"Wenderholme."—The Mont Bouvray,—Botanical Studies—La Tuilerie. —Commencement of the "Portfolio."—The Franco-German War.
The uncertainty of finding sufficient literary work after the resignation of his post on the "Saturday Review" had been a cause of great anxiety to Mr. Hamerton, though he had enough on hand at that time, but he wondered very much if it would last. He wrote for the "Globe" regularly; for the "Saturday Review," "Pall Mall Gazette," and "Atlantic Monthly" occasionally, though he had a great dislike for anonymous writing, as he bestowed as much care and labor upon it as if it could have added to his reputation. He worked with greater pleasure and some anticipation of success at his novel of "Wenderholme," the first volume of which had been sent to Mr. Blackwood, who agreed to give £200 for the copyright. Here are some passages from his letter, which of course was very welcome. After a few criticisms:—
"The narrative is natural and taking. Your description of the drunken habits of Shayton are excellent, and not a bit overdone. It reminds me of a joke of Aytoun's when there was a report of an earthquake at a village in Scotland notorious for its convivial habits. He remarked, 'Nonsense; the whole inhabitants are in a chronic state of D. T. that would have shaken down the walls of Jericho.'
"The picture of poor Isaac's struggles and his final break-down at his own home is very well done, and so is that of his old mother, with her narrow fat forehead.
"I particularly like Colonel Stanburne. He is like a gentleman, and I hope he has a great deal to do in the remaining part of the story. Little Jacob is very nice, and promises to make a good hero.
"The style is throughout pleasant and graceful. I shall look anxiously for vols. 2 and 3, but I feel confident that you will not write anything unkind or inconsistent with good taste."
Encouraged by the favorable opinion of Mr. Blackwood, the author went on as diligently with the novel as his health allowed. From time to time I find in his diary, "too unwell to work," or "obliged to rest," or "not well enough to write." Still, he was remarkably free from bodily pain, as it is generally felt and understood; he never complained of aches or sickness, and to any ordinary observer he looked vigorous and unusually healthy; but from me, accustomed to scrutinize the most transient expression of his face and countenance, he could not hide the slightest symptoms of nervousness, were it merely the bending forward of the body, the steady gaze or unwonted cold brightness of the eyes. Whenever I detected any of these threatening signs at home, I begged him to leave work and to go out, and if we happened to be in an exhibition or any crowded place, we had to resort to some secluded spot in a public garden—to the parks if we were in London; and I believe it must be on account of the repeated anguish I suffered there that I never wished to visit them for my pleasure: those horribly painful hours have deprived them of all charm for me. What my husband had to bear was a terrible apprehension of something fearful,—he did not know what,—now increasing, as if a fatal end were inevitable; now decreasing, only to return—ah! how many times?—till sometimes only after hours of strife, and sometimes suddenly, it left him calm but always weakened. At the very time that he was most frequently subject to these attacks, the American papers were giving numerous notices of his works, and brief biographies in which he was invariably presented to the public as an athlete in possession of the most robust health.
The doctors agreed in saying that this disorder was only nervous, and not the result of any known disease; that the only remedy lay in rest for the brain, and active exercise for the body in the open air. But it was indeed difficult to give rest to a mind incessantly thirsting for knowledge, and finding an inexhaustible mine of interest in the most trivial events, in the simplest natures and the monotonous existence of the rustics, as well as in the philosophy of Auguste Comte and John Stuart Mill, or in the aesthetics of Ruskin and Charles Blanc. It was a mind which turned all that came in its way into the gold of knowledge, and which spent it generously afterwards, not only in his writings, but in familiar conversations; his friends used to say that they always gained something when with him, on account of the natural elevation of mind which made him treat all questions intellectually. He had no taste for sport or amusements or games, with the exception of boating and chess; but chess-playing can hardly be called mental rest, and boating is not always practicable, requiring several hours each time it is indulged in, particularly when one is not close to a lake or river.
Riding Cocote was a pleasant relaxation to her master, as she was a spirited little creature, and the two often went together to the Mont Beuvray (the site of the ancient Bibracte of the Gauls), to find the learned and venerable President of the SociÉtÉ Eduenne busy with his researches among the ruins, but nevertheless always ready to receive them hospitably. The use of one of his huts was given to his young friend, and his four-footed companion was turned loose to browse on the fine, short grass which grew thickly under the shade of the noble oaks and chestnut trees of the mountain.
On these occasions, a valise containing sketching material and books was strapped on behind the rider, on the horse's back; at other times, when I accompanied my husband, we went in a light cart, which was left with Cocote at a farmhouse about half-way up the hill.
My husband liked me to read to him whilst he sketched, and I see by his diary of 1869 that some of the works he listened to in the course of that year were: "Les Couleuvres," by Louis Veuillot; Victor Jacquemond's "Voyage en Italie;" "l'Art en Hollande," and "La LittÉrature Anglaise," by Taine "Le Postscriptum;" George Eliot's "Silas Marner;" Sidney Colvin's "Academy Notes;" Tennyson's "In Memoriam;" LÉgouvÉ's "l'Art de la lecture;" "Chateaubriand et son groupe littÉraire," "BÉranger et de SÉnancourt," by Sainte-Beuve, whose talent as a critic he greatly admired.
The rambles and drives which he took in quest of picturesque subjects inclined him to botanical studies, and he began to form a herbarium; the search for plants gave a zest to the long walks recommended by the doctors, which might have become tedious had they been aimless. The prettiest or most remarkable of these plants were sketched or painted before being dried, to be used in the foregrounds of pictures. Gilbert's mind was also inventive; the reader may have remarked in the autobiography that he had made various models of double-boats, the principle of which he wished to see more generally adopted on account of their safety; but in 1869 it was not with boats that this faculty of invention was busy,—it was with a plan for a carriage which would meet our requirements. The little donkey-cart was so rickety now that it had become unsafe, and the carriage-builders could not show anything sufficiently convenient of a size and weight to suit Cocote. The elegant curves above the fore-wheels reduced the stowage room to a mere nothing, and we required plenty of space to carry, safely protected from rain and dust, many things—amongst them change of garments when we went to Autun for a wedding, a funeral, or a soirÉe, and plenty of wraps for the drive back in the cold or mist of midnight. A good deal of room was also wanted for the provisions regularly fetched from the town,—grocery, ironmongery, etc. My husband succeeded in contriving a carriage perfectly answering our wants: it was four-wheeled, and provided with a double seat covering a roomy well; there was also a considerable space behind to receive bundles and parcels, or at will a small removable seat. Six persons could thus ride comfortably in the carriage, and as we were expecting a visit from Mr. T. Hamerton and his sister, we wished very much to have it ready for their use.
With the tender thoughtfulness which characterized my husband, he had contrived a low step and a door at the back part of the carriage to allow an aged person, like his aunt or my mother, to get inside with ease and safety, and to get out quite as easily in case of danger.
They arrived in the middle of July, and spent a month with us. They were both in very good health, and Aunt Susan, in spite of her seventy years, rivalled her little grand-niece with the skipping-rope. She wrote afterwards from West Lodge on August 20:—
"MY DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE,—We arrived at home all safe and well at five o'clock on Monday to tea, and to-day it is a week since we left your most kind and hospitable entertainment, and I can assure you a most true, heartfelt pleasure and gratification it has been to me to spend a month with you, for which you must accept our best thanks for your kindly studied attentions and exertions to make our visit pleasant. I am sure I am much better for my journey; I feel strong and more vigorous; the drives in the little carriage were no doubt the very thing that would conduce to my getting strong, as I had then fresh air and exercise without fatigue. [There follows a description of the journey, according to a careful itinerary prepared by her nephew.] How is little Lala, lal, a, lala? [her little niece, who was always singing]. We often talk of her interesting ways and doings, and I often wish I could give other English lessons to my nephews. I think we should have made some progress, as both sides seemed interested in their business."
Shortly after the departure of his relatives, Mr. Hamerton was informed by his landlord that he would have to leave the little house and garden and stream he liked so well, because it was now the intention of the proprietor to come to it with his family to spend the vacations. He was offered, instead, another house on the same estate, called "La Tuilerie," larger and more convenient, but a thoroughly banale maison bourgeoise, devoid of charm and picturesqueness, close to the main road, and without a garden; moreover, in an inconceivable state of dirtiness and dilapidation. I felt horror-struck at the notion of removing to such a place; however, I was at last obliged to submit to fate. My husband, though very disinclined to a move, thought that since it could not be avoided, it was as well to make it as easy, cheap, and rapid as possible. He could not afford to lose time, and his health prohibited long travels in search of a new abode, since he could not make use of railways. We went as far in the neighborhood of PrÉ-Charmoy as Cocote could take us in a day in different directions, but found nothing suitable, probably because we did not wish to be at a distance from the college, which would prevent the boys from coming home as they had been accustomed to do.
The greater space and conveniences offered at La Tuilerie were a temptation to my husband. We had, besides two entrances, a large dining-room, drawing-room, kitchen, six bedrooms, lots of closets, cupboards, dressing-rooms, and an immense garret all over the first floor, well lighted by two windows, and paved with bricks. In the extensive courtyard was a set of out-buildings, consisting of a gardener's cottage, cartshed, and stable for six horses; and as on the ground belonging to the house there had formerly existed a tile-kiln (tuilerie) with drying sheds, there was ample space for a garden after removing the rubbish which still covered it.
The fact is that circumstances allowed of no choice, and we had to resign ourselves to the inevitable. Gilbert saw at once that with a certain outlay and a great deal of ingenuity he could make La Tuilerie not only tolerable, but even convenient and pleasant—though I doubted it—and he explained how the outbuilding might be used as laundry, laboratory, and carpenter's shop—there being three rooms of different sizes in it; and what a gain it would be so to have all the dirty work done outside the house. Another attraction was the good views from all the windows; that of the Beuvray, with the plain leading to it; the amphitheatre of Autun, with the intervening wood of noble trees, and beyond it the temple of Janus; the range of the Morvan hills, the fields of golden wheat and waving corn, and the pastures which looked like mysterious lakes in the moonlight when the white mist rose from the marshes and spread all over their surface—endlessly as it seemed. He promised me to plan out a garden, and there being several fine trees about the kiln and on the border of the road—oaks, elders, elms, and spindle trees—he said he would contrive to keep them all, so as to have shade from the beginning, and to give the new garden an appearance of respectable antiquity.
The workmen were set at once to their task of repairing, painting, and papering, and though my husband deprecated both the time spent on supervision and the unavoidable expense (for the landlord, under pretext that the rent was low, refused to contribute to the repairs, which he called amÉliorations), was unmistakably elated by the prospect of having the use of a more spacious dwelling; for he very easily suffered from a feeling of confinement, and tried to get rid of it by having two small huts which could be moved about to different parts of the estate according to his convenience, and to which he resorted when so inclined. Even when they were not used, it was for him a satisfaction to know that he had in readiness a refuge away from the house whenever he chose to seek it. This dislike to confinement was betrayed unconsciously when he sat down to his meals by his first movement, which pushed aside whatever seemed too near his plate—glass, wine-bottle, salt-cellars, etc. I remember that he would not use the public baths in France, because the cabins are small and generally locked on the outside. It was therefore a great pleasure to devise stands and cupboards and shelves in the large room which was to be his laboratory, and which he adorned with a cheap frieze of white paper with gilt edges, and "Lose no Time" in black-and-red letters, repeated upon each of the four walls, so as not to escape notice whichever way you turned.
The carpenter's shop also had its due share of attention, and was well provided with labelled boxes of all dimensions for nails, screws, etc., whilst a roomy closet, opening into the studio, was fitted up with a piece of furniture specially designed to receive the different-sized portfolios containing engravings, etchings, and studies of all kinds, together with a lot of pigeon-holes to keep small things separate and in order. All this was done at home, under his direction, and he has let his readers into the secret of his taste when he wrote in "Wenderholme": "For the present we must leave him (Captain Eureton) in the tranquil happiness of devising desks and pigeon-holes with Mr. Bettison, an intelligent joiner at Sooty thorn, than which few occupations can be more delightful." About the pigeon-holes, a friend of my husband once made a discovery which he declared astounding. "I well knew that Mr. Hamerton was a model of order," he said to me; "but I only knew to what extent when, having to seek for string, I was directed to these pigeon-holes. I easily found the one labelled 'String,' but what it contained was too coarse for my purpose. 'Look above,' said Mr. Hamerton. I did, and sure enough I saw another label with 'String (thin).' I thought it wonderful."
Yes, Gilbert loved order, and strove to keep it; but as it generally happened that he had to do many things in a hurry (catching the post, for instance), he could not always find time to replace what he had used. When this had gone on so as to produce real disorder, he gave a day to restoring each item to its proper place—this happened generally after a long search for a mislaid paper, the finding of which evoked the oft-repeated confession, "I love Order better than she loves me, as Byron said of Wisdom."
The correspondence relating to the foundation of the "Portfolio" was now very heavy; everything had to be decided between Mr. Seeley and Mr. Hamerton; suitable contributors had to be found, subjects discussed, illustrations chosen. The only English art magazine of that day confined its illustrations to line engravings and woodcuts, and its plates were almost always engraved from pictures or statues. It was intended that the "Portfolio" should make use of all new methods of illustration, and should publish drawings and studies as well as finished works. But it was the dearest wish of the editor that the revived art of Etching should receive due appreciation in England, and that, with this object, etched plates should be made a feature of the new magazine.
The contents of the first volume will best show the plan, which was quite unlike that of any existing periodical. A series of articles on "English Artists of the Present Day" was contributed by Mr. Sidney Colvin, Mr. W. M. Rossetti, Mr. Tom Taylor, Mr. Beavington Atkinson, and the editor. These were illustrated by drawings most willingly lent by Mr. G. F. Watts, Mr. Poynter, Sir E. Burne-Jones, Mr. Calderon, Mr. H. S. Marks, Mr. G. D. Leslie, and other painters; and by paintings by Lord Leighton, Mr. Armitage, and Mr. A. P. Newton. The reproductions were made by the autotype (or carbon) process of photography, which was then coming into high estimation as a means of making permanent copies of works by the great masters. Every copy of these illustrations was printed by light, a process only possible in the infancy of a magazine which could count at first on the interest of but a small circle, and had to form its own public. The editor contributed a series of papers, entitled "The Unknown River," illustrated by small etchings by his own hand. These were printed on India paper, and mounted in the text, another process only possible in a magazine addressed to a few. The first volume also contained a very fine etching by M. Legros, and others by Cucinotta and Grenaud. Articles were contributed by Mr. F. T. Palgrave, Mr. Watkiss Lloyd, Mr. G. A. Simcox, and Mrs. Mark Pattison (Lady Dilke). A paper on "A New Palette" of nine colors was the forerunner of the elaborate "Technical Notes" of later years. The imposing size of the new magazine, its bold type, fine, thick paper, and wide margins were much admired, and prepared the way for the many editions de luxe issued in England in the next quarter of the century.
In the second year the slow autotype process had to be abandoned for the quicker Woodburytype, by which were reproduced drawings kindly contributed by Sir J. E. Millais, Sir John Gilbert, Mr. Holman Hunt, Mr. Woolner, Mr. G. Mason, Mr. Hook, and others. The editor commenced a series of "Chapters on Animals," illustrated with etchings by Veyrassat. Other etchings by M. Martial, Mr. Chattock, Mr. J. P. Heseltine, and Mr. Lumsden Propert appeared. Mr. Basil Champneys, Mr. W. B. Scott, and Mr. F. G. Stephens contributed articles.
In the third year a series of "Examples of Modern Etching" was made the chief feature. It included plates by M. L. Flameng, Sir F. Seymour Haden, M. Legros, M. Bracquemond, M. Lalanne, M. Rajon, M. Veyrassat, and Mr. S. Palmer. The editor wrote a note upon each, and had now the pleasure of seeing one of his objects accomplished, and the public appreciation of his favorite art extending every day.
In subsequent years the various methods of photo-engraving were employed instead of the carbon processes of photography, and the "Portfolio" was one of the first English periodicals to give reproductions of pen-drawings.
Several of M. Amand-Durand's admirable facsimiles of etchings and engravings by the old masters adorned its pages. In 1873 appeared one of Mr. R. L. Stevenson's first contributions to literature,—if not his first,—a paper on "Roads," signed "L. S. Stoneven." This was followed by other articles in the years 1874, 1875, and 1878, bearing his own name.
The fear of running short of work was not realized; on the contrary, my husband had always too much on his hands; for he dreaded hurry, and would have liked to bestow upon each of his works as much time as he thought necessary, not only for its completion, but also for its preparation, and that was often considerable, because he could not slight a thing. When he was writing for the "Globe" he polished his articles as much as a book destined to last; he always respected his work, and the care given to it bore no relation to the price it was to fetch. He often expressed a wish that he might labor like the monks in the Middle Ages, without being disturbed by mercenary considerations; that simple shelter, food, and raiment should be provided for himself and for those dependent upon him—he did not foresee any other wants—so that he might devote the whole of his mental energy to subjects worthy of it. But I used to answer that if he had such liberty he never would publish anything; for whenever he sent MS. to the printer it was inevitably with regret at not being able to keep it longer for improvement. Still, the second volume of "Wenderholme" had been sent to Mr. Blackwood, who wrote on Sept. 24, 1869:—
"There is no doubt that I liked vol. 2 very much. The story is told in a simple, matter-of-fact way, which is very effective, by giving an air of truth to the narrative.
"The fire and the whole scene at the Hall is powerfully described. The love at first sight is well put, and the militia quarters and the landlord are true to the life."
My husband read to me the MS. of the novel as fast as he wrote it, and I was afraid that some of the original characters might be recognized by their friends, being so graphically described; however, he believed it unlikely, people seeing and judging so differently from each other.
In the summer, as usual, we had several visitors who afforded varying degrees of pleasure; a strange lady-artist amongst others, whose blandishments did not succeed in making my husband acquiesce in her desire of boarding with us, free of charge, in return for the English lessons she would give to our children. She resented the non-acceptance of her proposition, and having begged to look at the studies on the easel, feigned to hesitate about their right side upwards, by turning them up and down several times, and retiring a few steps each time as if in doubt.
A more desirable visit was that of M. Lalanne, who besides his talent had much amiability and very refined manners. Ever after he remained, if not quite an intimate friend of my husband, at least more than an acquaintance, and whenever they had a chance of meeting they made the most of it. Gilbert, after one of these meetings,—a dÉjeuner at M. Lalanne's,—told me the following anecdote. Some one asked him if he had not the "Legion d'honneur"? and being answered that it had not been offered, went on to say that it was not "offered," but "accordÉe" through the influence of some important personage, or by the pressure of public opinion; "and I think this should be your case," M. Lalanne's friend went on, "for you have rendered, and are still rendering, such great service to French art and to French artists, that it ought to be acknowledged. As you do not seem inclined to trouble yourself about it, a deputation might be chosen among your admirers to present a petition to that effect to the Ministre des Beaux-Arts." Mr. Hamerton having replied that he should prize the distinction only if it were spontaneously conferred, M. Lalanne remarked that decorations were of small importance, and asked without the slightest pride, "Do you know that I am one of the most dÉcorÉs of civilians?… No; well, then, I will show you my decorations." Then ringing the bell, he said to the maid who answered it, "Bring the box of decorations, please." It was a good-sized box, and when opened showed on a velvet tray a number of crosses, stars, rosettes, and ribbons of different sizes and hues, all vying in brilliancy and splendor. The first tray removed, just such another was displayed equally well filled, and M. Lalanne explained that, having given lessons to the sons of great foreign personages, they had generally sent him as a token of regard and gratitude some kind of decoration—maybe in lieu of payment.
At the end of 1869 "Wenderholme" was published, and the first number of the "Portfolio" made its appearance on January 1, 1870, and from that date it became for the editor an undertaking of incessant interest, to the maintenance and improvement of which he was ever ready to devote himself, and for which he would have made important sacrifices. The dedication of "Wenderholme" was meant for Aunt Susan, and after receiving the book, she wrote:—
"Accept my most sincere and highly gratified thanks for the copy of your novel, and its dedication. We have heard that the "Times" and the "Yorkshire Post" had each favorable articles on the merits of your novel. We have detected nearly every character, even those that take other forms, but we do not even whisper any information in this neighborhood. Mr. and Mrs. W—— were immediately struck with the 'hoffens' and 'hirritation' of the doctor, but I pretend to think it not individual, but that it was the case among the people you were writing about."
In May 1870, Mr. Hamerton removed to La Tuilerie, about five hundred yards from PrÉ-Charmoy. He continued to date his letters from PrÉ-Charmoy—the new house being on the estate so called; his motive was to avoid possible confusion in the delivery of his letters. He was greatly tickled to hear the peasants call his new abode "le chÂteau de l'Anglais," and to see them staring admiringly from the road at the windows, which were left open that paint and plaster might dry before we came to live in it. Though perfectly independent of luxury, my husband liked cleanliness and taste in the arrangement of the simplest materials, and he contrived by a good choice of patterns and colors in the papering of the rooms, with the help of fresh matting on the floors, and the judicious hanging of fine engravings and etchings in his possession, to impart quite a new and pleasant aspect to the banale maison bourgeoise. Gradually I became reconciled to it, on account of its greater convenience, and I even came to like it when the vines and wisteria and golden nasturtiums hid the ugly bare walls, and the fragrance of mignonette and roses and petunias was wafted into the rooms looking over the garden, and that of wild thyme and honeysuckle into those which looked over the fields; when the tall acacias began to shoot upwards straight and graceful from their velvety green carpet, and scattered upon it their perfumed moth-like flowers; while we listened to the humming of the happy bees in the sweet-smelling lime trees and to the wondrous song of the rival nightingales challenging each other from bower to bower in the calm, warm nights of summer-time. And such a great change did not take very long to realize: the ground had been well drained and plentifully manured, and it was almost virgin soil, unexhausted by previous vegetation, so that the elm-bower was soon thickly leaved and with difficulty prevented from closing up, the climbing vines became heavy with grapes, whilst the spreading branches of the acacias speedily formed a vast parasol, and afforded a pleasant shelter from the glare of the August sunshine. Hardy fruit trees of all kinds had been planted all along the garden hedge, and in the third year began to yield cherries—in moderation—but plums of different species we had in great quantities, also quinces, sometimes apples, apricots, and figs—the two last, however, were frequently destroyed by frost, the spring being generally very cold in the Morvan. As to pears, we had to wait somewhat longer for them, the pear trees requiring strict pruning to preserve the quality of the fruit; but we used to have a small cart-load of them when the year had been favorable. There was nothing my husband liked better than to pick gooseberries, currants, raspberries, cherries, or plums, and eat them fresh as we took a walk in the garden; he was very fond of fruit, and unlike most men, he would rather do without meat than without vegetables or dessert. His tastes in food, as in everything else, were very simple, but he was particular about quality. I never heard him complain of insufficiency, though, situated as we were, there was sometimes only just enough; and even that lacking which might have been considered as most necessary, namely, a dish of meat. For Gilbert, however, it was not a privation when occurring occasionally; nay, he even enjoyed the change, and as I generally went to Autun on Fridays and could get fish, we made it a jour maigre, though not from religious motives. It was understood that if eggs were served they must be newly laid; if potatoes, mealy and À point; if fish, fresh and palatable; he would not have tolerated the economy of one of our lady neighbors, who abstained from buying fish at Autun because it was too dear, she said; but who used to bring a full hamper when she came back yearly from HyÈres, where it was cheap, enough to last for a week after the journey, and who considered the unsavory hamper an ample compensation for the absence of fish from her menus during the remainder of the year.
The removal did not hinder or interrupt Mr. Hamerton seriously in his work, for the new house was quite ready to receive the furniture; and the place of every piece having been decided beforehand, the farmers merely handed them out of their carts to the workmen, who carried them inside the rooms, according to previous directions.
The difficulty of getting proofs of the different states of his plates whilst etching them, incited my husband to invent a press for his own laboratory, that he might judge of his work in progress by taking proofs for himself whenever he liked. Considering the present state of our affairs I was not favorable to the idea, but I was overruled, as in all cases concerning expenses deemed necessary to artistic or literary pursuits. He had few material wants, and therefore thought himself justified in providing for his intellectual needs—for instance, by the gradual formation of a library. He often deprecated the necessity of apparent extravagance in such things; "but you see," he would say, "I cannot stand stationary in the acquirement of knowledge if I am to go on teaching others—I must keep ahead—without mentioning the satisfaction of my own tastes and cravings, to which I have a certain right." Indeed it was truly wonderful that he should have been able to achieve so much work, and work of such quality, in the intellectual solitude and retirement of these seven years passed out of great cities where libraries, museums, and human intercourse constantly offer help and stimulus to a writer. Luckily for him he bore solitude well. He has said in "The Intellectual Life": "Woe unto him that is never alone, and cannot bear to be alone!" And again: "Only in solitude do we learn our inmost nature and its needs." Further on: "There is, there is a strength that comes to us in solitude from that shadowy awful Presence that frivolous crowds repel." He often sought communion with that awful Presence in the thick forests of the Morvan and on the highest peak of the Mont Beuvray, and found it.
For some time our minds had been disturbed by the unsettled aspect of French politics, and the possibility of a war with Prussia had been a cause of great personal anxiety to my husband on account of his nationality. He has related in "Round my House" how the news of the declaration of war reached us on a Sunday, as we were bringing the children home after spending the day peacefully in the fields and on the river-banks of a picturesque little village.
It is probable that if my husband had been able to bear a long railway journey, we might have accepted the hospitality so kindly offered in the following letter:—
WEST LODGE. August 12, 1870.
"MY VERY DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE,—I am most grievously and fearfully concerned to hear of your sad condition in consequence of the terrible and needless war that is now spreading misery, desolation, and perhaps famine all over the Empire, just to gratify the unbounded ambition of one man. We wish you and your three children could fly over to us and be in safety. Really, if you get at all alarmed, do not hesitate to come, all of you, with as much of your property as you can pack and bring; we can and shall be pleased to find you refuge from any pending evil you may be dreading. Dear P. G., you would find your articles about the state of your country had got copied into the 'Manchester Courier,' but we wish to caution you about what you put in them. Remember whose iron heart could punish you, and what would become of your wife and family if you were cast into prison.
"The little grandson and his nurse are coming here on Tuesday next for a month; they will only occupy one bedroom, so there will still be the best bedroom and a very good attic, and half of my bed if little Mary Susan Marguerite dares trust herself with me"
Although Mr. Hamerton had always taken great interest in politics, he never wished to play an active part in them; from time to time he wrote a political article about some cause he had at heart, or some wrong which he wished to see redressed, or again on some obscure point which his experience of two countries might help to clear up, but he never consented to supply regular political correspondence to any newspaper. Having had rather a lengthened connection with the "Globe," he was offered the post of war-correspondent, which he declined.
He has passed over many interesting incidents of this wartime in "Round my House," although he has given a few. One of the most striking was certainly his guiding a Garibaldian column en reconnaissance across the bed of the river Ternin, on a bitterly cold day, mounted on his spirited little Cocote, who showed quite a martial mettle, and may well have felt proud of leading a number of great cavalry horses. She took no harm from her cold bath, but her master, whose legs had been in the icy water (on account of her small height) up to the thighs, was not so fortunate: he caught a serious chill, accompanied with fever and pains, which confined him to the house over a week. He mentions in the book our anxiety when the spy mania was at its height, and the workmen had almost decided to attack us in a body, but he refrains from detailing how, day after day, when the "hands" congregated in the village inns after dinner in the twilight, we used to take our children by the hand and pass, with hearts in anguish for their safety, but with as confident a countenance as we could command, before their infuriated groups; never knowing whether some fatal blow would not be dealt from the next group or the one following. The men stood on the door-steps, or in the very middle of the road, awaiting us with lowering brows and sullen looks of suspicion, when with sinking hearts and placid faces we stopped to say a few words to one of our present enemies to whom we had formerly rendered some help in illness or destitution. The truth is, they generally looked somewhat ashamed on such occasions, and always answered politely, but without the frank and pleased looks of other days, when they were proud of our notice and interest; they would rather have done without it now, especially in the company of their fellow-conspirators against our safety. I dare say the innocent unconcern of our children, who laughed and played freely in their happy ignorance of danger, proved our best safeguard, but still every night after reaching home we could not help thinking—"How will it be to-morrow?"
Just at the beginning of the hostilities, my husband had deprecated the rashness of the French people, which was blinding them to the unprepared state of their army, and to its numerical inferiority when compared with the German force. But when he saw that, although the King of Prussia had said that the war was not directed against the French people, he was still carrying it on unmercifully after the fall of Napoleon III., his sympathies with the invaded nation grew warmer every day, and he did all that was in his power to spare from invasion that part of the country where we lived, and which we knew so well. He put himself in communication with General Bordone,—Garibaldi's aide-de-camp (Garibaldi himself being very ill at that time),—and explained how Autun might be surprised by roads which had been left totally unguarded. He made a careful map of the country about us for Garibaldi, and shortly after, outposts were placed according to his directions, so as to prevent the enemy from reaching Autun by these parts, without resistance.
He used to go to Autun with Cocote almost every night for news, and met there with Garibaldian officers whom he often drove to inspect the outposts, and they gave him the password for the sentinels on his way home. One night, however, he had remained even later than usual, having taken an officer to a very distant outpost, and when he reached the road leading to La Tuilerie, the password had been changed, and he was detained in spite of all he could say to be allowed to proceed on his way. He would have submitted easily to the discomfort of a few hours in the guard-room had it not been that he realized how anxious I must be, and when he heard the order of march given to a patrol, he asked to be allowed to join it as it was going his way, observing that the soldiers would have the power of shooting him if he attempted to run away.
The permission was granted, and he set off on foot, in the midst of the patrol, followed by his dog, Cocote having been left at the inn.
It was freezing hard, and the snow lay deep on the ground; the march was a silent one—the men having been forbidden to talk—and it was a miracle that Gilbert's dog escaped with its life, for every time it barked or growled it was threatened with instant death. His master, however, artfully represented that in case enemies were hidden in the ditches or behind the hedges bordering the road, "Tom" would soon dislodge them and help in their capture. This seemed to pacify the men, together with the prospect (no less artfully held out) of a glass of rum each when they reached La Tuilerie.
It was a weary march for Gilbert and an anxious watch for me, and as soon as I heard the joyful bark of our dog announcing his master's return, I hastened downstairs and made a great blaze for the half-frozen patrol and its prisoner, and served to them all some hot grog which was duly appreciated.
I have no doubt it seemed hard to the poor soldiers to leave the seats by the leaping flames to resume their slippery march in the creaking snow, but they did it promptly enough, somewhat cheered by the renewed warmth they were carrying away with them.
Mr. Hamerton has described in "Round my House" how he watched the battle which took place at Autun, from our garret window. With the naked eye we could only see the dark lines of soldiers without being able to follow their strategical movements; but to my husband, with the help of his telescope, every incident was instantly revealed, and he communicated them to us in succession as they occurred.
It is needless to say what a relief we experienced when we heard that the enemy was falling back—ever so slightly. Then every one of us, women and children, wanted to look through the telescope, and for once I did see in it, and hailed with heartfelt thanksgivings, the scarcely perceptible retreating movement of the Germans.
At that moment the light of day was fading fast, and in the twilight I could just see my husband turning towards our awestruck children and saying to them: "I am certain that you will never forget this day, and what a horrible thing a war is."
And they answered, "Oh! never!"
Despite these painful preoccupations, Mr. Hamerton had prepared the "Etcher's Handbook" and its illustrations, and was writing a series of articles on the "Characters of Balzac" for the "Saturday Review." To save time I read to him "Le PÈre Goriot," "EugÉnie Grandet," "Ursule Mirouet," "Les Parents Pauvres," "La Cousine Bette," etc. Mr. Harwood approved of the series, but although my husband admired Balzac's talent greatly, he disliked the choice of his subjects in general, and complained to me of the desponding state of mind they produced in him; he called it "withering" sometimes. In consequence he became convinced that it was not a good study—mentally—for him, and rightly abandoned the series, for it was of importance that he should be in the healthiest mental condition to write the "Intellectual Life," the form of which was giving him a great deal of trouble. He had already begun it twice over, and each time had read to me the preliminary chapters, without giving to my expectant interest entire satisfaction. He had had the plan of the book in contemplation for years, and the gathered materials were rich and ready, but the definite form had not yet been found. He was in no way discouraged by repeated failures, and told me he "was sure to grasp it sometime," only he grew excited in the struggle. The prudent rule which forbade work at night had been cast aside, and it was about two o'clock in the morning when I was awakened to listen to the first chapters of the "Intellectual Life," as they now remain. I was very happy to be able to praise them unreservedly: hitherto my part had been but a sorry one. I could only say, "I don't think this is the best possible form," without suggesting what the best form ought to be; but now I felt sure it answered exactly to my expectations, and my husband rejoiced that "he had hit it at last."
