1880-1882.

Third edition of "Etching and Etchers."—Kew.—"The Graphic
Arts."—"Human Intercourse."

Once rid of the perturbation occasioned by the affair of the election, Mr. Hamerton was free to devote himself energetically to the preparation of a new and splendid edition of "Etching and Etchers," for which he spared neither thought nor pains,—being generously entrusted by Messrs. Macmillan with the necessary funds, and given carte blanche for the arrangement. Mr. Craik had said, in a letter dated Jan. 10, 1880: "We are disposed to make it a very fine book, and not to grudge the outlay. We must leave all the details for you to arrange." In another, of May 29, he said again: "We are particularly anxious to make it a beautiful book; and I think the plan of making each edition completely different from the preceding, gives it an interest and value that will make the book always sought after. The first edition is a scarce and valuable book. The second will rise in value."

Being allowed to do exactly as he liked, the author of "Etching and
Etchers" set to his task with delightful anticipation of the result.

At the same time he was also giving a good deal of time to the annotation of certain engravings and etchings presented by himself and some friends to the Manchester Museum, in which he took great interest.

When the vacation brought the boys home in August, it was decided to have a trial trip on the SaÔne in the "Morvandelle;" but after behaving well enough on the water, she filled and sank at anchor whilst her captain was quietly enjoying dinner with his sons at the nearest inn. The boat being made of wood, and divided into a great many compartments to hold stores and luggage, let the water into those compartments as the wood dried and shrank. It became, therefore, necessary to exchange the wooden tubes for iron ones, for it was a double boat. So the crew had to come back home, and Mr. Hamerton sent to a periodical a relation of his impressions and adventures in this brief voyage and shipwreck.

In the summer there was an exhibition at the Glasgow Institute of Fine Arts, and my husband was asked to send something if possible; but being almost overwhelmed with work, he was obliged to decline the invitation. Mr. R. Walker, the secretary of the Institute, wrote to say how sorry he was not to have his name in the catalogue, and added:—

"Our collection of etchings is very good, and during the short time we have been open the people of Glasgow have learned more about etching than ever they knew before. Your book has been a source of infinite delight to many here. A short time ago we all hoped to have you among us. The loss is ours. Sometimes I trust we may have the pleasure of seeing you in Glasgow. You would find us not altogether wanting in appreciation of what is right in art, and there is an increasing number of people here who believe that ledgers are not the only books worth studying."

Although the "Portfolio" was now generally acknowledged to be at the head of artistic periodicals in England, it was the desire of both its editor and publisher to improve it still further. In one of his letters Mr. Craik had said: "What an important part the 'Portfolio' is playing! I believe you are affecting the public, and compelling them to recognize the best things in a way they never did before. I think your conduct of the monthly admirable."

It was now proposed to add to its artistic value by giving more original etchings. Hitherto the peculiar uncertainty of the art of etching had hindered the realization of this desire, for there being no certainty about the quality of an etching from a picture, the risk is immensely increased when a commission is given for an original etching. The celebrity of an etcher and his previous achievements can only give hopes that he may be successful once more, but these hopes are far from a certainty. Even such artists as Rajon and Jacquemart,—to mention only two of the most eminent,—who constantly delighted the lovers of art by masterpieces of skill and artistic feeling,—and were, moreover, painters themselves,—were not safe against failure, and repeated failure, even in copying.

When a commission has been given to an artist, the stipulated price has to be paid whether the result is a success or a failure, unless the artist himself acknowledges the failure—a very rare occurrence; at best he admits that some retouching is desirable, and consents to undertake it; but too often with the result that the plate loses all freshness.

Such considerations, and many more, made it necessary for the publisher and editor of the "Portfolio" to discuss the subject at length and without hurry. In addition to the affairs of the "Portfolio," there was the choice of illustrations for the book on the Graphic Arts, which was to be published by Mr. Seeley, and for which the presence of the author in London was almost a necessity.

It was then decided that, both our boys having situations, we would take our daughter with us and seek for lodgings somewhere on the banks of the Thames, probably at Kew. Mr. and Mrs. Seeley, with their usual kindness, invited us to stay with them until we had found convenient accommodation.

We started in October, and as soon as we reached Paris we heard from our younger son Richard that he was far from pleased with his present situation. Instead of having to devote only a few hours a day to teaching English, as he had been promised, the whole of his time was taken up by the usual drudgery which is the lot of an under-master, so that he could not study for himself. The first thing his father did was to set him free from that bondage, and to devise the best means to enable him to pursue the study of painting which the boy wished to follow as a profession. They went together to consult Jean Paul Laurens, who said that the most efficacious way would be—not to study under one master, but to go to one of Juan's ateliers, where students get the benefit of sound advice from several leading artists. In conformity with this counsel my husband saw M. Juan, and after learning from him the names of the artists visiting the particular atelier where Richard was to study, he got him recommended to Jules Lefebvre and to GÉrÔme by an intimate friend.

Paul Rajon, as usual, did not fail to call upon us, and we were very sorry to notice a great change for the worse in his appearance. He said he had been very ill lately, and was still far from well; he seemed to have lost all his buoyancy of spirits, and to look careworn. He alluded to pecuniary difficulties resulting from the early death of his brother-in-law, which left his sister, and a child I believe, entirely dependent upon him. Without reckoning on adverse fortune or ill-health, he had built himself a house with a fine studio at Auvers-sur-Oise, to escape from the incessant interruptions to his work when in Paris. But of course the outlay had been heavier than he had intended it to be, and these cares made him rather anxious. Being very good friends, we had formerly received confidences from him about the dissatisfaction created by the loneliness of his home and the want of a strong affection—in spite of his success in society and the flattering smiles and speeches of renowned beauties. In answer to my suggestion that marriage would perhaps give him what he wanted, he had answered: "No doubt; but where shall I find the wife? The girl I introduce into society as my wife must be very beautiful, else what would society think of my taste as an artist?… She must also be above the average in intelligence, to meet with the Élite and keep her proper place; and lastly, she must also be wealthy, for my earnings are not sufficient for the frame I desire to show her in." He was quite serious, but I laughed and said: "I beg to alter my opinion of your wants. The wife you describe would be the mere satisfaction of your vanity, and if you were fortunate enough to meet with the gifts of beauty, intelligence, and wealth in the same person it would be very exacting to expect that in addition to all these she should be domestic, to minister to your home comforts, and sufficiently devoted for your need of affection."

"I told you I thought it very difficult," he sighed.

"If you take other people's opinion about the choice of a wife," my husband said, "you are not ripe for matrimony; no man ought to get married unless he feels that he cannot help it,—that he could not live happily without the companionship of a particular woman."

There had been an interval of a few years between this conversation and our present meeting; but M. Rajon had not forgotten it, for he said with a shade of sadness: "It is now, Mrs. Hamerton, that I feel the want of a domestic and devoted wife, such as you advised me to choose; but marriage is out of the question. I am an invalid."

We tried to cheer him up, and my husband's serene philosophy seemed to do him good. He repeated to Paul Rajon his usual comparison of the events of life to a very good cup of coffee to which a pinch of salt is always added before we are allowed to taste it. "Your reputation and talent," he said, "make a capital cup of coffee; but your illness has seasoned it with rather a heavy pinch of salt."

The journey to England was got through without any serious accident to my husband's health, but we had to be very careful in adhering to our rules of slow trains and night travelling and frequent stoppages.

It was the first visit of our daughter to England, and her father watched her impressions with great interest. She spoke English timidly and reluctantly; but Mrs. Seeley was so kindly encouraging that she overcame her timidity.

Mr. Seeley received us in his pretty, newly built house at Kingston, which, being quite in the country and very quiet, suited my husband's tastes admirably. The proximity of a beautiful park was very tempting for rambles, and when at leisure we much enjoyed going all together for a stroll under its noble trees. Mr. Seeley and his friend sometimes went off to London together in the morning, but it was more desirable for my husband to go to town only in the afternoon, because he felt less and less nervous as the day wore on, and was quite himself in the evening.

We left Kingston to go and stay for a few days with Mr. and Mrs. Macmillan. The evenings after Mr. Macmillan's return from business were very animated with conversation and music.

Sometimes Mr. Macmillan gave us some Scotch and Gaelic songs with remarkable pathos and power; and invariably, after every one else had retired, he remained talking intimately, often confidentially, with my husband far into the night.

A pretty incident occurred before we left Knapdale. One afternoon we found Mrs. Macmillan very busy putting the finishing touches to an embroidered and be-ribboned baby's frock, intended as a present to her husband's first grandchild, on his first visit to Knapdale, which was to be on that very day. After dinner the little man made his appearance in the decorated frock, and took his place upon his grandfather's shoulders. Then we all formed a procession, headed by the still erect form of the grandsire supporting the infant hope of the family, and leading us—parents, relatives, and guests—to the cheerful domain of the cook. She proudly received the company, standing ladle in hand, by an enormous earthen vessel containing a tempting mixture, in which candied fruits, currants, and spices seemed to predominate. We were expected, every one, to bring this medley to greater perfection by turning over a portion of it with the ladle. It was duly offered first to the little stranger, whose grandsire seized and plunged it into the savory depths, whilst the tiny baby hand was tenderly laid upon his own.

The second part of the ceremony—tasting—had likewise to be performed by proxy, for the young scion of the house peremptorily refused to trifle with any temptation in the form of mincemeat. We all in succession performed the ancient rite, and my husband said to me afterwards what a capital subject for a picture of family portraits the scene would afford. The contrast in the attire of the cook and her maids with the toilettes of the ladies, together with the picturesque background of the bright kitchen utensils, made a subject in the style of an old Dutch master, with a touch of modern sentiment.

After seeing different places on the banks of the Thames we decided again for Kew, but this time we required larger lodgings—not only on account of Mary, but also for Miss Susan Hamerton and our cousins, Ben and Annie Hinde, whom we had invited to join us there. They had gladly accepted the invitation, and our meeting was happy and cheerful. We had been very fortunate in our lodgings, which were spacious, clean, and with a good view of the Green. Our landlady was a very respectable and obliging person, and she let us have, when we wished, the use of a chaise and a fast-trotting little pony, which greatly added to Aunt Susan's enjoyment of the country, for her nephew drove her to the prettiest places in the neighborhood, and through Richmond Park whenever the weather allowed it. The beautiful gardens received almost a daily visit from us, and were a most agreeable as well as a convenient resort for our aged aunt, as she could either walk in the open grounds when it was mild enough, or else visit the numerous hot-houses if she found the outside air too keen for her.

We had been fortunate in this choice of Kew for our temporary residence; not only did we like the place in itself, but we met with so hospitable and flattering a reception from several resident families, that they contrived to make us feel unlike strangers among them, and ever after, our thoughts turned back to that time with mingled feelings of regret, pleasure, and gratitude; and whenever we came to contemplate the possibility of moving to England, Kew was always the place named as being preferred by both of us.

Here we again met Professor Oliver, whom my husband had known since he came to Kew alone for the first time. Being greatly interested in painting, and possessing a collection of fine water-colors by Mr. Alfred Hunt, he took pleasure in showing them to Mr. Hamerton, as well as the Herbarium, of which he was Director.

Professor Church and his wife showed themselves most friendly and untiringly hospitable. Very interesting and distinguished people were to be met at their house, where the master was ever willing to display before his guests some of his valuable collections of jewels, rare tissues, old laces, and Japanese bronzes. We often had the pleasure of meeting at this friendly house Mr. Thiselton Dyer, now Director of Kew Gardens, and his wife, the daughter of Sir John Hooker—a most charming person, who reminded both of us of the lovely women immortalized by Reynolds.

[Illustration]

The third edition of "Etching and Etchers," now on sale, had fulfilled all expectations, and was universally admired and praised. It was a great satisfaction to the author, who had never before enjoyed such a complete recognition. His reputation and popularity increased rapidly, and if he had liked he would have been a good deal lionized; but although far from insensible to this success, he remained true to his studious habits—going with Mr. Seeley to the National Gallery, British or Kensington Museums, to choose illustrations for the "Graphic Arts," or quietly writing at his lodgings, and only accepting invitations from his friends and publishers.

In December Mr. Macmillan gave a dinner at the Garrick Club in honor of the author of "Etching and Etchers," who was warmly congratulated by the other guests invited to meet him.

I have still in my possession the menu belonging to Mr. Alma Tadenia who said to my husband: "I dare say Mrs. Hamerton would like to have a souvenir of this evening—present her with this in my name," and he handed his menu, on the back of which he had quickly and cleverly drawn a little likeness of himself in caricature, and the guests had signed their names on it. A facsimile is given on the opposite page.

As he had given us an invitation to visit his curious house we did not fail to go, and Mary was especially attracted by the famous grand piano, inscribed inside with the signatures of the renowned musicians who had performed upon it. Knowing that our daughter was seriously studying music, Mrs. Alma Tadema generously expressed the hope of seeing sometime the signature of Miss Hamerton by the side of the other names.

My husband also took Mary to Mrs. Woolner's, and she enjoyed greatly the society of the children, who spoke French very creditably, and who were interested in the details she could give them about French life and ways. They took her to their father's studios, and showed her his works. When dinner-time came, however, she was unprepared for being waited upon by her new friends, and in consequence felt somewhat ill at ease. It was a fancy of Mr. Woolner's to make his children wait upon his guests. They offered bread and wine, and directed the maids, their duty consisting chiefly in seeing that every guest received perfect attendance. It reminded one of the pages' service in mediaeval times, and was accepted by people of mature age as a gracious courtesy of their host, though it proved rather embarrassing to a girl of fifteen. I don't know how long the custom prevailed, but I did not notice it in succeeding years.

Our cousin, Ben Hinde, had joined us only for a few days, his duties as a clergyman not allowing of a long absence, but our meeting had been very pleasant and cordial. He had left with us his sister Annie, to whom my husband endeavored to show what was most worthy of attention in the metropolis. And just as we were thus enjoying our fragrant "cup of coffee," the "pinch of salt" was thrown into it with a heavy hand—for we heard from Richard that he was lying so dangerously ill that he could not move in bed. He had only written a few words in pencil to let us know that the doctor thought our presence unnecessary, because the danger would be past, or the illness prove fatal, before we could arrive.

Of course my first impulse was to rush to my poor boy's bedside; but what was to become of Mary—a girl of fifteen—unused to English ways, and speaking English still imperfectly? Perhaps our aunt, who was to leave us in a few days, would stay a little longer, though the approach of Christmas made it imperative for her companion to get back to the vicarage as soon as possible. But my husband?… Could I think of leaving him a prey to this terrible anxiety, and to all the dangers of a return of the old nervous attacks? I saw how he dreaded the mere possibility, though he never said a word to influence my decision, but the threatening insomnia and restlessness had already made their appearance, and warned me that I ought to stay near him.

I wrote to my best friend in Paris, begging her to send her own doctor to our poor boy, and to let me know the whole truth immediately. The answer was reassuring—the crisis was past; there was nothing to fear now, only the patient would remain weak for some time, and would require great care. His friends—particularly one of them, a student of medicine—had nursed him intelligently and devotedly. As soon as he could take a little food my friend sent him delicacies and old wines, and when he could bear the railway he went to his grandmother's to await our return home.

We breathed again, and Aunt Susan and Annie left us comparatively quiet in mind.

My husband now went on with his work as fast as possible, for he longed to see his younger son again. When his notes for the "Graphic Arts" were completed, we made a round of visits to take leave of our friends, and after another short stay at Knapdale, where we had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Lockyer, and another very pleasant pilgrimage to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer's hermitage, we set off for Paris.

Mr. Seeley wrote shortly after our arrival in the French capital about several matters connected with the "Portfolio," and added: "How will you be able to settle down again in that little Autun? You will feel (as Robert Montgomery said of himself in Glasgow) like an oak in a flower-pot."

No, the oak liked to feel the pure air of the Morvan hills blowing about its head, and to spread its branches in unconfined space. It was in great crowded cities that it felt the pressure of the flower-pot.

On arriving at home we found Richard well again, and gifted with an extraordinary appetite—which was the restorative he most needed, having grown very thin and weak through his illness.

My husband had been very desirous to present me with a souvenir of the success of "Etching and Etchers," and pressed me to choose a trinket, either a bracelet or a brooch; but I thought what I possessed already quite sufficient, and though very sensible of his kind thoughtfulness, I said that if he liked to make me a present, I would choose something useful,—a silk dress, for instance. "But that would not be a present," he said; "when you want a dress you buy it. I should like to offer you some pretty object which would last."

I knew that he liked to see me—and ladies in general—wearing jewels; not in great quantity, but simply as a touch of finish to the toilette. When I was young, he would have liked me (had it been possible) to dress always in white, and the fashions not being then so elaborate as they have become, it was easy enough in summer-time and in the country to indulge his taste. So in warm days I often wore a white muslin dress, quite plain, relieved only by a colored sash. If the sash happened to be green, he liked it to be matched by a set of crystal beads of the same color, which he had brought me from Switzerland when he had gone there with his aunt and uncle. When the ribbon was red, I was to wear corals, and with a blue one lapis-lazuli.

At last he remembered that I had admired some plain dead-gold bracelets of English make that we had been looking at together, not far from the National Gallery, and said he would be glad if I would choose one of them. I had, however, taken the same resolution about jewels as his own about pictures, and that was, to admire what was beautiful, but never to buy, because it was beyond our means. The resolution, once taken, left no way open to temptation. Still, I did not mean to deny myself the pleasure of accepting his proffered present, only I did not want it to be expensive, and since I had a sufficiency of jewels, "would he give me a pretty casket to put them in?" "Yes," he readily assented. And when I opened the casket of fair olive-wood, with the delicately wrought nickel clasps and lock, I found a folded paper laid on the dark-blue velvet tray, and having opened it read what follows—I need not say with what emotions.

"Here in this empty casket, instead of a diamond or pearl,
Instead of a gem I leave but a little rhyme.
She remembers the brooch and the bracelet I gave her when she was a
girl.
Deep blue from beyond the sea, not paler from lapse of time.
She will put them here in the casket, the ultramarine and the gold;
And if such a thing might be, I would give them to her twice over;
Once in my youthful hope, and now again when I'm old,
But alike in youth or in age with the heart and the soul of a lover."

This note is entered in the diary:—

"January 1, 1881. Faceva i miei doni alla sposa, alla figlia, al mio figlio Stefano. La sposa era felicissima di ricevere la sua cassetta."

Roberts Brothers had heard that a new book was in preparation, and they wrote in January, 1881:—

"Your third edition of 'Etching and Etchers' is really a magnificent specimen of book-making, and we understand two hundred copies have been sold in America. At all events, whatever the number sold, it is not to be had. We should like to have the American edition of the 'Graphic Arts,' and should be glad to receive the novel when it is ready."

But the novel had been put aside, the author being doubtful if it equalled "Marmorne" in quality. The whole of his time for writing was devoted to the "Graphic Arts," and the remainder to painting from nature, often with Mr. Pickering, and to the consideration of the necessary alterations to the boat in view of a summer cruise on the SaÔne. The reading of Italian was resumed pretty regularly, whilst the diary was kept in that language.

Early in the spring Mr. Seeley wrote:—

"I am afraid it is indispensable that we should meet in Paris, as the selection of engravings for reproduction is very important, though, like you, I grudge the loss of time. But the book is an important one, and we must do our very best to make it a success."

It was then decided that my husband should go to Paris with Richard, and they started on May 4, stopped a day at Sens to see the cathedral again, and to call upon Madame Challard (who had become a widow), and arrived in Paris at night.

The entries in the note-book (kept in Italian) record his visits to the Salon, to the Louvre, and to various public buildings. Also to the BibliothÈque, to study the works of the École de Fontainebleau, and to an exhibition of paintings in imitation of tapestry, which much interested him.

He also went with Richard to see Munkacsy's picture of "Christ before Pilate," and notes Richard's astonishment at it. He considered it himself as one of the finest of existing pictures. He also expresses the great pleasure he derived from Jacquemart's water-colors, their brilliancy and sureness of execution.

The four following days having been very busy, received only this short note, "In Parigi con Seeley;" then the fifth has, "Seeley e partito sta mattina."

The succeeding entries record further visits to the Salon, the Louvre, and BibliothÈque; but on the return journey, at Chagny on the 19th, he notes that he has received sad news of the death of M. de Saint Victor, in a duel with M. Asselin. It was only too true, and had happened on a day which was to have been a fÊte, for Madame de Saint Victor, whose daughter went to the same school as ours, had invited both myself and Mary, with a few others school-fellows and their mothers, to lunch at the ChÂteau de Monjeu, of which her husband was RÉgisseur. The unfortunate lady did not know what had passed between her husband and a gentleman of the locality who was trespassing on the grounds of the chÂteau. M. de Saint Victor considered himself insulted, and challenged M. Asselin; he, moreover, insisted upon choosing the sword as a weapon—the most dangerous of all in a serious duel—and on the morning which should have been festive and mirthful, he fell dead in the wood near his home, killed by a sword-thrust from his skilful adversary.

As soon as he was back home, Mr. Hamerton set to work regularly at the "Graphic Arts." In the diary this phrase is repeated like a litany: "Worked with great pleasure at my book, the 'Graphic Arts.'" But at the same time there is a complaint that it prevents the mind from being happily disposed for artistic work. I have already said how difficult it was for him to turn from one kind of occupation to another. Here is a confirmation of this fact:—

"I lost the whole of the day in attempting to make a drawing for an etching. Was not in the mood. It is necessary to have a certain warmth and interest in a subject—which I have lost, but hope to recover. For a long time past all my thoughts have turned upon my literary work."

It is easy for readers of the "Graphic Arts" to realize what an amount of knowledge and preparation such a book required; and to present so much information in a palatable form was no less than a feat. Still, the author took great delight in his work. As in the case of "Etching and Etchers," he was encouraged by the publisher, who wrote on June, "I mean to take a pride in the book." It was exactly the sort of work which suited him—sufficiently important to allow the subjects to be treated at length when necessary, and worthy of the infinite care and thought he liked to bestow upon his studies. In this case, wonderful as it seems, he had himself practised all the arts of which he speaks, with the exception of fresco. As to the other branches of art, namely, pen-and-ink, silver-point, lead-pencil, sanguine, chalk, charcoal, water monochrome, oil monochrome, pastel, painting in oil, painting in water-colors, wood-engraving, etching and dry-point, aquatint and mezzotint, lithography, he had—more or less—tried every one of them. And though he did not give sufficient practice to the burin to acquire real skill, still he did not remain satisfied till he could use it.

The same feeling of conscientiousness led him to become acquainted with all the different processes of reproduction so much in vogue, and he was ever anxious to learn all their technical details.

It was hoped that the "Graphic Arts" might be published at the end of the year, and in order to be ready, the author put aside all other work, excepting that of the "Portfolio;" but he longed for a short holiday, and meant to take it on the SaÔne. He went to Chalon to a boat-builder, and explained the changes to be made in the "Morvandelle," set the men to work, and returned to his book.

He had begun to suffer from insomnia, and Mr. Seeley wrote:—

"Probably you are right in saying that yachting is a necessity for you; but for the enjoyment of it you are badly placed at Autun. You must look after that cottage at Cowes, which I suggested some time ago; and we must set up a yacht between us; only, unluckily, I am always seasick in a breeze."

Certainly the situation of Autun was not favorable to yachting, the streams about it being only fit for canoeing; but the broad SaÔne was not far off, and as Chalon was my husband's headquarters when cruising, he was not disinclined to the short journey which afforded an opportunity for visiting my mother and my brother, who lived there.

My husband had thought that a river voyage would be charming with R. L. Stevenson as a companion, and that they might, perhaps, produce a work in collaboration, so he had made the proposal, and here is part of the answer:—

"RINNAUD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE.

"MY DEAR MR. HAMMERTON,—(There goes the second M: it is a certainty.) Thank you for your prompt and kind answer, little as I deserved it, though I hope to show you I was less undeserving than I seemed. But just might I delete two words in your testimonial? The two words 'and legal' were unfortunately winged by chance against my weakest spot, and would go far to damn me.

"It was not my bliss that I was interested in when I was married; it was a sort of marriage in extremis; and if I am where I am, it is thanks to the care of that lady who married me when I was a mere complication of cough and bones, much fitter for an emblem of mortality than a bridegroom.

"I had a fair experience of that kind of illness when all the women (God bless them I) turn round upon the streets and look after you with a look that is only too kind not to be cruel. I have had nearly two years of more or less prostration. I have done no work whatever since the February before last, until quite of late. To be precise, until the beginning of the last month, exactly two essays. All last winter I was at Davos; and indeed I am home here just now against the doctor's orders, and must soon be back again to that unkindly haunt 'upon the mountains visitant—there goes no angel there, but the angel of death.' The deaths of last winter are still sore spots to me…. So you see I am not very likely to go on a 'wild expedition,' cis-Stygian at least. The truth is, I am scarce justified in standing for the chair, though I hope you will not mention this; and yet my health is one of my reasons, for the class is in summer.

"I hope this statement of my case will make my long neglect appear less unkind. It was certainly not because I ever forgot you or your unwonted kindness; and it was not because I was in any sense rioting in pleasures.

"I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; you have my warmest wishes for a good cruise down the SaÔne: and yet there comes some envy to that wish; for when shall I go cruising? Here a sheer hulk, alas! lies R. L. S. But I will continue to hope for a better time, canoes that will sail better to the wind, and a river grander than the SaÔne.

"I heard, by the way, in a letter of counsel from a well-wisher, one reason of my town's absurdity about the chair of Art: I fear it is characteristic of her manners. It was because you did not call upon the electors!

"Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son? and believe me," etc., etc.

In September we had the pleasure of a visit from Miss Betham-Edwards, and the acquaintance ripened into friendship.

Having brought the "Graphic Arts" satisfactorily forward, my husband thought that he might indulge in the longed-for holiday on the SaÔne. He expected to find everything ready at Chalon, and to have only to superintend the putting together of the sections of the boat. He was, however, sorely disappointed on finding that nothing had been done, and that he must spend several days in pushing the workmen on, instead of sailing pleasantly on the river. After a week of worry and irritation the boat was launched, and the two boys having joined their father on board, they went together as far as Tournus, after spending the first night at Port d'Ouroux, where they had found a nice little inn, with simple but good accommodation. In the afternoon Stephen went back to Autun to fetch his things, for he was obliged to be at his post on the first of October. Richard proceeded with his father down the SaÔne to MÂcon. The diary says:—

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

There are these notes in the diary:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The other plan is to postpone the publication, and bring out the complete book in the spring. If you prefer this, please telegraph No.

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

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

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

"19 WARWICK CRESCENT.

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

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

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

"Yours most truly,

"ROBERT BROWNING."

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

"TO ROBERT BROWNING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours very sincerely,

"ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came this letter from Mr. Browning:—

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

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

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

"ROBERT BROWNING."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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