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.