in
declaring that they would not go if I stayed.
"You need not walk unless you like," they said, "for there will always
be the carriage, the boat, or the inn for you."
It was a splendid day of bright sunshine in a tenderly blue sky, with a
pure, soft breeze hardly rippling the lake. We all took our seats inside
the roomy, open carriage, my husband leaving the management of the
horses to the driver that he might be free to enjoy the scenery. M.
Souverain remarked that if the Highlanders were a strong race, their
horses hardly deserved the same epithet; and indeed the pair harnessed
to our carriage appeared very lean and somewhat shaky, but the driver
affirmed that they were capital for hill-work, though he would not swear
to their swiftness, and as we did not want to go fast, it was again "all
right" from M. Souverain when the explanation had been translated to
him.
Fast we certainly did not go, and, moreover, we often stopped to admire
the changing views, but the poor starved beasts did not pick up any more
spirit during their frequent rests; they painfully resumed their dull
jog-trot for a short time, which soon dwindled to slow, weary paces that
even the whip in no way hastened. However, with plenty of time before
us, we only turned it into a joke, pretending to be terrified by the
ardor of our steeds.
My husband had to tell M. Souverain all the legends of the places we
were passing, and as he himself "courtisait la Muse," he listened with
rapt attention, so as to be able to treat the subjects in French verse.
"This country is a mine for a poet!" he frequently exclaimed.
Luckily we had packed some provisions in the carriage, for the sun was
already declining,--like the pace of the horses,--and we were not yet at
the end of the drive by a good distance.
The fresh air had sharpened our appetites, and Gilbert proposed that we
should have something to eat whilst the horses were taken out of harness
and given a feed to refresh them and give them a little more vigor for
the rest of the journey.
By the time we had finished our collation the air had freshened, and it
was twilight; we agreed that now it was desirable to get within shelter
as soon as possible, although the charm of the hour was indescribable;
but the thin white mist was beginning to float over the lake, and the
last remnants of the afterglow had entirely died out. What was our
dismay when we found that all my husband's efforts, joined to those of
the driver, to make the horses get up were ineffectual; there they lay
on the grass, and neither expostulations, pulls, cracks of the whip, or
even kicks, I am sorry to say, seemed to produce the slightest effect
upon their determination to remain stretched at full length on the
ground. What were we to do? The driver vociferated in Gaelic, but the
poor brutes did not mind, and they would have been cruelly maltreated if
we had not interfered to protect them. Gilbert said to the man: "You see
well enough that they have no strength to work, therefore allow them to
rest till they are able to go back. I leave you here, and as I have
ladies with me I must try to find some sort of shelter for the night."
The man was almost frantic when he saw us go, but we all agreed with my
husband, and in the hope of finding a cottage set forth resolutely on
foot.
It was now almost dark, but our spirits were not damped yet, and, as M.
Souverain remarked, it was "une véritable aventure." Still, I was
beginning to find my baby somewhat heavy after walking for
three-quarters of an hour, when the gentlemen in front of us cheerily
encouraged our exertions by calling out, "A cottage, a cottage!" and
when we came up to them they were loudly knocking at the door, unable to
obtain a sign of life from within; however, the smell of burning peat
clearly indicated that the cottage was inhabited, and my husband shouted
our story, begging that the door might be opened and the ladies allowed
to rest. Then on the other side of the door, which remained closed, a
voice answered in Gaelic we knew not what, except that the tone of it
was unmistakably angry, and unbroken silence ensued.
There was nothing left to us but to resume our walk, enlivened by M.
Souverain singing the celebrated song, "Chez les montagnards Écossais
l'hospitalité se donne," etc. Every one in turn offered to hold the
baby; but Aunt Mary, I knew, had enough to do for herself, Anne was not
strong, and my confidence in the fitness of the gentlemen for the
function of nurse was very limited. My husband kept up our courage by
affirming that we were not far from Ardhonnel, and consequently within a
short distance of the inn; indeed, he called us to the side of the road,
from which we could see the noble ruin with our own eyes, now that the
new moon had risen and was peeping between the clouds occasionally. It
was a welcome sight, for by this time we were really weary; but alas!
the inn was on the other side of the lake, and we had no boat; still,
Gilbert felt sure there must be one not very far off, to take the people
across, and after surveying the shore for a while he discovered a little
pier, with a rowing-boat chained to it, and a very small cottage almost
close to where we stood; so he went to knock at the door, and again
Gaelic was given in answer. But this time the door was opened by a woman
who had only taken time to put on a short petticoat, and to throw a
small shawl over her head; her feet, legs, and arms were bare, and she
looked strong and placid; her English was scanty, but she understood
pretty well what we wanted, and declared herself willing to row our
party to the other side if any one could steer, for her "man" was asleep
in bed and too tired for work; so my husband took a pair of oars, the
woman another, and I steered from indications frequently given. At last
we stood in front of the inn, and it was past midnight. Not a light was
visible, not a sound was heard, and there was no sign of life except a
faint blue wreath of peat-smoke; but it was enough to revive our
energies and hopes. In response to our united appeals a dishevelled head
of red hair cautiously looked down from a half-opened window, and our
story had to be told again. Well, this time we were let in and allowed
to sit down, whilst the ostler's wife was being roused as well as the
servant, for we were told that the tourists' season, being already over,
the inn was no longer in trim for customers. This was bad news, for the
good effects of the luncheon had passed off, and as soon as we could
rest and forget our fatigue we became sensible of ravenous hunger. The
good innkeeper and his wife were so obliging and good-hearted that they
kept deprecating the absence of all the comforts they would have liked
to give us. However, my husband had brought a large basket of dry peat,
and M. Souverain heaped it up dexterously, and blew upon what remained
of red ashes under his pile, whilst a kettle was placed upon the glowing
embers. "I am afraid I can't offer you the same cheer that you would
give me at the _maison Dorée_," Gilbert said to his friend. "_Ça serait
gâter la couleur locale_; oh! some bread-and-cheese, with a bottle of
beer, will do very well for me." But there was neither bread nor cheese
nor beer; and no kind of abode, however miserable, had M. Souverain ever
known to be without bread. "What do they live upon then?" he asked.
"Porridge, and they occasionally make scones," was the reply. Luckily
for us there happened to be an ample supply of them, freshly made, and
with these, boiled eggs, and fried bacon, we had one of the best
appreciated meals we ever tasted. It was followed by hot whiskey-toddy
and cigars for the gentlemen, by tea and clotted cream for the ladies,
and for a while we quite revived; but sleep would have its way, and
there being only two beds, occupied by the owners of the inn, they
charitably yielded them to us; and when the sheets had been changed,
Aunt Mary and Anne shared one, whilst I thankfully retired to the other
with baby. The gentlemen remained near the fire in the dining-room, one
of them stretched on the sofa, and the other using its cushions as a
mattress.
On the following morning I learned the meaning of the word "smart" for
the first time, it being so frequently repeated by our good hostess, who
had made room for me by the kitchen fire to dress my child. "How smart
is the sweet baby!" she constantly exclaimed with honest admiration, as
she made him laugh by tickling his little feet or chucking his chin.
Our breakfast was a repetition of the supper in every detail, and our
enjoyment of it more limited. My husband soon went out to hire a boat
and a couple of men to row us back again. They took us first to
Ardhonnel, of which he has given a description in "The Isles of Loch
Awe,"--
"A gray, tall fortress, on a wooded isle,
Not buried, but adorned by foliage."
The day was fine again, and the return home ideal; Gilbert steered and
relieved each rower in turn, while they sang their Scotch melodies with
voices strong and clear, and we all joined in the chorus. When we
reached Port Sonachan we heard that our driver had only arrived towards
mid-day, and that his horses not being strong enough to stop the
carriage on the slope to the ferry, had fallen into the lake, from which
they were rescued with great difficulty. We saw the carriage still
dripping wet, which had been left out to dry, and for the repairs of
which Gilbert later on received a bill that he indignantly refused to
pay.
This "romantic excursion," as M. Souverain called it, had so much
developed his fancy for Loch Awe that, before taking leave of us, he
offered to go halves with my husband in the purchase of Innistrynich;
but there was plenty of time for reflection, as the lease had four years
to run, so no decision was taken then.
A fortnight after the departure of our Parisian guest, Aunt Mary and
Anne left us regretfully,--the former especially, who was going back
reluctantly to the jealous remarks of her sister, and did not feel
disposed to listen patiently to criticisms on her nephew's character and
conduct or on mine. From her letters afterwards she had not a pleasant
time of it, but relieved the painfulness of it as much as possible by
accepting at intervals several invitations from her friends in the
neighborhood. This state of affairs made my husband very miserable, for
he would have done anything to secure his Aunt Mary's happiness and
tranquillity of mind; and to help him in his endeavors, I proposed that
she should come to live with us. This is part of her answer:--
"I hope to return with you in May next. Give my very best love to dear
Eugénie, and tell her that I thank her very much for proposing to
gratify your affection to me by proposing that I should live with her
and you; but Susan and I have taken each other for better and worse,
unless some deserving person of the other sex should propose, and the
one he proposes to _should_ say, Yes, if you please. But I think we
shall never separate."
It is with regret that I have to recall Miss Susan Hamerton's unamiable
temper at that time; one thing comes in mitigation, but I only knew of
it years afterwards: she was suffering much from unavowed nervousness.
Her nephew told me that when living in the same house with her he had
sometimes noticed that she ate hardly anything and looked unwell; but to
his affectionate inquiries she used to answer: "My health is good
enough, thank you; and I know what you imply when you pretend to be
anxious about it--you mean that I am cross and ill-tempered." She made
it a point never to plead guilty to any physical ailment, as if it were
a weakness unworthy of her, and also to discourage all attempts at
sympathy.
Another thing I learned too late was her jealous disposition, which
explained her attitude towards her nephew at the time of his marriage;
it was love turned sour, and although we tried to discover the cause of
her bitterness in her worldly disappointment, we became convinced that
she would have felt as bitter had the bride been wealthy and of noble
lineage, because her jealousy would have tortured her as much, if not
more. She became jealous of her sister when we invited her; and long
afterwards, when her brother became a widower, and she went to live with
him, he confided to his nephew that he had had to bear frequent
outbursts of jealousy. It was merely the exaggeration of a tender
sentiment which could not brook a rival.
CHAPTER VI.
1859-1860.
Financial complications.--Summer visitors.--Boats and boating.--Visit to
Paris.--W. Wyld.--Project of a farm in France.--Partnership with M.
Gindriez.
While the "Painter's Camp" was progressing, which was to be the
foundation of my husband's success, three pictures had been sent to the
Academy and rejected; but after the first feeling of disappointment he
was cheered up again by a favorable opinion from Millais about those
pictures--one of them in particular, a sailing-boat on Loch Awe in the
twilight, which was pronounced true in effect and color. Aunt Mary wrote
to him soon after: "I am so very glad of the account you give of your
pictures, and of Millais' opinion of them; it is very encouraging. I do
hope truly that they will attract gain, good-will, and success for you."
As it would have been very expensive to have the pictures sent to and
fro, with the deterioration of the frames, packing, etc., Mr. Hamerton
begged a friend who lived in London to keep them in one of his empty
rooms (he had a whole floor unfurnished) till there were a sufficient
number of them for a private exhibition, in which he intended to give
lectures on artistic subjects.
The mill, after thorough and expensive repairs, had been let, but there
was bad news from the tenant of the coal-mine, who refused to pay the
rent any longer, under pretext that the mine was exhausted. This looked
very serious, as, after referring the matter to his uncle, who was a
solicitor, my husband learned that the lease made during his minority
did not specify the quantity of coal that the tenant was allowed to
extract from the mine, and, of course, as much as possible had been
taken out of it. Still, as there was an agreement to pay the rent during
twelve more years, the tenant's right to withdraw from the signed
agreement might be contested, and the affair had to be put into the
hands of a lawyer. This was a cause of great anxiety, and it was not the
only one. The health of my father had become very unsatisfactory of
late, and his situation was no longer secure. He had been on most
excellent terms with the English gentlemen who were at the head of the
firm in which he was cashier, but they were retiring from business, and
my father did not know what was coming next. He wrote on October 9,
1859:--
"Enfin je commence à respirer; depuis bientôt six semaines je ne savais
pas vraiment où donner de la tête. Nous avons eu transformation de
société, inventaire, assemblée d'actionnaires, tout cela m'a donné un
effrayant surcroit de besogne et de fatigue, et je n'avais pas le
courage de reprendre la plume lorsque je rentrais au logis, harassé et
souffrant. Aujourd'hui nos affaires commencent à reprendre leur cours
normal."
On the 28th of the same month I find this phrase in one of his letters:
"Ma position est plus tendue que jamais et les changements survenus dans
notre administration me donnent des craintes sérieuses pour l'avenir."
Then we learned that a project for lighting Bucharest with gas was on
foot, and that my father was to go there to ascertain the chances of
success. Some outlay was necessary, and my husband, who had heard of it
through a friend, generously offered to defray the preliminary expenses;
his offer, however, was declined for the time, there being as yet no
certainty of profit.
Early in 1860 Gilbert had to leave Innistrynich to visit his property
and receive the rents. He always felt reluctant to go there, because of
the painful reminiscences of his early youth, and of the dreariness of
the scenery. There was also another reason, still more powerful,--he was
not made to be a landlord, being too tender-hearted. How often did it
happen that, instead of insisting on getting his rent from a poor
operative, he left some of his own money in the hand of wife or
child?--frequently enough in hard times, I know.
He was staying at "The Jumps," and went from there to Shaw, Burnley, and
Manchester; he never missed writing to me every day, either a short note
or a long letter, according to his spare time. In one of them he says:--
"Ma tante Marie est bien bonne, mais nous ne parlons jamais de choses
sérieuses--toujours des riens. Comme la vie est étrange! à quoi bon
aller loin pour voir ses amis quand ils vous disent simplement qu'il
fait froid!... ma tante Susan est assez gracieuse, mais j'ai vu des
_nuages_. Je suis allé hier à Manchester où j'avais à faire; j'y ai vu
quelques tableaux et je suis de plus en plus convaincu que la meilleure
chose pour moi est de peindre plutôt dans le genre des _vrais_ peintres
Français que dans celui de nos Pré-Raphaelites, ces réalistes
impitoyables qui ne nous épargnent pas un brin de gazon."
This letter contains a strong proof of his mind's artistic evolution.
In the course of the summer we had several unexpected visitors, among
them Mr. and Mrs. Mackay, Mr. Pettie the artist, and the gentleman
described in the "Painter's Camp" as Gordon, who frequently
called,--sometimes with his son, sometimes alone, and on such occasions
generally remained for the night. Being an early riser, and indisposed
to remain idle till breakfast time, he was found in the morning knitting
an immense woollen stocking, which he afterwards took into use, and
found most comfortable wear for grouse-shooting, as he took care to
inform me.
We had once another visitor, who had come to paint from nature, and was
staying at the Dalmally inn; his name I will not mention on account of
a little adventure which made him so miserable that he left our house
breakfastless, rather than face me after it. He had been offered a
bedroom, and had slept soundly till about five in the morning, when
his attention was attracted by a small phrenological bust on the
chimney-piece, which he took into his bed, with the intention of
studying it at leisure. As he lay back on the pillow, however,
holding up the bust and turning it sideways to read the indications,
he became aware of a black dribble rapidly staining the sheets and
counterpane. Horrified at such a sight, he sprang out of bed, and
discovered--too late--that he had totally emptied the inkstand.
About the same time we had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with
Captain Clifton and his wife, Lady Bertha Clifton, who had rented a
large house on the other side of the lake, and proved very friendly
neighbors. Lady Bertha was extremely handsome; her voice was splendid,
and she sang readily when she was asked. Our neighbors had speculated a
good deal about her probable appearance, ways, and disposition, and the
news that a _lady in her own right_ was coming had created quite a
commotion. I asked to be enlightened on so important a subject, and soon
heard all the details from very willing lips. She was very simple in
dress, and often came to call upon us in a fresh cotton-print gown and
straw hat, with only the feather of a heron or a woodcock in it. Her
husband, Captain Clifton, retired from the army, spoke French fairly
well, and although he had little in common with Gilbert--being an
enthusiastic sportsman--soon became his most constant visitor. Both of
them liked the country and were fond of boating, and they both took an
interest in politics.
A very pleasant feature had been added to the lake by the appearance of
a small steamer belonging to a proprietor beyond Port Sonachan, who came
with his wife to Loch Awe every summer. They invited us from time to
time to join a fishing party, and we had either lunch or supper on
board. There was a cabin for shelter, and the ladies, being thus
protected against the almost unavoidable showers, readily joined the
salmon-fishers.
In this summer of 1860 Aunt Mary came with our cousin Jane, whose sweet
disposition and charm of manner greatly disturbed the peace of mind of a
bachelor visitor, a distant relation of my husband, who was looking
about for a shooting. Everything in his behavior seemed pointing to a
not distant offer; but Gilbert, who was already a good judge of
character, strongly doubted the final step. He said to me: "If Henry is
too sorely tempted, he will run away rather than expose his wealth to
the perils of matrimony; he does not spend his money, he is constantly
earning more and accumulating, but he has told me that no amount of
conjugal happiness could be a compensation to him if, at the end of the
year, he found out that he had spent a thousand pounds more than what he
was accustomed to spend regularly." And it happened that he left
abruptly, just as my husband had foretold, but not without promising a
future commission for two pictures when his billiard-room should be
finished.
The love of boating was very strong in Gilbert, but the love of planning
new boats _with improvements_ was still stronger; in fact, he always had
in a portfolio plans more or less advanced for some kind of boat, and he
very often made models with his own hands. I was in constant fear of the
realization of these plans, of which I heard a great deal more than I
could understand. He was well aware of it, and sometimes stopped short
to say with a smile: "Now, don't go away; I won't bother you any longer
with boats." Unable to resist the temptation of devising improvements,
even when he resisted that of testing them for his own use, he gave the
benefit of his thoughts to his friends when they seemed likely to prove
useful. In the course of the spring, however, he had been at work
planning a much larger boat than those he already possessed; one which
might, when needful, carry a cart-load of goods across the bay, or the
whole camp to any part of the lake. I offered some timid remonstrances
about the probable cost, but he met them by affirming that it would be
an economy _in the end_, by saving labor. So two carpenters were fetched
from Greenock, and began to work under his direction.
The building of the boat, which of course took more time than had been
expected, delayed our departure for France, but at last we set off to
introduce our baby-boy to his relations.
Once in Paris, Mr. Hamerton saw a great deal of his kind friend, William
Wyld, whose advice he was better able to appreciate now that his ideas
about art were no longer topographic. He began at this stage of artistic
culture to enjoy composition and harmony of color; and though he still
thought that his friend's compositions were rather too obviously
artificial, he did not remain blind to their merit. He also saw more of
Alexandre Bixio, brother of the celebrated Garibaldian general, at whose
house he met renowned artists, men of letters, and politicians.
Alexandre Bixio had been one of the founders of the "Revue des Deux
Mondes," with Bulwer Lytton. He had acted as Vice-President of the
Assemblée Nationale, and had been sent to the Court of Victor Emmanuel
as Minister Plenipotentiary, and was an intimate friend of Cavour. One
evening, after dinner at his house, he took Mr. Hamerton aside, and
pointing to a young man engaged in an animated conversation with several
other guests, he said: "I am very much mistaken if that is not a future
Minister of State." "He looks very young," answered my husband, very
much astonished. "He is young, he was born in 1827; but remember his
name, and in a few years you will see if I am right: it is Signor
Sella." Four years later Signor Sella was Minister of Finance.
As my husband has told in his autobiography, I had a sister younger than
myself by seven years, very pretty and winning, about whose future we
were very anxious, on account of the recurring interruptions in her
studies, owing to my mother's distressing state of health. When periods
of illness came on, the whole duty of attendance upon her devolved on my
sister, disastrous as such breaks in her education might prove as the
girl grew up. During the intervals of sickness my mother yielded to our
entreaties, and Caroline was sent to school; but as a day-scholar she
often missed classes for one reason or another, being so often wanted,
and after becoming a boarder she never remained in the same institution
for more than a few months at a time. My mother kept hoping that the
trouble would not return, and tried to persuade us that now Caroline's
studies would be regular, and that being very intelligent, she would
soon be on a par with girls of her own age; but this state of things had
lasted ever since I was married, and I could not foresee the end of it.
We often talked about it, my husband and myself, and he soon guessed
that I wished to have her with us, but that knowing how much he liked
having our home to ourselves I would not ask him to bring another into
it, even though it were my sister. He was, however, with his usual
generosity, the first to offer it. Aware of how much it cost him I
accepted nevertheless, for we were both of one mind, and considered it
as a duty to be done. I looked upon my sister as my child, for my
mother's illness had begun when Caroline was so young that almost all
motherly cares had devolved upon me, who was the eldest. We kept our
project secret to the last, not to disturb the family peace, and being
sure of my father's acquiescence and of Caroline's delight. When the day
came, my husband's persuasion prevailed, and my sister was entrusted to
our care.
This time, while staying at "The Jumps," we noticed a great change in
Aunt Susan's behavior towards us; it was decidedly friendly, with now
and then an almost affectionate touch, and I was told privately that she
had thrown out hints about the pleasure that an invitation to
Innistrynich would give her, so the invitation was given before we left.
My husband applied to Caroline's teaching the system which had proved
effective with me, and made her read English aloud to him whilst he was
painting; I undertook the French and musical part of her education, and
her progress was rapid. For my sake Gilbert was very glad that I had
Caroline with me, because in the course of that year he camped out a
great deal, and it had become impossible for me to accompany him,
another little boy having been born in the beginning of February, and
his delicate health requiring constant care.
Our pecuniary troubles were increasing. The American war having broken
out, the mill, which had been repaired at great cost, was stopped in
consequence, and of course we got no rent either from it or from the
cottages, whilst the expenses of the little farm were heavy--hay being
at an extravagant price, because of the persistent rains, which in the
previous summer had rotted all the cut grass, and made it necessary to
bring hay from England. Although we kept two cows, our supply of milk
and cream was insufficient, and my husband made the calculation that
each cow consumed daily seven shillings' worth of hay in this spring,
though put on short rations. In fact, the state of our affairs greatly
alarmed us, for we did not see any prospect of speedy earnings, and we
began to think of a total change in our way of living which would
materially reduce our expenses. My husband would have been inclined to
remove to the English Lake District, but remembered in time that it was
nearly as wet as the Highlands, and what he wanted as a compensation, if
we left Scotland, was a dry climate which would allow much more time for
out-of-door work.
It so happened that my father, who was now Directeur de l'Usine à Gaz at
Beaucaire, had suffered in health, catching frequent colds through
having to get out of bed to look after the puddlers, to stand before the
fires whilst they were replenished, and to cross a cold, draughty
courtyard in coming back. He had never complained, but my mother thought
it extremely dangerous, and wished that he had a more healthy
occupation.
On the other hand, I had diligently applied myself to our small farm
and garden, with the help of a most valuable and simple guide,
"La Maison Rustique des Dames," by Madame Millet-Robinet, which
had been sent to me as a present by M. Bixio, and I had often thought
that if my efforts were not always thwarted by the inclemency of the
weather, I might count upon a fair return. All this led me to fancy that
if we were to buy a farm in France it might prove a profitable
investment, and I talked the project over with Gilbert. This is the
conclusion he arrived at. He would sell his property, rent a farm in
France, which I should manage with my father, himself remaining entirely
faithful to his artistic and literary studies. If my mother were strong
enough, and my sister willing, they would have a share in the direction,
and even my brothers, later on, if it were to their taste. There were
now many gentlemen-farmers who did not neglect either their work on the
land or their own culture--M. and Madame Millet-Robinet might be cited
as examples.
When the project was communicated to my father, he was very happy at the
idea of living near us, and grateful for the delicate thoughtfulness
which had devised this means of coming to his help under pretext of
asking help from him. Here is part of his answer:--
"MON CHER FUTUR ASSOCIÉ,--Ah ça! pensez-vous donc que j'aie tout à fait
la berlue pour n'avoir pas découvert de prime abord tout l'insidieux de
votre proposition? Il vous faudrait, dites-vous naïvement, pour associé,
un homme actif, exercé, connaissant bien les affaires, la culture, pour
exploiter votre ferme et, plus heureux que Diogène, vous braquez votre
lanterne sur un homme qui dans trois ans sera un quasi vieillard, dejà
valétudinaire aujourd'hui et sachant à peine distinguer le seigle du
froment! Oh! l'admirable cultivateur modèle que vous aurez là! Soyez
franc, mon cher Gendre, vous avez ruminé ce prétexte avec ma fille pour
m'assurer des invalides et donner à ma vieillesse un repos et un abri
que mon labeur n'a pas voulu conquérir au prix de mon honnêteté.
[Footnote: My father had been offered a very important post in the
government of Napoleon III., on condition of accepting his policy, after
the Coup d'État.] Je vous vois venir et j'ai beau être un âne en
agriculture, tout ce qui reussira me sera attribué; mon incapacité sera
couverte d'un manteau de profonde habileté et vous me persuaderez que,
livrés à vos propres lumières, vous ne feriez rien de bon, tandis qu'en
me confiant le soc, c'est à moi que le sillon devra sa richesse."
My mother and my brothers also wrote warmly and gratefully, whilst all
the details of the project were discussed at length in every successive
letter. My father inclined for the purchase of a farm, but Gilbert was
afraid of a possible confiscation of property in case of a war between
England and France.
Meanwhile, Aunt Susan had entered into a regular and friendly
correspondence with me and her nephew, and she wrote on June 27, 1861;--
"MY DEAR NIECE,--My sister and myself are quite annoyed to seem so
dilatory in fixing our time for visiting you; however, we hope (D. V.)
to be with you on Saturday, the sixth of July. I hope your little olive
branches are both quite well, and also your sister; we shall be glad to
renew and make fresh acquaintance amongst the young ones. I suppose
Philip Gilbert will ere this be returned from his long camping
expedition, and I hope he has had a most satisfactory outing. Will you
all accept our united love, and believe me
"Your affectionate aunt,
"SUSAN HAMERTON."
My husband was at home to receive his aunts, and pleased to notice how
amicably we got on together, but he was not prepared for what took place
shortly before their departure. One morning I was gathering strawberries
in the garden, and it was slow work because they were very small, being
the wild species, which had been transplanted for their delicious
flavor. Aunt Susan came up, and offered to help me. Never shall I forget
the scene when we both rose from the strawberry-beds, with our fragrant
little baskets well filled. We turned towards the lake, whose soft, hazy
glamour matched that of the tender sky; the air was still, and there
reigned a serene silence, as if a single sound might have desecrated the
almost religious peace of earth and heaven; yet a smothered sob was
heard as I felt myself caught in a close embrace, my head laid upon a
heaving bosom, my hair moist with warm tears, a broken voice murmuring:
"My child, how I have wronged you!... and I love you so--" "Oh! Aunt
Susan," I said, "don't cry; I will love you too; my husband will be so
happy." We kissed each other, and said no more, and from that time Aunt
Susan became my most faithful friend.
The farm project having been seriously considered by my father, he at
last declared it too hazardous for him to undertake the direction of it.
From the first he had felt unequal to it, for want of the proper
knowledge and preparation; and so much would depend upon its
success--the future of two families. But having had formerly a long
experience in the wine trade, and being a particularly reliable
authority on the qualities and values of Burgundy wines (he was able to
name the _cru_--that is, the place where the grapes were cultivated--of
any wine he tasted, as well as the _cuvée_, namely the year in which it
had been made); and having been in his youth the representative of an
important wine firm in Burgundy, he was more inclined to undertake the
management of a wine business than anything else. He said so to my
husband, adding that the relatives and acquaintances we had in England
might form the beginning of a good connection, and that his own name as
head of the firm would secure a good many customers both in France and
Belgium. His son-in-law was soon convinced of the wisdom of these
reasons, and it was decided that towards the end of the year we would go
to France to choose a new residence, suited to the requirements of the
wine business, and situated in a part sufficiently picturesque to lend
itself to artistic representation. It was stipulated that the name of
Hamerton should not be used; the title of the firm was to be "Gindriez
et Cie.," my husband being sleeping partner only.
CHAPTER VII.
1861-1863.
Effects of the Highland climate.--Farewell to Loch Awe.--Journey to the
South of France.--Death of Miss Mary Hamerton.--Settlement at
Sens.--Death of M. Gindriez.--Publication of the "Painter's
Camp."--Removal to Pré-Charmoy.
Very few people can stand the climate of the Highlands without suffering
from it; it is so damp and so depressing in winter-time, when the wind
howls so piteously in the twisted branches of the Scotch firs, and when
the rain imprisons one for weeks within liquid walls of unrelieved
grayness. Mr. Hamerton, since he came to Innistrynich, had repeatedly
suffered from what he believed to be toothache, although his teeth were
all perfectly sound, and the pain being always attended by insomnia, was
a cause of weakness and fatigue detrimental to his general health. The
doctor said it was congestion of the gums, due to the excess of moisture
in the climate, which had not been favorable to either of us; for I had
also discovered that my hearing was becoming impaired, and these were
weighty additional reasons for removing elsewhere. I had been somewhat
anxious at times, when I saw him fall suddenly into a state of
listlessness and prostration, but as he always recovered his energy and
resumed his usual avocations after a short sleep, I thought it must be
the result of temporary exhaustion, for which nature kindly sent the
best remedy--restoring sleep; and as he had told me he had always
experienced the greatest difficulty in getting to sleep before midnight
or at regular hours, and especially in getting a sufficiency of sleep in
the course of the night, it seemed a natural compensation for the
system, that an occasional nap should now and then become
irrepressible,--the more so on account of his customary nocturnal rides,
sails, or walks. To the end of his life the hours of the night seemed to
him quite as fit for any sort of occupation as those of the day, and it
made little difference to him whether it was dark or light; indeed at
one time, years later, when at Pré-Charmoy, he began, to the
stupefaction of his country neighbors, to call upon them at nine or ten
in the summer evenings, and then to propose a row on the pond or a walk
by moonlight; but it happened not unfrequently that he could get no
admittance, rural habits having sent the inhabitants to their early
beds; or else if they were still found in a state of wakefulness, they
did not evince the slightest desire to be out with a _noctambule_, and
even hinted that it might look objectionable and vagabondish in case
they were seen. He was greatly astonished at this new point of view; for
it was merely to spare the working hours of the day that he took his
relaxation in the night.
A good many more pictures had been painted in the course of the year,
and had suggested many "Thoughts about Art," which had been duly
consigned to the manuscript of the "Painter's Camp." Aunt Mary, who was
kept _au courant_, wrote: "How can you, dear Philip Gilbert, find time
to paint so much, and to write so much?" It was now necessary to be more
industrious than ever, in order to have a sufficient number of works to
cover the walls of the exhibition room, the project being near its
realization and matured in all its details. My husband was to take me,
our children, and Caroline to my parents at Beaucaire, and leave us
there while he went in search of a house, then back again to the
Highlands for the removal, and before joining me again he was to
organize the exhibition in London with the help of Thursday, and leave
him in charge of it.
About the middle of October, 1861, we started for our long journey
southwards, with mingled feelings of deep regret for what we left
behind,--the country we still loved so much, the associations with the
births of our children and the laborious and hopeful beginnings of an
artistic and literary career, as well as the tender memories of the
growth of our union, which solitude had tested and strengthened and made
so perfect and complete; then if we looked forward, it was with joyful
feelings for the lasting reunion of the family, for the peace and
happiness we were going to give to my father's old age, and also for
future success and easier circumstances.
We stopped at Todmorden to say farewell to our relations, and also paid
farewell visits to some friends, amongst them Mrs. Butler and her
husband--Mr. Hamerton's Burnley schoolmaster; to Mr. Handsley, for whom
he had as much esteem as affection, and to his half-cousins Abram and
Henry Milne, who had agreed to purchase his property, and had given him
a commission for the two pictures already spoken of at Loch Awe, and
destined for the billiard-room, which had been built in the meantime,
and was now used daily.
On arriving at Beaucaire, we found my mother in much better health than
formerly, but my father looked aged, we thought; however, he was much
cheered by our prospects, and entered heartily into every detail
concerning them.
My husband had not much time to spare, and he made the most of it;
together we saw Arles, Nîmes, the Pont du Gard, and Montmajour, and
called upon Roumieu, the Provençal poet, to whom we were introduced by
friends. We used to roam along the shores of the Rhône in the twilight,
the noble river affording us a perpetual source of admiration, and one
evening, when we were bending over one of its bridges looking at the
swollen and tumultuous waves after a storm, we became spellbound by the
tones of a superb voice, coming as it seemed from the sky, and singing
with happy ease and unconcern, one after the other, some of the most
difficult parts in the opera of "William Tell." We dared not speak for
fear of losing a few notes, for the rich, full voice hardly paused
between two songs, never betraying the slightest effort or fatigue;
half-an-hour later it ceased altogether, and we went to my father's full
of our discovery.
"Oh! it's Villaret of the brewery; yes, a splendid tenor, but he has
long been discovered; only he has no musical education, and his
relatives won't hear of his going on the stage. Alexandre Dumas, after
listening to him, offered to pay all necessary expenses to enable him to
attend the Conservatoire, but it was of no use: they are very religious
in the family, and have an insurmountable horror of theatres. He is,
himself, a very simple, good-natured fellow, and does not require much
pressing to sing whenever he is asked. I know some of his friends, and
the lady organist of the church particularly; and if you wish to hear
him at her house, I dare say she would give a _soirée_ to that end."
Two days later we were invited by the lady to meet him, and with evident
pleasure, but without vanity, he sang several pieces, with very great
power and feeling. At last, when the company were leaving, the lady of
the house took Gilbert aside to beg him to remain a little longer with
Villaret, and when everybody else had left, she said: "Now, Monsieur
Villaret, I count upon the pleasure of listening to my favorite piece in
'La Muette de Portici.' I am going to play the accompaniment." "I would
if I could, to oblige you," he answered; "but you are aware of my
weakness. I never can do justice to it, because I can't master my
emotion." "Never mind; you must fancy we are alone together. Mr.
Hamerton and his wife will remain at the other end of the salon, behind
your back; and what then if you break down?... no one will be any the
worse for it." She sat down and began the accompaniment of that most
exquisitely tender song,--
"De ton coeur bannis les alarmes,
Qu'un songe heureux sèche les larmes
Qui coulent encore de tes yeux."
The words were hardly audible; but we were so moved by the marvellous
purity of the pathetic voice that tears stood in our eyes. As for the
singer, tears rolled down his face. It was one of those rare and perfect
pleasures that are never forgotten. A few years later Villaret made his
_début_ as first tenor at the Opéra in Paris with great success. He was
very generous with tickets to his early friends and fellow-citizens;
some of his most intolerant relatives had died, and he had yielded at
last to the general wish.
Now came for my husband and myself the longest separation in our married
life. It lasted two months, and seemed at least two years, so sad and
wearied did we grow. He wrote every night succinctly what had been done
in the course of the day, and sent me his letters three times a week.
When beds had been packed up or sold, our kind neighbors, Mr. and Mrs.
Whitney, offered him hospitality, which he gratefully accepted, till
everything was cleared out of Innistrynich and on its way to Sens, in
the department of the Yonne, where our new residence was to be.
On his way to Sens, Gilbert stayed a few days with his aunts, but left
them for a short time, and concluded the sale of his property to Henry
Milne. It was but a poor bargain, the times being bad for the cotton
district on account of the American war; but he had no alternative,
having engaged to find capital for the wine business, and even needing
money for daily expenses, for as yet he earned nothing.
What he had been in dread of for so many years, on account of his Aunt
Mary's state of health, happened just as he was returning to "The
Jumps," and when he saw his uncle Thomas awaiting him at the station he
had a foreboding of the truth. "Aunt Mary is dead?" ... "Not dead yet,
but unconscious, and there is no hope. This morning when Susan was in
the breakfast-room, waiting for her sister, she heard a stamping
overhead, followed by a dull, heavy thud, and on rushing upstairs found
Mary stretched on the floor and moaning, but unconscious. She has been
put to bed and attended by doctors; but there is nothing to be done, and
they say that she does not suffer." Mournfully my husband ascended
alone, in the dark night, the steep hill up which he had so often walked
gayly to see his beloved guardian; tenderly he watched at her bedside
for forty-eight hours, till she breathed no more, and at last reverently
accompanied her remains to the chosen place, which he never omitted to
visit afterwards, every time he came to Todmorden. He wrote to say what
a satisfaction it was to think that his aunt had seen him only a few
hours before the attack, and when it came she must have felt him so near
to her.
I remember an incident which took place on the day we took leave of Aunt
Mary to go to Innistrynich; she had invited two of her nieces to lunch
with us at "The Jumps." When we left the house, some time in the
afternoon, I went first with my cousins, leaving nephew and aunt
together for more intimate communing, and when my husband reached us,
his eyes were still moist and his voice tremulous. The girls
thoughtlessly teased him about it, and twitted him with his weakness;
but he did not allow them to amuse themselves long, he cowed them with a
violence of contempt which terrified me, whilst I could not help
admiring it. "Yes," he said, "I have shed tears--not unmanly tears--and
if you are not capable of entering into the feelings of grateful love
and regret which wring these tears out of my heart, I despise you for
your heartlessness." His voice had recovered its firmness and rang loud,
his eyes shot flames, he looked more than human. These startling
outbursts of generous or honest passion were one of his most marked
characteristics; they occurred but rarely, but when they did occur
nothing could abate their terrific violence; a single word in mitigation
would have acted like oil on the flames. It must be explained that they
were always justified by the cause, and it was impossible not to admire
such genuine and high-minded resentment against meanness or dishonesty,
or in some cases against what he considered insulting to his sense of
honor. For instance, on one occasion a very important sale of works of
art was to take place abroad, and he was asked to contribute some notes
to the catalogue. It was hinted--clearly enough--that any words of
praise would be handsomely acknowledged. He resented the offer like a
blow on the face, blushed crimson with ardent indignation, and almost
staggered to the writing-table; there he seized a postcard, and in
large, clear, print-like letters threw back the insult with cutting
contempt. The sense of having cleared his honor somewhat relieved him,
and after waiting for a propitious moment I tried to persuade him,
before the card was posted, that the offence was not so heinous as it
looked, the writer not knowing him personally, and merely imagining
himself to be acting in conformity with a prevalent custom, which some
critics were far from resenting. All I could obtain, however, was an
envelope for the terrible postcard.
Now to resume the narrative. I left Beaucaire to join my husband at
Havre on his return, and after visiting the town together we hastened to
our new house at Sens, which I longed to see, for it had been chosen in
my absence, and though I had received minute descriptions of it, I was
not able to realize its appearance or surroundings. It was one of the
large, roomy _maisons bourgeoises_, so numerous in French provincial
towns at that time, built for the convenience of the owner, and not in
order to be let as an investment. It was perfectly suitable for the
double purpose Gilbert had in view--with a spacious carriage entrance,
courtyard, cellars, barns, and stable for the wine trade, and large,
commodious, well-lighted rooms for residence. But to my regret there was
no garden,--a great privation for me; however, my husband told me that
our landlord had promised to make one if I cared so much for it. I did
care very much, as the only view from the house was that of other houses
and walls on the other side of the street; but when asked to fulfil his
promise, the landlord said it was a misunderstanding, he had merely
given leave for _us_ to make a garden in the courtyard if we liked, or
else he would let us have one for a moderate rent, outside of the town,
a common habit at Sens. However, as I did not appreciate the pleasure of
an hour's walk every time I wished to smell a flower in my garden, we
declined the offer, and my husband kindly planned a narrow flower-bed
all along the base of the walls in the courtyard, which looked gay
enough when the plants were in full bloom, and the walls were hidden by
convolvulus, nasturtiums, and Virginia creepers.
Even before the house was furnished and in order, Gilbert was eager to
begin his commission pictures; but he soon found that even our large
rooms were too small for a studio, and the light was not good for
painting; but at the same time, I believe he was not _really_ sorry,
because it gave him a plausible excuse for turning one of the barns into
a capital studio.
This outbuilding offered great and tempting advantages; it was isolated
from the house, therefore silent and private; it might be lighted from
the north, and was sufficiently spacious to allow a part to be divided
off for a laboratory. Being greatly interested in architecture and
building, my husband derived great pleasure from the execution of his
own plans, even in such a small matter. I vainly attempted to reconcile
him to the idea of using one of the large rooms, standing in fear of the
expense; but I could not help admitting that with his propensity for
large canvases, which I deprecated all my life, a studio was
indispensable; and, after all, as it seemed almost certain that we
should stay there a great many years, it was not of much importance,
especially after having lived in terror of seeing him undertake the
building of a tower, or the restoration of an old castle like
Kilchurn,--a dream that he often indulged, as numerous designs bore
testimony.
The first thing considered by Gilbert when he settled at Sens was the
choice of subjects for his commission pictures, which he intended to
paint directly from nature; and he soon selected panoramic landscape
views from the top of a small vine-clad hill, called St. Bon, which
commands an extensive prospect of the river Yonne, and of the plains
about it. On the summit of this eminence there is a kiosk belonging to
the archbishop, who readily granted the use of it to the artist for
sheltering his pictures, brushes, colors, etc. But the artist was not
one who could bear confinement, and the kiosk was but a tiny affair, and
not movable, so two of the tents were set up at its foot, and formed a
painter's camp, which attracted so many curious visitors that it was
thought unsafe to leave it at their mercy; and when Gilbert went back
home for the night a watchman, well armed with pistols and a gun, took
his place. Every day, when the great summer heat had abated, I used to
set off with the children to go and meet my husband at the foot of the
hill, and we returned together to the house, attempting on the way to
make the boys speak English, but without success, for the eldest, who
spoke _nothing_ but English when I had left him two months before at
Beaucaire, now chose to gabble in Provençal, which he had picked up from
his nurse, regardless of his Aunt Caroline's efforts to make him talk in
his native tongue. Subsequently, when he perceived that no one
understood him, he quickly dropped his Provençal and replaced it by
French, but would not trouble himself to speak two different languages
together.
By the care and thoughtfulness of Gilbert, a pretty little house and
garden had been prepared for his father-in-law and family, at a short
distance from our own dwelling, where the office of the business was now
ready on the ground-floor, completely fitted up, and separated from the
private dwelling.
My mother had come first with my brothers and sister, whilst my father
remained a little longer to put his successor _au courant_. But it
seemed to me that the delay was longer than we had foreseen, and I began
to grow anxious on account of my letters remaining unanswered; then I
was told that my father was very busy, not very well, and that he could
not write. About a month later he wrote that he was now well enough to
undertake the journey, and with great rejoicings we prepared to receive
him; but when I noticed how altered he was, how thin, how weak, all my
joy forsook me, and it was almost beyond my power not to let him read it
in my face. Courageous as ever, he tried to be and to _look_ happy, and
talked of setting to work immediately. I learned now that he had been
dangerously ill, but that his malady had been kept secret to spare me.
A few trying months followed, during which we passed alternately from
hope to fear, the most distressing feature of this sorrowful time being
my poor father's desperate struggle for life. "I must and I will live to
work; it is my duty to get well; I have a heavy debt and responsibility
now that you are involved in this business," he used to say to his
son-in-law. He had the greatest confidence in his friend, Alphonse
Guérin, the celebrated discoverer of the antiseptic method of dressing
wounds, and thought that if any one could cure him it was A. Guérin, who
had prescribed for him throughout his life in Paris. Accordingly to
Paris he went, and died there shortly after, notwithstanding the devoted
care of his doctor.
Everything seemed to turn against my husband's wisest plans, but nothing
daunted by this last fearful blow, he at once offered his mother-in-law
a pension sufficient to enable her children to carry on their education;
this pension would gradually be diminished as the children became able
to earn money for themselves and to take their share in the maintenance
of their mother. The fact was, that from that time he had two families
to keep.
Besides the studies at St. Bon, he had begun two pictures of large
dimensions in his studio, and worked at them steadily. As he could not
sit down, this excess of fatigue brought on a very serious illness,
which kept him in bed for nearly a fortnight, and it was the only
instance of his submission to such an order from a physician during the
whole course of our married life, but it was rendered imperative by the
nature of the disorder. He hated remaining in bed when awake, at all
times, and he could not stand it at all in the hours of day; later on he
had the measles, and still later he suffered from gout, but he would not
stay in bed in either case, and during the first attack of gout, which
was as severe as unexpected, he remained for twenty-one nights without
going to bed.
This illness prevented him from attending the marriage of his eldest
cousin Anne Hamerton, about which her sister wrote on July 22, 1862,
that it was to take place on August 6, and after giving a good many
details she observed: "You may be above such vanities, but I think
Eugénie may be a little interested; poor Eugénie, how anxious she must
have been, having you in your room so long! How are your pictures
progressing? It must decidedly be a punishment to you to be limited to
time at your easel, particularly now, when you must feel so wishful to
get on with your commissions."
After his recovery, my husband arranged his work in a manner which
divided the hours into sitting ones and standing ones, to avoid a return
of the late inflammatory symptoms; and there never was a recurrence of
them.
The pictures were in a fairly advanced stage when Mr. William Wyld came
on a visit of a few days and gave him valuable advice about them. His
Aunt Susan said in a subsequent letter: "I am very glad Mr. Wyld has
been to see your pictures, and though you may be a little dissatisfied
that your present works will be 'dirt cheap,' still the cheering opinion
of them will give you great courage, I hope. I shall certainly go to see
them as soon as they get to Agnew's."
So much for the art department. For the literary one the "Painter's
Camp" had been accepted by Mr. Macmillan, and we were in a fever of
excitement awaiting its publication. As to the wine business, after
remaining irresolute for some time, Gilbert had accepted the proposition
of a friend to assume what should have been my father's part,--with this
alteration, however, that he would pay interest on the funds confided to
him, and share the clear profits with the sleeping partner.
This episode in my husband's life was so bitter, and involved him in
such difficulties, that I will cut it short. Suffice it to say, that
though the partnership was continued for a few years, during which the
interest of the money came but irregularly, the capital was entirely and
irremediably lost in the end.
When autumn came, the commission pictures were sent to Manchester for
exhibition, and shortly after Mr. Milne declined to accept them, on the
plea that he did not care for the subjects: the real reason being that
his sensitive heart had been again impressed--this time by a young
governess, of whom he had bought two copies after Greuze, which were now
occupying the place formerly destined for his cousin's works. However,
another friend soon became their purchaser, but for the artist the
disappointment remained.
Sadness for the loss of his aunt, Mrs. Thomas Hamerton, which happened
just at that time, and sympathy with his uncle in these trying moments,
spoilt the pleasure Gilbert had anticipated from the visit to his
relations which we made that year. We were to go back to France with
return tickets; and the time allowed being nearly over, we went to take
leave of our friends at West Lodge, when we learned that Mrs. T.
Hamerton, who had lately been suffering from an attack of gout, had
succumbed to its weakening effects. Regardless of the pecuniary loss, my
husband immediately expressed his determination to stay as long as he
could be of any help to his uncle. We therefore sacrificed our tickets,
and went back to "The Jumps," whence he came down every day to spare his
uncle all the painful formalities of a funeral. We only left when the
run of ordinary habits had been re-established at West Lodge, but even
then we felt that a new misfortune was lurking in the silent house, for
the health of Jane Hamerton, who had never been very strong, now began
to disquiet her friends, particularly my husband, whose affection for
her was very true and tender. Aunt Susan, who was her devoted but
clear-sighted nurse, wrote to us in the course of the summer that her
case was very serious, notwithstanding the short periods of improvement
occurring at intervals. The poor girl had grown very weak and lost her
appetite; almost constantly feverish, she longed for fruit to refresh
her parched mouth and quench her thirst. As soon as he became aware of
this longing, Gilbert began to plan how he might gratify it, and it
appeared easy enough, as we were in a land of plenty; but the time
required for the transport of such delicacies as grapes and peaches
threatened ominously their safe arrival. However, we would run the risk
to give a little relief to our dear invalid, and we would take the
greatest precautions in the packing. So we went to a fruit-grower,
taking with us a large box filled with dry bran and divided into
compartments: one was filled with melons, another with grapes, the last
with peaches, every one taken from the tree, vine, or plant with our own
hands, then wrapped in tissue-paper and protected all round with bran.
The result will be seen in the following letter from Jane:--
"MY DEAR EUGENIE AND P. G.--A thousand thanks for the enormous box of
fruit, which arrived here to-day about noon: it is quite a honey-fall to
the inhabitants of West Lodge, more especially to me. I am very happy to
tell you that the grapes have arrived in perfect condition, and that the
melons seem to have suffered only outwardly, as the one cut into is
quite luscious and good. The sausage (_saucisson de Lyon_) also appears
to have borne the journey well, but has not yet been tasted, so the next
letter from Todmorden must give the opinion upon it, but it certainly
looks to me a most comical affair; and to tell last the only
disagreeable thing, it is about the peaches, which were all in a
dreadful mess, and quite mixed up with the bran and scarcely fit to
touch, though Aunt Susan did take out one or two to see the extent of
the decay. How very provoking for you both when you heard of the
detention at Havre, particularly when P. G. had taken such precautions
with regard to the outside directions."
If I have given such apparently trivial details at length, it was to
show how generous of his time and thought was my husband in everything
concerning affection or pity; his sympathy was always ready and active,
and he never begrudged his exertions to give relief or comfort to those
in need of either.
It had been most fortunate for the young author of the "Painter's Camp
in the Highlands" that the MS. of the book happened to come under the
eyes of Mr. Macmillan himself, who, being in want of rest, and attracted
by the title, had taken it with him in the country and had read it with
great delight. Being a Scotchman, he was in immediate sympathy with so
fervent an admirer of the Highlands as my husband, and had at once
agreed to publish the book.
From the first it was a success: the freshness of the narrative, the
novelty of the subject, the truthfulness and charm of the descriptions
were duly appreciated, together with the earnest (if still immature)
expressions of the "Thoughts about Art." The book soon found its way to
America, where it attracted the notice of Roberts Brothers' publishing
house. They were charmed with it, and published an edition in America.
The "Painter's Camp" was well received by the Press of both nations, and
the reviews were numerous. It was compared to "Robinson Crusoe" and
called "unique." The author was very much amused to hear that "Punch"
had given an illustrated notice of it under the title of "A Painter
Scamp in the Highlands."
This success--almost unexpected--led my husband to accept proposals for
other literary productions, the most important at that time being
contributed to the "Fine Arts Quarterly Review," and beginning with an
elaborate criticism of the Salon of 1863. He also began to write for the
"Cornhill" and "Macmillan's Magazine," much against his wish, merely
because painting was a source of expense without a return.
Although, my husband had himself chosen Sens for his residence, his
choice had been dictated by necessity, to a great extent, rather than by
preference. It was a combination of conveniences for different purposes,
but the kind of scenery was so far from giving entire satisfaction to
his artistic tastes that he began to suffer seriously from mountain
nostalgia. He admired the river, and had upon it a lovely rowing-boat,
bought of the best boat-builder at Asnières, and he used it often, but
without finding river landscape a compensation for mountain scenery. In
fear of a serious illness, we thought it better to gratify the longing,
and devised a plan for a journey to Switzerland which would greatly
reduce the expense without spoiling the pleasure. It was this: The new
line of railway from Neufchâtel to Pontarlier had just been opened, and
passed through the most beautiful scenery. Gilbert offered the company
an article in an English paper in return for two travelling tickets, for
himself and his wife, and the offer was accepted.
It was a charming holiday. We stayed a few days at Neufchâtel with
friends, and visited at our leisure Geneva, Lausanne, Lucerne, Bâle, and
Berne, and after feasting his eyes on Mont Pilatus, the Jungfrau, and
Mont Blanc, my husband came back cured. He had sometimes spoken of the
possibility of a removal to Geneva (before we had been there), on
account of the lake and Mont Blanc; but I objected that we did not know
the place. To this objection he had a very characteristic answer: "_You_
don't know the place, but I know it as well as if I had dwelt there,
after reading so many descriptions of it, and being aware of its
geographical situation." When I remarked that it was quite different
from what I had anticipated, he said: "It is exactly what I had
imagined." He often used to tell us that he had no need of going to
Rome, or Vienna, or to any other celebrated town, to know its general
aspect, for he had studied their monuments in detail, the prevailing
character of their architecture, that of the inhabitants with their
costumes and manners, and he was even acquainted with the names and
directions of the principal streets.
At the end of the year, our sweet cousin Jane died with great
resignation, thankful to be delivered from her long, wearying,
consumptive pains. Aunt Susan had volunteered to be her bed-fellow from
the month of June, in order to move her gently, and to support the poor
wasted frame upon her own, to relieve the bed-sores by a change of
posture; her devotion had been indefatigable and unrelieved, for her
invalid niece would accept attendance from no one else.
This loss was keenly felt by my husband, whose little playfellow she had
been; the threatening symptoms of the disease had prevented her coming
to us, together with her father and aunt, as it was proposed they should
do in the summer, and now grief did not allow her bereaved relatives to
entertain the idea of a change.
It is likely enough that the series of sorrows and disappointments we
had experienced since we came to Sens prevented our growing attached to
the place; it may be also that our roomy but thoroughly commonplace
house, being one of a row in a street devoid of interest, never answered
in the least to our need of poetry or even of privacy, particularly with
our minds and hearts still full of dear Innistrynich; but certain it is
that we did not feel the slightest regret at the idea of leaving it
forever; nay, we even longed to be away from it. This feeling was common
to both of us, yet we both refrained from mentioning it to each other
for some time, thinking it unreasonable, till we came to discuss it
together, and to agree that it would not be unreasonable to exchange a
house too large for our wants for a smaller one at a lower rent, and a
town life that neither of us enjoyed for a simpler mode of living in
some picturesque country-place more suitable for my husband's artistic
taste.
It must be explained that our partner had decided to take a house in the
very heart of Burgundy to carry on the business, on the plea that the
name of the renowned vineyards surrounding it, being on the address,
were likely to inspire confidence in the customers. He added that the
situation would also be more favorable for his purchases, sales, and
business journeys, and of course, being the only working partner, he
acted as he liked. Then what was the use now of those empty cellars,
dreary paved courtyard, and formal office? We had no pleasant
associations there, having made no friends on account of our
mourning--why should we remain against our inclination?
We decided to remove as soon as we had discovered something for which we
might form a real liking, and the result of our experience has been
given at length by Mr. Hamerton in "Round my House," to which I refer
the reader for details which could not find place in the following brief
account of our search.
It was begun on the shores of the Rhône, whose noble landscape my
husband so much admired. But although the scenery was very tempting to
an artist, _that_ was not the only condition to be considered, and we
were soon discouraged by the prevailing dirtiness and slovenliness of
the people, and by what we heard of the disastrous inundations. We were
also afraid of our children catching the horrid accent of the country.
So we thought of the Saône district, Gilbert being unable to bear the
idea of being at a remote distance from an expanse of water of some
kind.
Here again the landscape was appreciated, though for charms different
from those of the Rhône. Unluckily we could not find a suitable house in
a good situation, and we also learned that intermittent fevers were very
prevalent, on account of the periodical overflows of the Saône.
We tried after that the vine-land of Burgundy, where Gilbert told me
what he has repeated in "Round my House": "There is no water, with its
pleasant life and changefulness, here." I also agreed with him in
thinking the renowned vineyards of the Côte d'Or most monotonous, except
during a very short time indeed, when they are clothed in the splendor
of gold and purple, just before a cruel night of frost strips them bare,
and only leaves the blackened _paisceaux_ visible, for more than six
months at a time. Then we turned to the beautiful valley of the Doubs,
and discovered the very dwelling of our dreams, in which were found all
the conditions that we thought desirable. However, we were doomed to a
new disappointment, for the owner, when we offered to take it, changed
her mind and coolly declined to let.
Fortunately, some time later, a friend directed us to quite another
region, that of the Autunois, to see a very similar house, offering
about the same advantages. There were a few points of difference; for
instance, the little river encircling the garden was only a
trout-stream, instead of the broad and placid Doubs; the building was
also of more modest appearance. As compensations, however, there were
picturesque and extensive views from every window; the situation was
more private, and the solitude of the small wild park with its beautiful
trees at once enchanted Gilbert. So we decided to take Pré-Charmoy.
CHAPTER VIII.
1863-1868.
Canoeing on the Ternin.--Visit of relatives.--Tour in Switzerland.--
Experiments in etching.--The "Saturday Review."--Journeys to
London.--Plan of "Etching and Etchers."--New friends in London.
--Etchings exhibited at the Royal Academy.--Serious illness in
London.--George Eliot.--Professor Seeley.
NOT to waste his time in the work of removal and fitting up, Mr.
Hamerton remained behind at Sens, to finish the copying of a window by
Jean Cousin in the cathedral and some other drawings, begun to
illustrate an article on this artist. We had all gone forward to
Pré-Charmoy, and when he arrived there, everything being already in
order, he continued his work without interruption. He was delighted with
the unpretentious little house, and with its views from every window;
with the silent, shady, wild garden, and its group of tall poplars by
the clear, cool, winding river which divided it from the pastures on the
other side, and he often repeated to us with a smile, "Pré-Charmoy
charme moi." Although the house was small, there were a good many rooms
in it, and the master had for himself alone a studio (an ordinary-sized
room), a study, and a carpenter's shop--for he was fond of carpentry in
his leisure hours, and far from unskilful. He liked to make experimental
boats with his own hands, and moreover he found out that some kind of
physical exercise was necessary to him as a relief from brain-work, for
if the weather was bad and he took no exercise he began to feel liable
to a sort of uncomfortable giddiness. I wished him to consult a doctor
about it, but he believed that it would go away after a while, for it
had come on quite lately while painting on an open scaffolding inside
the cathedral at Sens, when he could see through the planks and all
round far below him, and this had produced, at times, a kind of vertigo.
The pretty little boat bought at Asnières was all very well for the
Arroux which flows by Autun, but for the narrow, shallow, winding Ternin
and the Vesure, some other kind of craft had to be devised, and paper
boats were built upon basket-work skeletons, and tried with more or less
success. My eldest brother Charles, who had finished his classical
studies and was now preparing to become an architect, used to come from
Mâcon for the holidays, sometimes bringing a friend with him, and
together with Gilbert they went exploring the "Unknown Rivers." They
generally came home dripping wet, having abandoned their canoes in the
entanglement of roots and weeds after a sudden upset, and having to go
and fetch them back with a cart, unless the shipwreck was caused by an
unsuspected branch under water, or by the swift rush of a current
catching the frail concern and carrying it away altogether, whilst the
venturesome navigator was gathering his wits on the pebbles of the
river-bed.
Towards the end of August, Mr. Thomas Hamerton and his sister Susan came
to visit us. They liked the Autunois--at least what they saw of it--
exceedingly, but they suffered much from the heat, particularly our
uncle, who had remained true to his youthful style of dress: high shirt-
collar sawing the ears and stiffened by a white, starched choker, rolled
several times about the neck; black cloth trousers, long black
waistcoat, and ample riding-coat of the same color and material. He was
also careful never to put aside either flannel undergarments or woollen
socks. Our kind uncle was a pattern of propriety in everything, but the
fierce heat of a French August on a plain surrounded by a circle of
hills was too much even for Mr. T. Hamerton's propriety, and he had to
beg leave to remove his coat and to sit in his shirt-sleeves. There was
a stone table under a group of fine horse-chestnuts in the garden, not
far from the little river, to which we used to resort after dinner with
our work and books in search of coolness, and there even my husband did
his writing. One afternoon, when we were sitting as usual in this shady
arbor, all silent, uncle dozing behind the newspaper, and his nephew
intent on literary composition, what was our astonishment at the sight
of sedate Aunt Susan suddenly jumping upon the table and remaining like
a marble statue upon its stone pedestal, and quite as white. We all
looked up, and uncle pushed his spectacles high on his forehead to have
a better sight of so strange an attitude for his sister to take. At last
Aunt Susan pointed to something gliding away in the grass, and gasped:
"A serpent! oh, dear, oh, dear, a serpent!" Vainly did my husband try to
calm her fright by explaining that it was only an adder going to seek
the moisture of the river-bank and never intending to attack any one,
that they were plentiful and frequently to be met with, when their first
care was to pass unnoticed; our poor aunt would not be persuaded to
descend from her pedestal for some time, and not before she was provided
with a long and stout stick to beat the grass about her as she went back
to the house.
Mr. T. Hamerton's intention, as well as his sister's, was to go to
Chamouni and the Mer de Glace, and to ask their nephew to act as guide.
He was glad enough to avail himself of the opportunity for studying
mountain scenery, but felt somewhat disappointed that I declined being
one of the party, from economical motives.
The letters I received during their tour bore witness to a fervent
appreciation of the landscape, of which a memento was desired, and
Gilbert undertook to paint for his relatives a small picture of Mont
Blanc after reaching home; meanwhile, he took several sketches to help
him. As he was relating to me afterwards the incidents of the journey,
he remembered a rather amusing one. At Bourg, where they had stopped to
see the church of Brou, he came down to the dining-room of the hotel and
found his uncle and aunt seated at their frugal English breakfast of tea
and eggs, which he did not share because tea did not agree with him, but
took up a newspaper and waited for the _table d'hote_.
"My word!" exclaimed his uncle, when _déjeuner_ was over, "but you do
not stint yourself. I counted the dishes: omelette, beef-steak and
potatoes, cray-fish and trout, roasted pigeons and salad, cheese,
grapes, and biscuits, without mentioning a full bottle of wine. Excuse
my curiosity, but I should like to know how much you will have to pay
for such a repast?"
"Exactly two francs and fifty centimes," answered his nephew; "and I
dare say your tea, toast, butter, and eggs will come to pretty near the
same amount, for here tea is an out-of-the-way luxury, and also you had
a separate table to yourselves, whilst the _table d'hôte_ is a
democratic institution."
"Then let us be democrats as long as we remain in France, if the thing
does not imply being deprived of tea."
From London, on her way back, Aunt Susan wrote:--
"We went to the Bedford Hotel, Covent Garden, and bespoke beds, got
something to eat, and then set out. Our first visit was to 196
Piccadilly, where Thursday was glad to see us, and where we stayed a
long time, well pleased to look at your pictures. I like them all
exceedingly, and could not decide on a choice; they each had in them
something I liked particularly. When we had been gone away some time, we
remembered we had not paid our admission, so we went back; this afforded
us another looking at the pictures and also a pleasing return of a small
etching; our choice was 'Le four et la terrasse de Pré-Charmoy!' We were
well contented with what we got, but I did think the proofs beautiful."
Mr. Hamerton's strong love of etching had now led him to the practice of
it, and for several hours every day he struggled against its technical
difficulties. Full of hope and trust in a final success, he turned from
a spoilt plate to a fresh one without discouragement, always eager and
relentless. His main fault, as I thought, was attempting too much finish
and effect, and I used to tell him so. He acknowledged that I was right,
and when taking up a new plate he used to say playfully: "Now _this_ is
going to be a good etching; you don't believe it because you are a
little sceptic, but you'll see--I mean not to carry it far." Then before
biting he showed it me with "Look at it before it is spoilt." It was
rarely spoilt in the biting, but by subsequent work. Many charming
proofs I greatly admired. "Oh! this is only a sketch; you will see the
improvement when I have darkened this mass." Then I begged hard that it
should be left as it was, and I was met by arguments that I could not
discuss,--"the effect was not true so," "the lights were too strong," or
"the darks too heavy;" "but _very little_ retouching was necessary," and
it ended in the pretty sketch being destroyed after having been
re-varnished and re-bitten two or three times. When it was no longer
shown to me, I was aware of its fate. The amount of labor bestowed upon
etching by my husband was stupendous, as he had to seek his way without
help or advice. A plate once begun, he could not bring himself to leave
it--not even in the night, and at that time he always had one in hand.
Heedless of his self-imposed rules about the division of hours for
literary work and artistic work, he devoted himself almost entirely to
the pursuit of etching. This made me very uneasy, for it had become
imperative that he should make his work pay. The tenant of the coal-mine
had reiterated his decision not to pay rent any longer, and when
threatened with a law-suit answered that he would put it in Chancery. I
had been told that a suit in Chancery might last over twenty years, and
we had no means to carry it on. We were therefore obliged to abandon all
idea of redress, and were left _entirely_ dependent upon the earnings of
my husband, which were derived from his contributions to the "Fine Arts
Quarterly Review," and to a few periodicals of less importance. From
that period of overwork and anxiety dates the nervousness from which he
suffered so much throughout his life; though at that time he believed it
to be only temporary. He sought relief in outdoor exercise, especially
in canoeing, and this suggested the "Unknown River," published later,
but based on the excursions undertaken at that time, and on sketches and
etchings done on the way.
The picture painted in remembrance of the journey in Switzerland had
been finished and dispatched, and this is what Aunt Susan wrote about
it:--
"We are now in possession of our picture, which we received from Agnew
yesterday morning, and we are very much pleased with it; my impression
is that it is a very good, well-finished painting: we have not yet
concluded where to hang it for a proper and good light. We are very glad
to hear that _Mamzelle_ Mary Susan Marguerite (as Uncle Thomas called
her) is thriving and good; be sure and give her a kiss for each of us."
_Mamzelle_ Mary Susan Marguerite had been born early in the spring, and
to the general wonder of the household, seemed to have reconciled her
father to the inevitable cries and noises of babyhood. Brought up by two
maiden aunts in a large, solitary house in the country, and addicted
from early youth to study, my husband had a perfect horror of noises of
all kinds, and could not understand that they were unavoidable in some
circumstances; he used to call out from the top of the stairs to the
servants below "to stop their noise," or "to hold their tongues,"
whenever he overheard them singing to the babies or laughing to amuse
them, and if the children's crying became audible in the upper regions,
he declared that the house was not fit to live in, still less to work
in. One morning when the youngest boy was loudly expressing his distaste
for the ceremonies of the toilet, his father--no less loudly--was giving
vent to his irritation at the disturbance, and calling out to shut _all_
the doors; but he could not help being very much amused by the resolute
interference of the eldest brother--three years old--who, crossing his
little fat arms, and standing his ground firmly, delivered this oracle:
"Papa, babies _must_ cry." I suppose he had heard this wise sentence
from the nurse, but he gave it as solemnly as if it were the result of
his own reflections. Whether a few years' experience had rendered his
father more patient generally, or whether he had become alive to the
charm of babyhood--to which he had hitherto remained insensible--it was
a fact first noticed by the nurse that "Monsieur, quand la petite
criait, voulait savoir ce qu'elle avait, et la prenait même dans ses
bras pour la consoler."
A very important event now occurred: Mr. Hamerton was appointed art
critic to the "Saturday Review," where he succeeded Mr. Palgrave at his
recommendation. He did not accept the post with much pleasure, but it
afforded him the opportunity of studying works of art free of expense,
and that was a weighty consideration, besides being an opening to
intellectual and artistic intercourse of which he was greatly deprived
at Pré-Charmoy.
The visits to the London exhibitions necessitated two or three journeys
every year, and we both suffered from the separations; but I could bear
them better in my own home--surrounded by my children, visited by my
mother, sister, and brothers--than my husband, who was alone amongst
strangers, and who had to live in hotels, a thing he had a great dislike
for. In order to make these separations as short as possible, he
travelled at night by the most rapid trains; saw the exhibitions in the
day, and went to his rooms to write his articles by gas-light. For some
time he only felt fatigued; afterwards he became nervous; but he found
compensation in the society of his newly made friends, and in the
increasing marks of recognition he was now meeting everywhere.
He soon gave up hotel life, and took lodgings in St. John's Wood, where
he had many acquaintances, and from there he wrote to me:--
"I have seen Palgrave, Macmillan, Rossetti, Woolner, and Mr. Pearce
to-day. Palgrave says the 'Saturday Review' 'is most proud to have me.'
Woolner says it is not possible to succeed as an art critic more than I
have done; that Tennyson has been very much interested in my articles,
and has in consequence urged his publishers to employ Doré to illustrate
the "Idylls of the King." They have offered the job to Doré, who has
accepted.
"The best news is to come.
"The 'Painter's Camp' is a success after all. It has fully cleared its
expenses, and Macmillan is willing to venture on a second edition,
revised, and I think he will let me illustrate it; he only hesitates.
"_Macmillan has positively given me a commission for a work on Etching_.
"I am to be paid whether it succeeds or not. I cannot tell you the exact
sum, but you shall know it soon.
