4- 
 
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 in 2014 
 
 https://archive.org/details/painterscampOOhame_0 
 
IN THREE BOOKS. 
 
 Book I. In England. 
 Book II. In Scotland. Book III. In France. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 1S67. 
 
STEREOTYPED AT THE 
 BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 
 No. 4 Spring Lane. 
 
 Presswork by John Wilson and Son. 
 
TO 
 
 WILLIAM WYLD, 
 
 MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF AMSTERDAM, CHEVALIER 
 OF THE LEGION OF HONOR, ETC. 
 
 THE SEVEREST OF MY CRITICS, AND ONE OF 
 MY BEST FRIENDS* 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 IT is known to all who are acquainted with the 
 present condition of the fine arts in England that 
 landscape-painters rely less on memory and invention 
 than formerly, and that their work from nature is 
 much more laborious than it used to be. 
 
 Having studied principally in the northern districts, 
 I had to contend against great difficulties of climate. 
 These difficulties I have entirely overcome, having 
 painted from nature on the most exposed moors of 
 Lancashire and the Scottish Highlands in the worst 
 possible weather, and in all seasons of the year. 
 
 With no more than such ordinary powers of physi- 
 cal strength and endurance as are to be found amongst 
 average English gentlemen, I have worked from na- 
 ture on the spot seven or eight hours a day, in the 
 wildest situations, and in the most merciless storms 
 of winter. I have carried through the most delicate 
 processes in color, hour after hour, when shepherds 
 refused to wander on the hills and sheep were lost in 
 the drifted snow. 
 
 If anybody cares to know how this was accom- 
 
vi 
 
 Preface, 
 
 plished, this book will tell him. If the reader hap- 
 pens to be a painter by profession, he will appreciate 
 the utility of the expedients I found it to my advantage 
 to adopt. 
 
 The expeditions here narrated were not under- 
 taken in the spirit of whim or freak, or from a love of 
 adventure, as persons unacquainted with the objects 
 of a landscape-painter will in all probability suppose. 
 They were not undertaken in any way for pleasure, 
 but as seriously as any other human labor ; and had 
 no other motive than that strong desire which every 
 real artist must feel — to get the utmost amount of 
 attainable truth into my work. 
 
 It seems necessary to say this at the outset, be- 
 cause, amongst all the difficulties I have ever en- 
 countered, the most insuperable has always been an 
 ignorant misunderstanding of motives ; and if the 
 reader happened to share this, the whole scope and 
 purpose of the book would be utterly unintelligible 
 to him. 
 
 All persons are not artists, and cannot, therefore, be 
 expected to understand, without a little explanation, 
 that artistic labor is an exceedingly delicate affair, and 
 requires for its successful performance some degree 
 of protection from rain, hail, snow, and wind. 
 
 But any one, especially if he happens to be a man 
 of business, may, if he chooses, ascertain practically 
 the desirableness of shelter when one has careful work 
 to do. Let him take his papers out of doors some 
 wild winter's day, with nothing in the way of furni- 
 ture but a portable three-legged stool and a portfolio. 
 Let him carry this apparatus into the middle of some 
 exposed field, and then apply himself as he best may, 
 
Preface. 
 
 vii 
 
 without shelter, in the rain and wind, to the prosecu- 
 tion of his business. There is not a clerk nor an 
 attorney in England who would work under such con- 
 ditions. Men of business are always far too shrewd 
 — understand the laws of work far too well — not to 
 perceive the immense advantage to the workman of 
 having his body at ease, that he may give his undi- 
 vided attention to the labor in hand. So their offices 
 and counting-houses are comfortably furnished, and 
 are full of all sorts of contrivances for the orderly 
 arrangement of their materials. And does the reader 
 suppose that delicate drawing does not require at least 
 as tranquil a nerve as the addition of a column of 
 figures, or the composition of a letter? It is just as 
 rational for a landscape-painter to take a tent with 
 him to shelter him whilst he works from nature, as it 
 is for a lawyer to rent chambers, or a cotton manufac- 
 turer to build himself a counting-house. 
 
 Notwithstanding these very obvious considerations, 
 the author has usually found certain invincible mis- 
 conceptions in most people who are not professed 
 landscape-painters. 
 
 Firstly, everybody fancied that I took to tent life 
 because I preferred a tent to a house. This idea was 
 constantly expressed in some such observation as this : 
 " Well, upon my word, I can't see what you like so 
 much in a tent. / prefer a good strong stone house 
 with a well-slated roof." 
 
 Secondly, a few thought it was from dislike to inns, 
 and argued that the inns were very comfortable, &c. 
 
 I did not take to encamping because I preferred a 
 tent to a house as a habitation, but simply because I 
 found it considerably more portable. My largest tent 
 
viii 
 
 Preface. 
 
 weighs about one hundred weight — a comfortable 
 house weighs above a thousand tons. It takes about 
 twenty minutes to pitch the most elaborate of all my 
 tents — a good house cannot be built and made ready 
 for habitation in less than twenty months. My best 
 tent cost me a little over twenty pounds — a comforta- 
 ble house would cost at least a thousand. To have a 
 house of this kind built on every spot where I have 
 pitched my tent would have cost hundreds of thou- 
 sands of pounds. 
 
 I am certainly not very fond of inns ; but that is not 
 the reason why I prefer my tent to them. The real 
 reason is, because it is necessary for me to pitch my 
 tent exactly (that is, to a few inches) in such a posi- 
 tion that I may see a good natural composition through 
 my plate-glass window without stirring from my seat. 
 Now, after considerable experience of Highland inns, 
 I may be permitted to state that as a rule they are not 
 provided with plate-glass windows — that, in fact, at 
 this moment I remember no instance of a plate-glass 
 window in any inn or hotel north of the Clyde — and 
 common glass distorts objects; and, therefore, it is of 
 no use trying to see through it, for any purpose of art. 
 
 And there is yet another objection. So far as my 
 memory serves me, Highland inns are somewhat heavy 
 tabernacles, weighing, I should say, a good many tons 
 each ; and, being usually built on the earth, and not 
 erected on wheels, it is exceedingly difficult to stir one 
 of them without pulling it down. So when the view 
 visible from one's bedroom window (in the height of 
 the season, usually a garret) does not happen to be 
 quite suitable as a composition, what is to be done 
 if it should happen to rain? — and rain is a natural 
 
Preface. 
 
 ix 
 
 phenomenon which not unfrequently occurs in the 
 Highlands of Scotland. What painters residing at 
 inns usually do in wet weather is no great mystery. 
 They read the newest Glasgow Herald they can lay 
 hold of, or study Black* s Guide, or smoke tobacco, or 
 drink whiskey, or talk to the landlady — all very praise- 
 worthy and profitable occupations, no doubt, only they 
 don't paint from nature. 
 
 The light sketching tents sold by the colormen are 
 good things in their way for summer, but of little use 
 in winter. It is impossible to work long in the snow 
 without a fire as well as shelter. In my tent I work 
 just as well in winter as in summer, having a little 
 stove to heat it. The season of the year is, in fact, 
 a matter of absolute indifference to me, so far as it 
 concerns my work, except that in winter the days 
 are shorter. 
 
X 
 
 HOW THE NOTION OF ENCAMPING 
 DEVELOPED ITSELF. 
 
 First form of the idea. Something to shelter a 
 painter from the wind and rain, and yet enable him 
 to see. This led to the devising of a hut for shelter, 
 with plate-glass windows to see through. 
 
 Second form of the idea. Suppose the hut erected ; 
 somebody must sleep in it to guard it at night. It was 
 a long way from home ; if I slept in it myself, I should 
 be spared a long walk at each end of the day. This 
 led to sleeping in the hut. 
 
 Third form. The small troubles of life reminded 
 me that servants are useful people. Accommodation 
 for a servant was wanted. I devised a combination 
 of tent and hut for him. This led to a transition from 
 huts to tents ; and now, 1866, my camp is all of can- 
 vas — two ordinary tents and a studio tent. 
 
 Lastly, I may as well confess that, having tried 
 camp life, I took a great liking for it, and to this 
 day enjoy nothing so much, unless it be sailing. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK I. — IN ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. A Walk on the Lancashire Moors i 
 
 II. The Author invents a New Hut 6 
 
 III. Under Canvas. — The Weather unpropitious. 9 
 
 IV. The Author his own Housekeeper and Cook. 15 
 V. Advantages of the Hut 20 
 
 VI. What the People think 24 
 
 VII. Troublesome Visitors 32 
 
 BOOK II. — IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 I. Tents and Boats for the Highlands. ... 43 
 
 II. The Author arrives at Loch Awe 57 
 
 III. The Author encamps on an Uninhabited 
 
 Island 62 
 
 IV. Educational 65 
 
 V. The Isle of Indolence 70 
 
 VI. The Three Mad Men of the Island, and the 
 
 Mad Man of the Mountain 78 
 
 VII. A Lake Voyage. Log of the " Britannia." . 88 
 VIII. Further Extracts from the Log of the 
 
 " Britannia." 101 
 
 IX. A Friend in the Desert 111 
 
 X. A Letter from the Author in Paris to a 
 
 Friend of his in Lancashire 119 
 
 XI. The Island Farm 134 
 
 XII. A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe 141 
 
 XIII. Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. . 160 
 
 (xi) 
 
xii Contents. 
 
 XIV. 1859 r 72 
 
 The Pool of Death 173 
 
 The Coming of the Clouds 175 
 
 XV. Ben Cruachan on a December Evening. . .178 
 
 Loch Awe on a Misty Morning 179 
 
 Loch Awe after Sunset, October 10, 1859, 
 looking to where the sun had gone 
 
 DOWN l8o 
 
 Loch Awe after Sunset, September 23, i860, 
 
 looking to where the sun had set. . . 1 83 
 Craiganunie after Sunset, July 15, 1858. . . 184 
 
 A Fine Day in June, i860 186 
 
 After Rain, July i, 1861 — 9.30 P. M. ... 188 
 Calm after Rain, May 21, 1861 — 8 P. M. . . 188 
 
 October 10, 1859 — 9 M 189 
 
 October 10, 1859 — 4-3° P* M 190 
 
 The Blue Haze 191 
 
 A Bit of Lake Shore 192 
 
 Sunrise in Autumn. Mist rising 193 
 
 A Morning in March 194 
 
 Loch Awe on an Evening in March. . . .195 
 
 A Clachan 196 
 
 A Lake Storm, October, i860 198 
 
 A Calm Day, March 29, 1859 *99 
 
 A Stream in Action 200 
 
 A Stream at Rest 202 
 
 XVI. A Long Drive in the Glens 207 
 
 BOOK III. — IN FRANCE. 
 
 I. First Head Quarters. — A Little French 
 
 City 247 
 
 II. The Slopes of Gold 296 
 
 III. Second Head Quarters. — A Farm in the 
 
 Autunois 313 
 
 IV. A River Voyage in a Basket 337 
 
 Epilogue, 
 
 342 
 
A PAINTER'S CAMP. 
 
 BOOK L — IN ENGLAND. 
 LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A WALK ON THE LANCASHIRE MOORS. 
 
 I HAD a wild walk yesterday. I have a notion 
 of encamping on the Boulsworth moors to study 
 heather ; and heartily tired of being caged up here 
 in my library, with nothing to see but wet garden- 
 walks and dripping yew trees, and a sun-dial where- 
 on no shadow had fallen the livelong day, I deter- 
 mined, in spite of the rain, to be off to the moors to 
 choose a site for my encampment. Not very far 
 from this house still dwells an old servant of my 
 uncle's, with whom I am on the friendliest terms. 
 So I called upon this neighbor on my way, and asked 
 him if he would take a walk with me to the hills. 
 Jamie stared a little, and remarked that " it ur feefil 
 weet," but accompanied me nevertheless, and a very 
 pleasant walk we had of it. 
 
 i C 1 ) 
 
2 
 
 A Walk on the 
 
 By climbing over innumerable stone-walls, and fol- 
 lowing here and there the course of a narrow, sloppy 
 lane for a few hundred yards, we got at last on the 
 wild heath. I think no scenery in England could be 
 sadder or wilder than such scenery as that in such 
 weather. Fancy a vast bleak range of hills parti- 
 tioned into fields by leagues upon leagues of stone- 
 walls, with here and there a dreary village w T here 
 the quarrymen live who work in the stone-quarries 
 on the hills, and one or two desolate mansions of the 
 Elizabethan age standing forlorn on the bare hills, 
 their fair parks cut up into pastures, their oak-woods 
 felled long ago, their wainscoted chambers empty 
 and cold, and their lofty gables rent and tottering. 
 These, with the uncouth manners of the peasantry, 
 and the harshness of their northern dialect, recall 
 vividly that wonderful flight of Jane Eyre from the 
 house of Mr. Rochester. Those passages of land- 
 scape-description which every one has admired in 
 that marvellous novel were studied by the young 
 woman who wrote it from this very country I am 
 trying to describe now. We passed one or two little 
 out-of-the-w r ay houses that answered exactly to the 
 description of that where Jane Eyre found shelter 
 and friends, and any painter who would illustrate 
 that part of the novel should come here for his back- 
 grounds. 
 
 Having found a wild mountain-road, we followed 
 it till we came to the real heather region. I ex- 
 amined very carefully every spot which appeared 
 favorable for camp-work, but have not yet decided 
 which to choose finally. We had crossed the border 
 of Yorkshire before we turned to come home, and I 
 
Lancashire Moors, 
 
 3 
 
 found a very fine wild valley, with one side of it 
 covered with magnificent stones, as big as Highland 
 cottages, scattered about like pebbles on the sea-shore. 
 After spending some time amongst these stones seek- 
 ing for natural compositions, I was forced to return 
 homewards by another route, as night was coming 
 on, and the moors were misty, and we were very 
 likely to be lost. 
 
 And lost we were, and that utterly ; for when we got 
 out upon the great broad summit of the moor, night 
 had come on, and I could not see my hand. Jamie 
 was about a hundred yards from me, when he began 
 to get confused, and cried out, — 
 
 " Mestur Gilburd, Mestur Gilburd, con yau tell me 
 where Worsthorn lies?" 
 
 64 Yes, certainly," I answered in the most perfect 
 confidence ; " it lies down there in the west, where 
 the wind comes from." 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Jamie ; " I know naut abaat it 
 mysen, but I dunnot think yau'll find it, sur, if yau go 
 thither." 
 
 "Well, which way must we go, then?" 
 " I connot tell." 
 
 So I told Jamie to wait till we got together, and 
 then I said we had better walk on till we came to a 
 wall which I knew crossed the moor near some recent 
 enclosures. And we kept together in the darkness, 
 stumbling and falling over the boggy ground, through 
 the pelting rain, as we best could, till I fell into a 
 ditch, and in stretching forth my hands felt what 
 seemed to be a rock immediately in front of me, and 
 then by touching its surface, as a blind man reads an 
 embossed book, discovered that it was of rude masonry, 
 
4 
 
 A Walk on the 
 
 and not rock, and then called out in triumph that 
 I had found the wall. On this rose a difference 
 between us as to the direction in which we ought 
 to follow our newly-found guide ; but, happily for 
 both of us, I yielded the point, and followed Jamie 
 along the wall-side for what seemed an intermi- 
 nable distance, till we came suddenly against an- 
 other wall, that ran at right angles to the first, and 
 then we knew that the road lay there on the other 
 side. 
 
 Our anxieties over, I wanted to have a cigar, but 
 my pockets were wet and matches spoiled. So we 
 marched quickly along the road, which was just 
 visible, and mile after mile of the black moorland 
 passed away to the rear unperceived. 
 
 At last we came to a- village, and seeing, by the 
 glimmering light from a window, a crooked branch 
 of oak, without bark or leaf, suspended over an open 
 door, I knew that we were at the sign of the Crooked 
 Billet in Worsthorn, and entered therein and lighted 
 my long-deferred cigar, and refreshed myself and 
 Jamie with hot ale and the contemplation of a bright- 
 ly-blazing fire, and then we came home. 
 
 Barbarous is the artistic design of the old carved 
 bed I slept in here last night, and slender are its 
 claims to a sculptor's admiration ; but as I lay med- 
 itating in it after a luxurious bath, and watched the 
 firelight glance unsteadily on grim visages carved 
 deep in the dark panels, and on the absurd old pil- 
 lars rashly built to outrage all the laws of con- 
 struction and common sense, with their huge carved 
 blocks of timber, held together by weak and slender 
 shafts — and on the great oak tester these pillars 
 
Lancashire Moors. 
 
 5 
 
 painfully carried century after century, they them- 
 selves trembling at every sound under their ponder- 
 ous burden — I forgave for , once all these pictur- 
 esque barbarisms, and thought myself happy to lie 
 once more under that threatening old tester, rather 
 than out on the wet moor, with the cold low rain- 
 cloud for a canopy. 
 
6 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE AUTHOR INVENTS A NEW HUT. 
 
 I AM quite determined to encamp to study heather ; 
 there is none of it near enough to go to every day, 
 and I must have a few careful studies of it, no matter 
 what trouble and inconvenience they cost me. These 
 green fields and pleasant pastures are all very well in 
 their way, but no preparation for the Highland fore- 
 grounds : I hate prim hedges and smooth meadows, 
 belted with plantations. The only valuable bit of 
 study near at hand is a little sandstone stream ; but 
 one cannot long work at the same kind of subject 
 without getting contracted ideas. 
 
 If I go and live a month on the moor, I think it will 
 be long enough to produce a satisfactory oil study of 
 foreground detail. Then, if I find that camp life suits 
 me, I intend to follow out the plan in the Highlands 
 of Scotland for some months every year. 
 
 I have been very busily occupied with the invention 
 of a new hut, which is at last finished, and which 
 appears to promise every accommodation I require in 
 a wonderfully small space. The hut is erected in the 
 garden here, where it excites a good deal of curiosity. 
 It consists entirely of panels, of which the largest are 
 two feet six inches square : these panels can be carried 
 separately on pack-horses, or even on men's backs, and 
 then united together by iron bolts into a strong little 
 
The Author invents a new Hut. 
 
 7 
 
 building. Four of the largest panels serve as windows, 
 being each of them filled with a large pane of excellent 
 plate-glass. When erected, the walls present a per- 
 fectly smooth surface outside, and a panelled interior ; 
 the floor being formed in exactly the same manner, 
 with the panelled or coffered side turned towards the 
 earth, and the smooth surface uppermost. By this 
 arrangement, all the wall-bolts are inside, and those 
 of the floor underneath it, which protects them not 
 only from the weather, but from theft, an iron bolt 
 being a great temptation to country people on account 
 of its convenience and utility. The walls are bolted 
 to the floor, which gives great strength to the whole 
 structure, and the panels are carefully ordered, like 
 the stones in a well-built wall, so that the joints of the 
 lower course of panels do not fall below those of the 
 upper. The roof is arched, and covered with water- 
 proof canvas. I have been careful to provide a current 
 of fresh air, by placing ventilators at each end of the 
 arch, which insures a current without inconvenience 
 to the occupant. 
 
 This hut is a perfect masterpiece of joiner's work, 
 and I have no doubt will completely answer my pur- 
 pose. It would have been a great treasure in the 
 Crimea, but the design is too expensive and too elabo- 
 rate for military purposes. For the study of snow in 
 windy weather, when the drifts are most beautiful, it 
 will be a most precious addition to my artistic appa- 
 ratus, for I shall be able to sit comfortably inside, and 
 still see my subject through the plate-glass just as well 
 as without it, and yet be perfectly protected from the 
 wind. I have described this little hut in detail, be- 
 cause I think some such invention might be of real 
 
8 
 
 The Author mve?zts a new Hut. 
 
 service to our modern school of naturalistic landscape- 
 painters, whose work from nature is of so exceedingly 
 arduous a character that it ought to have every facility 
 that human ingenuity can contrive for it. I hope, 
 ultimately, to ascertain experimentally how far inven- 
 tions of this kind may assist artists in their endeavors 
 after truth, and to publish for their benefit any results 
 I may arrive at. 
 
 Since the hut was set up in the garden, many of our 
 friends have seen it. One young lady thought it would 
 make a good kennel for my big Newfoundland dog ; 
 but an old lady of rank would not hear of any such 
 disparaging comments upon it, and declared very posi- 
 tively that she considered the hut a bit of most refined 
 luxury, adding that she could live in it herself very 
 happily indeed, if necessary. 
 
 I have invited one of my most intimate friends, and 
 we have inaugurated the hut w T ith a small banquet, at 
 which we two only were present. The house being 
 at no great distance, everything passed off satisfactorily 
 enough, but I look forward with some anxiety to the 
 difficulties of the culinary department when I am alone 
 on the hill, with no friendly kitchen within call. 
 
9 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 UNDER CANVAS. — THE WEATHER UNPROPITIOUS. 
 
 I AM in camp at last, on the frontier line between 
 Lancashire and Yorkshire, on a vast moor which 
 extends far in every direction. We carted the hut 
 over the hills, and have erected it in a very convenient 
 position. The road led us over ground so treacherous 
 that we were often axle-deep in the morass ; but we 
 arrived here safely after all, and built the hut in its 
 place before nightfall, when the men left me. 
 
 The rain pelted furiously in the evening, and I was 
 fortunate in getting my house built during the fine 
 hours of the afternoon. The wind, too, rose at night, 
 and howled wofully enough over the moor ; but the 
 hut seemed wonderfully snug and cosy when I lighted 
 my pipe, and made myself a cup of tea. 
 
 When the pipe was finished, I slung my hammock 
 and fell asleep ; but during the night there came a 
 Storm of wind and rain that made the hut tremble and 
 quake before it. I awoke suddenly, and when restored 
 to a full consciousness of my position, found myself 
 alone, in a sailor's hammock, in a slight little wooden 
 cabin, on the stormy heights of a northern moor. 
 
 My first sensation was that of imminent danger at 
 sea. I thought the spray beat against the window of 
 my cabin, but it was only the furious rain ; I thought 
 the sails flapped above me in the storm, but it was 
 
IO 
 
 Under Canvas. 
 
 only the canvas roof ; I expected the cabin to pitch 
 and roll, but it remained steadfast, though trembling 
 in every fibre. 
 
 Then, at last, I became aware that I was not at sea, 
 but only alone on the hills, a thousand feet. above it; 
 and I turned in my hammock with an ineffable sensa- 
 tion of profound comfort and satisfaction. 
 
 On awaking the next morning, I felt so warm 
 and comfortable that the idea of getting up was ex- 
 ceedingly repugnant to me ; but having reflected that 
 I had no servants to prepare my breakfast, I came to 
 the wise conclusion that I had better bestir myself, 
 and get forward with my work. I had done very lit- 
 tle towards effecting a convenient arrangement of all 
 my things when a boy arrived with milk, and offered 
 to fetch me water, and show me the nearest spring. 
 
 Whoever would realize my position here should 
 read Jane Eyre over again, and pay particular atten- 
 tion to her description of the moor country. I am at 
 the highest point of the mountain road from Burnley 
 to Heptonstall, about two hundred yards from the 
 border line of Lancashire, I enjoy my rambles on 
 the moor exceedingly. I like the long lines of these 
 hills, with their endless variety and sweet subtlety of 
 curve. They are not mountains, nor have they any 
 pretension to the energetic character of the true moun- 
 tain form ; but they have a certain calm beauty, and a 
 sublime expression of gigantic power in repose, that 
 we do not find in the loftier ranges. If I were not 
 determined to study in the Highlands of Scotland, I 
 could find work enough in these Lancashire and 
 Yorkshire highlands to last my life. They are defi- 
 cient, however, in the grand element of water ; and 
 
The Weather unpropttlous. 
 
 ii 
 
 that is a sufficient reason why I have no business to 
 remain here very long, when thousands of noble effects 
 are passing every day from the great northern lakes 
 unobserved and unrecorded. 
 
 I am down in a little dell for shelter, and because 
 the foreground here suits me ; but I have only to walk 
 a few yards to see Pendle and all the blue Craven 
 hills, which, from this elevation, look exceedingly 
 grand ; a few hundred feet lower, the base of Pendle 
 shuts out all the others. There is a perfectly delight- 
 ful little dell close at hand, that is completely hidden 
 from the road, and I half repent I did not establish 
 myself there instead of here, where my hut is visible 
 to the passers-by, which will probably cause me some 
 annoyance. As to the other hollow, I found it out by 
 accident, and too late. It is a sweet natural lawn of 
 short, soft grass, surrounded by a gigantic wall of 
 ponderous rocks, all crowned and tufted with purple- 
 flowering heather. A tiny stream of crystalline purity 
 winds through this exquisite hollow ; and one cannot 
 help imagining that the fairies dance by moonlight on 
 its delicate grass, and revel by its little stream. 
 
 I mentioned in the first chapter what a noble valley 
 there is near here, and what magnificent stones. For 
 studies of massive individual stones, the Flask Moor is 
 as good as a Highland glen. Blocks, equal in size to 
 a good dining-room, are strewn about w r ith such 
 colossal energy as almost to revive in one the infantine 
 conception of divine operation, and to lead one to 
 imagine that a giant-god of mighty muscle and sinew 
 had hurled them about in the sportiveness of super- 
 natural strength. 
 
 There are a few farm-houses in these wilds, some 
 
12 
 
 Under Canvas. 
 
 of them old, but for the most part not picturesque, 
 and especially deficient in color. The stone-walls 
 that cut up the country into thousands of parallelo- 
 grams and trapeziums do not carry their geometry 
 over the great heights of Boulsworth ; but wherever 
 land is enclosed in this region, it is always by these 
 dull, brownish-gray stone lines, hateful alike to the 
 hunter and the artist. 
 
 The weather has been exceedingly rough since I 
 took up my residence here. The first night was wet, 
 as I said above, but the second a storm came on at 
 dusk, and during the whole night a hurricane blew 
 from the east, catching one end of my hut, and making 
 it tremble and vibrate all night long. I had some 
 fears for the gables, which are not so well supported 
 as the other panels. However, they stood perfectly 
 stanch ; but often, during the night, violent squalls 
 shook my frail habitation, and rattled its contents 
 loudly. My tin salt-box rattled the whole night, or at 
 least w r as busy rattling every time I awoke. A gust 
 of extraordinary violence would come at intervals, 
 flapping the canvas so that it gave loud reports, as a 
 ship's sails do in a tempest. The driven rain whipped 
 the window, pans danced and jingled on their shelves, 
 the boards of the hut shrieked in the storm's path, 
 and the canvas flapped with sharp reports like pistol- 
 shots. I determined quietly what I would do if the 
 wind tore the roof off; and having arranged all the 
 details to my satisfaction in a sort of programme, 
 turned over, and fell asleep ; and though sometimes 
 awaking afterwards to find myself in the dark, with 
 such a confusion of noises about me as might almost 
 have frightened me, I always immediately recollected 
 
The Weather unfirof itious. 
 
 13 
 
 where I was, turned over quietly, and fell asleep 
 again. Sometimes the flapping of the canvas sounded 
 unpleasantly like the efforts of some robber to break 
 into the hut ; but I did not think a thief would have 
 the sense to choose a confusing night. My dog was 
 well off the wind, as his kennel is to the west. In the 
 morning I made an unpleasant discovery. Before the 
 hut was bolted together, I wished to grease the joints 
 with tallow ; but the joiner who made it, being very 
 proud of his workmanship, had persuaded me that the 
 joints were so exquisitely fitted that there was no oc- 
 casion for tallow at all ; so I omitted that precaution, 
 and the water gets in. I tried to tallow the joints in- 
 side, but could not keep the wet out. 
 
 The morning was terrific, and it rained incessantly 
 all day ; still I worked very steadily at my foreground. 
 I drew the ground with perfect ease in all its detail, 
 as deliberately as if I had been copying a picture in 
 the Louvre. The subject I intend to paint here is an 
 admirable study of foreground, rich in every variety 
 of moorland vegetation, and I shall stay here until I 
 have every leaf and blade of it on canvas. The season 
 is already too far advanced for the finest purple of the 
 heather bloom ; but what remains of it is still precious, 
 and an infinite variety of color lies half hidden under 
 the blasted stems of the burnt heath. Delicate little 
 ferns of the purest green lie close to spots of scarlet as 
 bright as the plumage of tropical birds. Then there 
 are those exquisite oases, where the grass is shorter, 
 and softer, and greener than palace lawns, and where, 
 when you go near enough, you may see that a spring, 
 pure and abundant, washes continually every blade 
 with its sweet waters. 
 
14 Under Canvas, — The Weather unfirofiitious. 
 
 The evening did not promise much comfort : it was 
 excessively stormy, and I did not lay my carpet down, 
 on account of the wet. I did contrive, however, to 
 give some appearance of comfort to matters, and 
 drank my cup of tea in peace ; after which I got a 
 pipe and a book. I set pans to catch the water, which 
 now dropped at many places, and having hung my 
 hammock in the middle, instead of at one side of the 
 hut, as usual, and unscrewed the legs from my table 
 to get it out of the way, got into bed, and fell asleep 
 directly, in the midst of a thousand noises. 
 
 The storm went on, I suppose, during the night 
 with its old fury, for this morning it seems not at all 
 abated. The wind, however, has veered to the north- 
 east, and so I am better sheltered than yesterday. I 
 am getting a little tired of hearing the water drop into 
 my pans, and beat against my house, but so accus- 
 tomed to it that it is beginning to seem quite the nor- 
 mal state of things, and an odd sort of feeling begins 
 to gain upon me that I am alone in a dreary land, 
 where it raineth forever and forever. 
 
l 5 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE AUTHOR HIS OWN HOUSEKEEPER AND COOK. 
 
 WHILST writing a letter this evening to a friend 
 at a distance, it occurred to me to give him a 
 detailed history of one day, as the most likely way to 
 make him understand the sort of life I am leading here. 
 Before sealing the letter, I will copy out that passage 
 for my portfolio. 
 
 A. M. 
 
 6.0. — Awake, and feel far too comfortable to get up, espe- 
 cially on wet mornings, so turn over on the other 
 side and go to sleep again. 
 6.45. — Begin to think seriously of getting up. 
 
 7.0. — The absolute necessity of getting up presents itself to 
 my mind with terrible distinctness. Begin to feel 
 hungry, and remember that there is nobody here to 
 care whether I am hungry or not, and that if I don't 
 want to perish of sheer famine, I had better get up 
 without further hesitation and make myself some 
 breakfast. 
 
 7.10. — Rise vigorously and make my bed. This operation 
 is performed as follows : I fold the blankets and 
 sheets together till they assume the dimensions of 
 a cushion, about three feet six by one foot three 
 inches. This cushion, decently enclosed in a rail- 
 way rug, forms a truly decorous and even luxurious 
 protection from the hard oak military chest I sit 
 upon during the day. The hammock being rolled 
 up into the compass of a cylinder two feet six inches 
 long, by four inches in diameter, is strapped well 
 out of the way against one wall of the hut. 
 
i6 
 
 The Author his own 
 
 7.15. — Make my toilet out of doors in all weathers, often in 
 a neighboring stream. Brush my clothes, oil my 
 boots, and dress. Having trimmed and lighted my 
 spirit-lamp, and set the pan on with water in it for 
 porridge, rewash my hands and make a large mess 
 of porridge, one half of which I commonly consume 
 myself, whilst the other is destined for the dog, who 
 is the gentleman of the establishment in the vulgar 
 sense of the title, as he does nothing whatever for 
 his living. 
 
 8.0. — Milk-boy arrives punctually. I eat my porridge with 
 new milk. After this the inevitable toils of wash- 
 ing-up. 
 
 8.30. — Go out for half an hour, and walk a mile on the moor 
 with my dog. 
 
 9.0. — Set to work at my painting. Paint four hours, 
 p. M. 
 
 1.0. — Lunch, and take another ramble with the dog. 
 2.0. — Resume painting. 
 
 5.0. — Cease painting for the day. Clean brushes, then set 
 about cooking, and generally produce dishes of 
 great novelty, entirely different from anything I 
 intend. The totally unexpected character of these 
 results lends great zest to my experiments in culi- 
 nary science. Dine. After dinner the woful drudg- 
 ery of washing-up ! At this period of the day, am 
 seized with a vague desire to espouse a scullery- 
 maid, it being impossible to accommodate one in the 
 hut without scandal, unless in the holy state of 
 matrimony : hope no scullery-maid will pass the 
 hut when I am engaged in washing-up, as I should 
 be sure to make her an offer. 
 7.30. — On fine moonlight evenings take a walk on the 
 moors, on wet ones stay in-doors. The hut is de- 
 lightful at nigh{, when my curtains are drawn and 
 candles lighted. The wilder the night the better. 
 When the storm-wind sweeps the desolate moors, I 
 only feel that extreme sensation of comfort that one 
 experiences in the snug cabin of a nobleman's yacht 
 
Housekeeper and Cook. 
 
 17 
 
 far away on the dark seas. Fancy a miniature 
 interior, wainscoted with white panels like those in 
 old country houses that some Vandal has whitened 
 in Queen Anne's classic time ; fancy this interior 
 arched over with a roof of emerald green, with little 
 curtains of the same color before its windows, and a 
 dark red carpet on its tight wooden floor; the walls 
 hung with choice little engravings, a book or two on 
 the table, a cup of tea, and the kettle singing over a 
 spirit-lamp. Then, with a cigar, or perhaps a long, 
 grave-looking meerschaum, and a favorite author, I 
 recline luxuriously in this miniature palace, and 
 chuckle inwardly as I think of certain friends who 
 fancy me shivering with cold and half frozen in the 
 long dark nights. My great dog, too, lies stretched 
 on the warm carpet till the time comes to break up 
 this pretty picture of repose, and then he goes to his 
 canvas kennel, where he has plenty of clean straw 
 to lie in and a big bone to play with. 
 11.0. — Sling my hammock. Put a loaded revolver on the 
 table, then spread on the stretched hammock a sack 
 of white counterpane containing two inner sacks, 
 one of blanketing and the other of sheets, cunningly 
 sewn together according to a plan of my own, where- 
 by the chief inconvenience of a narrow bed — name- 
 ly, the certainty that the clothes will be all on the 
 ground before morning — is happily overcome. So 
 I enter with much circumspection the narrow neck 
 of this treble sack, and, having fairly bagged myself, 
 extinguish the candles and thus conclude the day. 
 
 If ever again I spend a few months in France, I 
 shall certainly apprentice myself to a cook. Every- 
 one who has the most remote chance of being thrown 
 on his own resources, should study cookery as a 
 science. Here am I in the wilderness, incapable of 
 preparing the plainest English dinner without some 
 . 2 
 
iS 
 
 The Author his own 
 
 inevitable catastrophe ! Any handy little French sol- 
 dier would live here like a prince. 
 
 There is but one thing I can cook tolerably, and 
 that is porridge. I always make porridge for break- 
 fast, and eat it with new milk. The advantages of hot 
 porridge over coffee and eggs are numerous, chiefly 
 on account of economy of time. Porridge, however, 
 requires salt, which, of course, I continually forget to 
 put in, as, if there is any possibility of making a mis- 
 take, I am sure to make it. One does not recognize 
 any saline taste in good cookery, but when the salt is 
 omitted, there is an unpleasant insipidity. 
 
 My dinner to-day was rather ambitious, being an 
 attempt to imitate the Parisian cotelette de mouton 
 aux fiommes de terre. The potatoes are cut into thin 
 slips, and the cutlets fried ; but I entirely failed to 
 obtain that dry, yellow crispness that the French 
 cooks give to their potatoes, and I cannot conceive 
 how they manage it.* I cannot say much for my 
 cooking apparatus. It consists of two spirit-lamps, 
 one under the other. With one alone the heat is 
 sufficient. With both it is so excessive as to spoil 
 not only the viands, but the apparatus itself, which is 
 only soldered, and solder is easily fusible. My stove 
 is all in pieces, and now my frying-pan is ruined, for 
 the tin lining has melted, though there was plenty of 
 
 * I ought to have used more grease. The French cooks fry 
 potatoes in great quantities of melted lard, so as to immerse 
 them in a sea of boiling oil. Thus they may be sufficiently 
 cooked without losing that artistic gold color I was trying for. 
 It is very well, however, that I knew no better. If I had sus- 
 pected that plenty of lard was all that was wanted, I should 
 infallibly have set fire to my habitation. 
 
Housekeeper and Cook. 19 
 
 grease, and I turned the cutlet continually. I must 
 have a little iron frying-pan. 
 
 The result of these annoyances is, that I mean to 
 get as much provision as I can eat whilst it is good, 
 by a weekly messenger from home, and to confine my 
 cookery to porridge, coffee and tea, eggs, and a cutlet 
 occasionally. I expect Jamie here one of these days 
 with a basketful of roast beef, roast grouse, potted 
 partridge, and other provisions ; in the mean time, I 
 have nothing but raw meat in a safe outside the hut, 
 and must struggle bravely against adversity. O for the 
 skill of a Soyer ! — and materials to exercise it upon. 
 
 But what I hate most is the washing-up. I tried it 
 once with cold water, but it would not do ; the fat 
 stuck faster than ever to the plates. I know better 
 now, and heat the water, which melts the fat, and so 
 I get my plates tolerably clean. How I do admire 
 and respect all scullery-maids ! What skill and in- 
 dustry do they not all exhibit ! these young ladies 
 whose profession, in this wise country of ours (as 
 Thackeray said of painting), is scarcely looked upon 
 as liberal. 
 
 How pleasant it would be if one could live upon the 
 incense of cigars ! A cigar needeth not to be cooked, 
 and it entaileth not the subsequent troubles of washing- 
 up. A cigar will keep for years ; it is light and 
 portable ; it is a very miracle of convenience ! It 
 yieldeth its sweet smoke in a moment, and wearieth 
 not the patience of him who desireth its consolations. 
 O, how happy would that painter be who could dwell 
 for weeks upon the lonely hills, with no other provis- 
 ion than the contents of a little pink-edged box of 
 cedar-wood, decorated with outlandish heraldries, and 
 an inscription in the Spanish tongue ! 
 
20 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ADVANTAGES OF THE HUT. 
 
 HERE am I, painting from nature on a Lancashire 
 moor twelve hundred feet high, in the month of 
 October, in a storm of wind and rain, with my color- 
 box on a table by my side, and every convenience and 
 comfort about me. Any one who doubts the utility 
 of this hut may come and do without it what I have 
 done to-day. For six hours I have calmly studied the 
 heather tuft by tuft, and the grass blade by blade, and 
 the green mosses and delicate small fern, when you 
 would not have turned a dog out of doors, and the 
 shepherds themselves refuse to wander on the hills. 
 On such a day what painter could work outside in the 
 wind? I can scarcely conceive the results to my suc- 
 cess in art that may follow from this contrivance. My 
 winter studies will be as perfect as my summer ones. 
 
 The weather is of little consequence now, as far as 
 work is concerned. I shall keep steadily to my paint- 
 ing, however wet it may be, unless the wind should 
 cover my plate-glass with rain-drops, which will only 
 happen when it is in the west, and even then I could 
 study out of another of my four windows. An ex- 
 ceedingly heavy fog would also interrupt even fore- 
 ground study, but from mere wind and cold I have 
 nothing to fear. Every morning I awake close to my 
 work, and, as the place is lonely enough, may reason- 
 
Advantages of the Hut. 
 
 21 
 
 ably hope to pursue it in peace. The bitterest gale 
 that ever stiffened the morass would not benumb my 
 hand, and I could copy the storm-sculptured curves 
 and azure shadows of the snowdrift as deliberately as 
 the purple heaths of autumn or the tender flowers of 
 spring. 
 
 Yes, the hut is a success ! Greater space with 
 greater portability might perhaps be desirable, and in 
 some future embodiment of the same idea not difficult 
 to realize. Still, the plan has succeeded to the full. I 
 can study nature now in winter as well as in summer. 
 I have gained six months a year for my art. Ten 
 years of life are as good to me now as twenty were 
 before ! There will be no limit to my progress in the 
 knowledge of nature but the limits of life itself. I shall 
 not have to shut myself up and fret my heart out in a 
 studio every wet day. In the Highlands I shall not 
 lose sixty or seventy per cent, of daylight hours on 
 account of the climate. 
 
 I begin to see already how this idea may be ex- 
 panded into still greater usefulness. The heat and 
 glare of summer are almost as troublesome to a painter 
 as rain and cold. I perceive that this hut, which pro- 
 tects me well enough against cold, would be no pro- 
 tection whatever against heat ; it is not lofty enough, 
 nor large enough. But no mere inconvenience of cli- 
 mate ought to conquer a painter who is really anxious 
 to study, and at the same time both ingenious in devis- 
 ing expedients and determined in the application of 
 them. 
 
 The study of nature having been hitherto the small- 
 est and most neglected part of the labors of the land- 
 scape-painter, instead of the great enjoyment and aim 
 
22 
 
 Advantages of the Hut. 
 
 of his existence, it is not wonderful that an age so 
 fertile in other useful inventions should have been able 
 to hit upon no better contrivance to shelter a painter 
 during his hours of study than a white cotton um- 
 brella, or a little tent with one end open. The truth 
 is, nobody has cared enough about the matter to be 
 thoroughly in earnest. Turner's work, and Stanfield's 
 too, and all the work of the minor painters who aim 
 at the same results, is essentially a matter of memory 
 and invention — memory as to effect, invention as to 
 subordinate detail and arrangement of subject. To 
 paint well on these principles requires colossal pow- 
 ers ; and even granting him such genius as occurs 
 perhaps once in several centuries, the painter who 
 works on such principles is liable to frequent failures, 
 and failures precisely of that kind which a fastidious 
 public is less and less disposed to tolerate in every suc- 
 cessive Academy exhibition. But since in the study 
 of nature there are two distinct classes of difficulties, — 
 the intellectual difficulties, which affect only the mind 
 of the artist, and the physical difficulties, which affect 
 first his body, yet necessarily the mind also through the 
 body, — it is evident that whoever will entirely elimi- 
 nate even one class only of these difficulties will have 
 rendered an inestimable service to art. By relieving 
 the painter from all physical inconvenience you also 
 assist him in his intellectual labor, and that to a degree 
 scarcely conceivable by any one not practically an 
 artist. For the unrecorded tortures of burning sun, 
 and bitter wind, and biting frost, and penetrating rain, 
 the Egyptian plagues of flies, the Russian plagues of 
 hail and snow — all hard enough to be borne even by 
 strong soldiers in constant exercise — are terrible trials 
 
Advantages of the Hut. 
 
 23 
 
 to a refined artist, delicately organized, who has to 
 support them with the quiet patience of a martyr. 
 
 Nobody knows what it is, who has not tried, to sit 
 from morning till night before an easel, in the open 
 air, exposed to every caprice of the weather, with a 
 pulse not quickened to resistance by vigorous exercise, 
 but languidly yielding to the gradual mastery of the 
 cruel cold. The policeman and the sentinel may 
 march about, the disengaged cabman may beat his 
 blood into something like circulation by throwing his 
 arms across his breast, but the painter is employed 
 on work so delicate, that, as he lays on his tender- 
 est touches, he cannot even breathe, respiration itself 
 being too disturbing a movement, and the only chance 
 of stirring he can hope for is in deserting his post 
 altogether from time to time. Then the rain comes to 
 dabble his drawing, and he puts it hastily by, and 
 waits perhaps half a day for a chance of returning to 
 his work. So his precious time for study slips out of 
 his hands, and leaves no complete or perfect result, 
 but only unfinished fragments, discouragement, and 
 vexation. 
 
 Does not the intellectual labor of the artist provide 
 trials enough for the saintliest patience, without join- 
 ing to its inevitable difficulties the simultaneous suffer- 
 ings of the body? We painters have no particular 
 vocation for voluntary martyrdom. The mortification 
 of bur bodies will not make our pictures perfect, but 
 the reverse. It is not amongst our duties to injure or 
 destroy the delicate machinery with which we produce 
 our results, but rather to protect it from every adverse 
 influence, and preserve it in the highest attainable 
 state of efficiency. 
 
2 4 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHAT THE PEOPLE THINK. 
 
 " AAT^^^ * must do is all that concerns me, not 
 V V what the people think. This rule," says 
 Emerson, " equally arduous in actual and in intellec- 
 tual life, may serve for the whole distinction between 
 greatness and meanness." 
 
 When art shall be better understood, its followers 
 will have less occasion for the spirit of self-reliance, 
 but in our day the only philosophy for the painter is 
 the Emersonian doctrine of individualism. It is, how- 
 ever, very unpleasant to have to assume this ungra- 
 cious attitude of resistance and opposition. It is 
 especially distasteful to persons who, like myself, have 
 a keen relish for friendship, and to whom the society 
 of cultivated persons is a necessary of life. And yet 
 there is no help for it. I find it quite impossible to 
 make people understand what I am here for ; all ex- 
 planation is useless. There is nothing left to me but 
 quiet persistence and the patient endeavor to keep my 
 temper, with God's help. 
 
 With one or two honorable exceptions, the good 
 folks here, whenever they hear of a painter, think it is 
 a sort of artisan whose trade it is to draw their horses 
 and dogs ; and they cannot comprehend, for the life of 
 them, what I can find to paint in such an out-of-the- 
 way place as this. People who are not only no judges 
 
What the People think. 
 
 25 
 
 of landscape-painting, but not even aware of its exist- 
 ence as a living and progressive art in England, are 
 of course astonished when they hear me assign as a 
 reason for my hermit life on this hill that I am paint- 
 ing a study of heather.* They have a dim notion 
 about painters that they go to Rome when they can 
 afford it, and copy Claude, but as for painting on a 
 moor, why, moors were made to be shot over. Rich 
 people often suppose the end of art to be the direct 
 adoration of Wealth ; either by painting its portrait, or 
 its wife's portrait, or its horse, or its dog, or its dwell- 
 ing-house, or anything that is its. This is quite a 
 country gentleman's conception of art, and we ought 
 to regard it leniently, for it requires much education 
 to enable a man of property to comprehend that ob- 
 jects of little value in themselves may be inestimably 
 precious to an artist, and that even the squire's big 
 house, and his well-groomed hunters, and rich, neatly- 
 fenced fields, may not be worth so much, artistically 
 valued, as a poor cottage on the mountains, with a 
 goat grazing at the door, and a half-wild fawn crouch- 
 ing in the heather, that the children feed, for it is 
 motherless. 
 
 It would be exceedingly weak and silly to allow 
 
 * The son of a Lancashire country gentleman once observed 
 to the author, " There is no painting now; we never hear of 
 any painters." He did not know that there was a Royal 
 Academy in England ; he had never heard anybody mention 
 modern painters. The father of this youth declared to the 
 author that he would not give ten pounds for the finest pic- 
 ture in the world, unless to sell it at a profit ; and these were 
 people of property, and belonging to a family whose descent 
 was not merely ancient, but illustrious. 
 
26 
 
 What the People think. 
 
 one's self to be angry with kind friends on this account, 
 especially since it is quite clear that their comments 
 proceed less from ill-nature than honest, unaffected 
 astonishment ; still, to be frank, I am getting some- 
 what weary of the polite expressions of wonder that 
 have reached me from every quarter for some time 
 now. The marvel is a month old, at least, and nine 
 days is the extreme degree of longevity to which any 
 marvel, even a provincial one, ought legitimately to 
 attain. 
 
 I do not think this little enterprise has much affected 
 my standing with the upper classes. I have a conven- 
 ient reputation for eccentricity, which allows me to do 
 whatever I will. After the first wonderment about my 
 hut-life has exhausted itself, I should think it probable 
 that it will be remembered only as a mere whim or 
 freak. It may perhaps excite a little hostility amongst 
 the more ignorant sort of gentry, but they will be too 
 polite to trouble me very much with their impressions, 
 and I don't care what they say behind my back. 
 
 But I have certainly lost caste in the popular esti- 
 mate. I am even beginning to feel that I am not 
 respectable, and to lose the relish for respect. If any 
 one were to treat me as a gentleman now, I should be 
 very much astonished, and hardly know how to sup- 
 port the dignity. 
 
 In what consists this subtle element, this ethereal 
 emanation, this transient halo of glory that shines on 
 high caste? In modern society what is caste? 
 
 That it is easily lost is evident. Mine evaporated 
 in an hour over the heat of Soyer's magic stove. The 
 first time I cooked my own dinner all my forefathers 
 disowned me. 
 
What the People think. 
 
 27 
 
 The popular notion of a gentleman is that he has 
 plenty of money and nothing to do. If you are not 
 utterly helpless, you are no gentleman. If you would 
 be respected, be lazy. Beware of the sin of self- 
 reliance. It is very well for great men like the Czar 
 Peter, the Emperor Napoleon, and the Duke of Wel- 
 lington to be active and self-reliant ; we of the middle 
 class must be lazier than they, if we would inspire awe 
 in the bosoms of our inferiors. 
 
 I knew an Oriental Envoy once at the Hotel du 
 Louvre, at Paris ; we studied French together for 
 some weeks. The waiters called him " the Prince" 
 — he was no prince at all, but only a rich private gen- 
 tleman. A brother of one of the kings of Europe was 
 staying in the same hotel at the same time, but my 
 friend outshone the genuine blood-royal, and remained 
 the Prince during our stay there, though he refused 
 the title twenty times a day. At last he asked me 
 why the people would persist in making him a prince 
 against his will. " My good fellow," said I, " it's be- 
 cause you are so royally lazy. These people have a 
 graduated scale by which they measure a man's rank. 
 ' Man,' they argue, ' is naturally an idle animal ; only 
 when poor he is forced to do everything for himself. 
 Therefore, the less a man can do for himself, the richer 
 he is likely to be. Now, this Eastern gentleman is 
 absolutely helpless — as helplesss as a baby a month 
 old ; he cannot even put on his slippers without assist- 
 ance — and therefore, of course, he is somebody very 
 great indeed. He is a prince, at least, that is cer- 
 tain ! ' " 
 
 The peasants on these outlandish moors argue pre- 
 cisely like the Parisian waiters. " A real gentleman 
 
28 
 
 What the People think 
 
 is as helpless as a child ; but this man can cook for 
 himself, and seems quite independent of assistance ; 
 therefore, he is no gentleman." There is no danger 
 of my being inconvenienced by princely honors. On 
 my arrival here I found that a gruff gamekeeper 
 looked upon me as a possible poacher ; farmers asked 
 me what I hawked, and drovers thought I kept a 
 dram-shop. Women came to have their fortunes told, 
 and children to see a show. 
 
 Since I neither poached game, nor sold spoons, nor 
 retailed gin, nor told fortunes, nor exhibited wild 
 beasts, these several hypotheses are by the most part 
 abandoned. I am still, however, so far from being 
 respected, that of the thousand questions put to me by 
 curious peasants who flock from all parts of the coun- 
 try to see me, not ten per cent, are without insolence, 
 at least of manner. 
 
 I never before thoroughly understood the contempt 
 the English have for poverty. A gentleman who 
 fancied his inferiors very civil and polite, would learn 
 to distinguish between the deference yielded to his 
 money and the true politeness which is universal as 
 the sunshine, by abandoning for a week or two the ex- 
 ternal advantages of his position, as I have done here. 
 
 The notions of the peasantry on the subject of the 
 art itself are, as is to be expected, even less elevated 
 than the ideas of the upper class. The country peo- 
 ple always suppose landscape-painting to be land- 
 surveying ; a mistake likely to be universal throughout 
 England, since the Ordnance surveys. I was painting 
 an oil study of an oak tree some time ago, and a game- 
 keeper in going his rounds came every day to see how 
 I got on. A quiet expression of contempt, mingled 
 
What the People think. 
 
 29 
 
 with pity, and tempered with a lively sense of the 
 ludicrous, illuminated his intellectual physiognomy as 
 he watched me at work. He evidently did not think 
 such a valueless old tree worth " mappin' " at all, and, 
 as my study advanced towards its conclusion, asked 
 every day with something of impatience, when I 
 u should a' done mappin' th' oud tree." 
 
 Droves of pack-horses cross these hills frequently 
 with lime. I know the owners of them tolerably 
 well, having sometimes had occasion for their ponies. 
 Meeting one of these drovers the other day, I recog- 
 nized in the driver an old friend of mine, who always 
 keeps up the acquaintance with much polite assiduity, 
 having ultimate views to pints of ale. The following 
 conversation on the fine arts then took place between 
 us : — 
 
 Drover. — Eh, why, Mestur Amerton, is tat yau? 
 The Author. — Yes; you did not expect to find 
 me here? 
 
 Drover. — Why, noah, it's sich a lonesome sort of 
 a place, loike. 
 
 The Author. — Well, but I live here now; I'm 
 not far from my new house, — you must come and 
 look at it, and have a drop of whiskey. 
 
 Drover. — Thank ye, sir, thank ye; but Fn never 
 yerd tell o' yau biggin' a new ayus ; I alius thout 
 yau're livin' at th' Ollins. 
 
 The Author. — O, Fve built a wonderful house — 
 about the size of a hen-cote ; it's only a wooden one, 
 you must know. 
 
 Drover. — Why, an' what are ye livin' up 'ere for, 
 i' sich a mooryet place? Are ye shootin', loike, Mes- 
 tur Amerton? 
 
3° 
 
 What the People think. 
 
 The Author. — No; I have not killed a grouse 
 since I came here. I came here to paint a picture. 
 
 Drover. — A picthur I — why, an' what's tat ? 
 
 The Author — {adopting the drover's dialect to 
 be better understood}. It's one o' them things as rich 
 folks 'angs up i' their 'ouses i' goold frames, yau knaw, 
 to make their walls look fine. Yau'n sin picthurs wi' 
 snaps o' Prince Alburd an' th' Queen, and th' Duke o' 
 Wellinton, an' sich loike, i' o' colors. Them's pic- 
 thurs ; naah yau knaw, dunnut ye? * 
 
 Then glimmering visions of cottage art arose before 
 the soul of the drover, dim recollections of saints and 
 soldiers in gorgeous hues, and his old eye brightened 
 with a beam of intelligence. We had now arrived at 
 the hut. Gratitude for the whiskey, and perhaps also 
 the pleasing influences of the cordial itself, gave my 
 poor friend such sudden power of criticism that he ex- 
 pressed his appreciation in the warmest manner, and 
 as politely, in his way, as the most complimentary 
 after-dinner connoisseur. 
 
 It being universally settled and decided for me all 
 the country over that I am land-surveying, it is no use 
 contradicting the good folks any longer. Why not ac- 
 cept the position ? 
 
 I am, however, considered a very slow surveyor. 
 There are men in the neighboring towns who could 
 
 * For the convenience of Southrons I translate the above 
 learned definition of a picture. "It's one of those things that 
 rich people hang up in their houses, in gold frames, you know, 
 to make their walls look fine. You've seen pictures with 
 shapes (likenesses) of Prince Albert and the Queen, and the 
 Duke of Wellington, and such like, and all colors. Those are 
 pictures ; now you know, don't you ? " 
 
What the People think. 
 
 3i 
 
 survey the whole mountain in a week, and here am I, 
 wasting a month over a few square yards of it. The 
 people say that I am the slowest and most incapable 
 bungler that ever measured an acre of land. 
 
 There are two exceptions to the general impression 
 that I am engaged in surveying land. But the esti- 
 mate which these two superior persons have formed 
 of my capacity for art is not flattering. It is true that 
 neither of them has seen my picture, but that is as un- 
 necessary for these rustic judges as for a London jour- 
 nalist. My country critics ground their argument sim- 
 ply upon the length of time which I bestow upon the 
 work. One of them has proved to the satisfaction of 
 all his friends that I am a great fool to come here and 
 spend whole weeks on the production of a picture, 
 w T hen I might buy one equally good at Colne fair, 
 with frame, glass, and all, for sixpence. The other 
 has heard that my canvas is only three feet square, 
 and has demonstrated from arithmetical data that I am 
 the slowest workman in Lancashire, as there are plen- 
 ty of painters who could paint all the wood-work in a 
 farm-house in less than a week. 
 
3 2 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TROUBLESOME VISITORS. 
 
 AS I lay in my hammock in the dark — I know 
 not at what hour of the night or early morn- 
 ing — I heard a horrible yell. It was close to the 
 door of my hut ; so close that it seemed to proceed 
 from some idiot, or wild beast, or fiend, that had 
 already penetrated to the interior. I was startled 
 out of my sleep, and grasped my revolver before I 
 had any clear notion of the kind of attack I had to 
 apprehend. A minute afterwards, wide awake, I 
 sat listening to the most virulent abuse imaginable ; 
 holding all the while the loaded revolver, and watch- 
 ing the door noiselessly ; ready, on the first attempt 
 against it, to send a bullet or two through its thin 
 wooden panels. A large stone through the window 
 seemed more to be expected than an attack upon the 
 door ; but, unless the stone disabled me, I felt sure of 
 wounding the besieger in any case, and so reserved 
 my five barrels for the last extremity. 
 
 I cannot repeat, in a paper intended for future pub- 
 lication, the particular phrases of invective directed 
 against me by my visitor ; and it is impossible, with- 
 out such repetition, to give a true idea of their bitter- 
 ness. It is enough to say that he exhausted every 
 term of reproach, and every expression of hatred, 
 which is to be found in such English as they speak 
 
Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 33 
 
 in this desert ; that he poured upon me the whole 
 vocabulary of foulness, and that the delicately-chosen 
 theme of his discourse was the death of my own 
 mother. 
 
 It was a genuine commination — a denouncing of 
 God's wrath — a worse than priestly anathema — a 
 great and mighty cursing! The theological hatreds 
 of centuries have not produced a more powerful for- 
 mula than the simple improvisation of this man's 
 anger. 
 
 Now, I reasoned with myself, " This fellow may 
 attack me, and I have certainly a good chance of pre- 
 venting him, for the deal door is no impediment what- 
 ever to a bullet ; still, though his talk is irritating 
 enough, I have clearly no right to shoot him merely 
 because he calls me hard names. So I will be as 
 quiet as I can till he attacks me with some other 
 member than his tongue only." Wherefore I sat up 
 in bed as calmly as my now increasing irritation 
 would allow, and directed my revolver to the door 
 or the window as the voice changed in direction. 
 
 It was a queer position, certainly. " What if this 
 fellow is only vexing me," I thought, " so as to make 
 me open the door of the hut to him and his accom- 
 plices?" He called out continually, " Shoot ! shoot, 
 man, shoot ! " which might mean that he wanted me 
 to discharge any firearms I had before he attempted 
 to break in upon me. This was a proof that the fel- 
 low knew I was armed ; but there was nothing re- 
 markable in that circumstance, as I had taken especial 
 care to make my means of defence generally known 
 by practising often with my pistol. So I thought the 
 wisest plan would be to sit still for the present and do 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 nothing, as it would be an embarrassing position for 
 me if the country people found a dead man at my door 
 next morning, with a bullet in him, and a little hole 
 through the door, indicating whence the bullet had 
 come. " There is no telling how stupid a jury may 
 be," thought I ; " and, besides, if I shoot this fellow, 
 I shall be served up by ten thousand penny-a-liners 
 in all the newspapers in England, and a pretty affair 
 they will make of my camp life here, and the reasons 
 for it." 
 
 Suddenly the commination came to a close, the 
 torrent of anathemas was arrested, the horrible howls, 
 the demoniac laughter, and the piercing yells, which 
 had succeeded each other now for many minutes, 
 ceased altogether ; a wild shriek or two came from 
 the moor, fainter and fainter, as if retiring in the 
 distance, then all was still. 
 
 A little suspicious at first of this sudden stillness, I 
 listened attentively for some sound that might indicate 
 a less noisy but more dangerous attack ; but I was soon 
 tired of listening, and so laid my revolver in its case, 
 which I left open, and then fell asleep. 
 
 Again I was roused suddenly by the same voice, 
 but this time it was in daylight. The cursing was re- 
 newed in all its old vigor ; but as I now felt sure that 
 the fellow, though noisy enough, was a thorough 
 coward, and dared not attack me till I had first dis- 
 charged my revolver, I paid no attention, but got a 
 book and tried to read. When the man left me, the 
 heathcocks crowed, and the early sun shone through 
 the green curtains, and it was time to get up. So the 
 affair ended in nothing after all. 
 
 During the whole time my big dog never even 
 growled. He is quite worthless. 
 
Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 35 
 
 They call the poachers here " the Night Hunters." 
 I expect a visit from them every night, and queer 
 visitors they are likely to be. I have a revolver and 
 dog, but the revolver has only five barrels, and the dog 
 is the most amiable and hospitable creature imagi- 
 nable, and would receive a fellow that came to murder 
 me as politely as my most intimate friend. If the 
 Night Hunters do me the honor to call upon me, I 
 mean to pursue a peace policy. For the present I 
 keep within doors at night, when these banded out- 
 laws range the moors. 
 
 The Night Hunters in this neighborhood are as 
 determined a set of blackguards as ever leagued them- 
 selves together for a lawless enterprise. Fancy thirty 
 or forty of them in a gang, well armed, and with 
 blackened faces. On one occasion a company of sixty 
 set out on a shooting excursion, some of them dressed 
 in women's clothes, others as devils with straw tails, 
 and all of them in the wildest masquerade, and not to 
 be recognized by the sharpest of detectives. The 
 keepers would as soon have thought of attacking a 
 French army as this gang of desperadoes. If they 
 take it into their heads to upset my box when I'm 
 inside it, that will be pleasant ! Nothing could be 
 more likely to afford the fellows congenial amuse- 
 ment ; and then perhaps they may set fire to it, and 
 the pitched canvas of the roof would burn delightfully 
 on a dry night ! Then it would be quite a clever and 
 facetious practical joke to send a charge of shot 
 through the window, a witticism all the pleasanter 
 that the modest author of it could so easily remain 
 anonymous. 
 
 Some years ago these merry foresters took it into 
 
36 
 
 Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 their heads to have a day's shooting on the cultivated 
 lands nearer the valley. They made a descent on 
 three estates belonging to friends or relations of mine. 
 It was quite a Highland raid. The Night Hunters 
 brought with them people to beat the covers, and 
 others to carry the game, and, in spite of landlords 
 and gamekeepers, bagged a rich booty of hares and 
 pheasants, with which they returned unmolested to 
 their mountains. 
 
 The proprietor of the best moor in this neighbor- 
 hood is organizing a little regiment of rustics for the 
 protection of his grouse. They say that each man 
 will have half-a-crown and his supper every time he 
 goes on duty. This will be too expensive to be con- 
 tinued long, and therefore the protection will be only 
 temporary, whereas, to be effective, it must necessari- 
 ly be permanent. All systems of defence are useless 
 which have only an intermittent character, when the 
 danger to be apprehended is constant. 
 
 As for the poachers themselves, they are partly 
 actuated by the love of adventure ; partly by the 
 hunter's instinct, which they share with their betters ; 
 and partly by a rude but half-chivalrous desire to 
 avenge such friends of theirs as have found their way 
 to the penal settlements in consequence of similar 
 irregularities. 
 
 The Night Hunters have left me unmolested. No 
 excursion of theirs has hitherto extended so far as this 
 place. Still I have plenty of visitors, and instead of 
 being weary of the loneliness of this place, as all my 
 friends think I must of necessity be by this time, I am 
 constantly wishing it were much lonelier. 
 
 I am the centre of attraction to all the country peo- 
 
Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 37 
 
 pie within a circle fourteen miles in diameter. Im- 
 mense numbers of women and children come to see 
 the hut ; the male visitors are less numerous, but more 
 troublesome and impertinent. If my dog were worth 
 anything I could keep these people at a respectful 
 distance, but I have no means whatever of doing so on 
 my own responsibility. Without being bloodthirsty, I 
 confess it would give me much pleasure to shoot a few 
 spectators occasionally, by way of teaching them to be 
 civil ; but prudence compels me to keep the revolver 
 in its box, and put as good a countenance on the 
 matter as my feelings of irritation will permit. 
 
 I can fully understand the refined tortures of a 
 monkey of modest disposition exhibited in a menage- 
 rie. I am like one of WombwelPs animals, shown 
 daily, without either pleasure or profit to himself, to a 
 pitiless crowd at a village fair ; but I have the pecu- 
 liar disadvantage of understanding the language in 
 which the various commentaries on my person are 
 expressed. 
 
 My plate-glass windows are exceedingly convenient, 
 since they allow the public to inspect the animal at 
 its usual occupations ; most interesting observations in 
 natural history being thus rendered possible, as in the 
 case of the glass beehives at the French Universal 
 Exhibition. From frequent observations of this kind, 
 made with the utmost care by several eminent zoolo- 
 gists, it appears that I, the animal in question, am 
 not of a gregarious disposition ; that I eat the flesh of 
 birds and other animals, but not in a raw state ; and 
 that I am remarkable for my industry, being con- 
 tinually occupied with a kind of labor whose object 
 and utility are still the subject of various learned 
 
33 
 
 Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 conjectures. The important question whether I am 
 acquainted with the use of fire is not as yet satisfac- 
 torily settled, but there are reasons for supposing that 
 I am, since the flesh I devour has evidently been sub- 
 jected to the action of heat ; still this question remains 
 somewhat obscure, no trace whatever of fuel having 
 been discovered in my cell, nor any orifice for the 
 escape of smoke. 
 
 Years hence, when this is printed, the reader will 
 think these passages exaggerated ; he will not believe 
 that I am stared at like a wild beast. I tell him that 
 the manners of a set of villagers to an itinerant brown 
 bear are pleasanter and more courteous, and in every 
 way less intolerable, than the manners of these Lanca- 
 shire and Yorkshire clowns are to me. 
 
 Take last Sunday as an example. I was walking 
 on the moor, w T ith my dog, and rested on the hill 
 w T hence I could see the hut. Groups began to collect 
 about it soon, and when it was time to lunch, I had to 
 make my way through a little crowd of forty spectators, 
 who did not seem in the least disposed to abdicate the 
 seats they had taken possession of when the principal 
 attraction came upon the scene. Any properly-dis- 
 posed dog would have resented this impudence, but 
 mine walked pleasantly up to the forty spectators, and 
 wagged a canine welcome. As for me, being hungry, 
 I got into my hut as quickly as possible, shut the 
 door, and put up the little green curtains. I could 
 hear very plainly all the lively talk outside, and was 
 soon aware that the crowd was increasing fast. I had 
 a cold grouse or a partridge to lunch, I forget which ; 
 but I remember it was unfortunately necessary to get 
 it from the meat safe outside, and the innumerable 
 
Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 39 
 
 observations that this simple action gave rise to, were 
 really wonderful in their variety and interest. But to 
 be so near the animal at feeding-time, and not to see 
 it feed, was a bitter disappointment ! Fifty or sixty 
 of the spectators (their numbers had now immensely 
 increased) attempted, therefore, to obtain a view 
 through the four windows, but without much success, 
 on account of the curtains. One man, however, ef- 
 fected the discovery that, through a crevice between 
 the curtain and the window-frame a portion of my 
 neck was visible, and forthwith there were twenty 
 candidates for his advantageous position. Having 
 finished luncheon, I determined to remove the curtains 
 one by one, long enough to stimulate, without satisfy- 
 ing, the curiosity of the spectators outside. As I 
 lifted each curtain, I found the pane pressed by a 
 dozen noses ; then rose a sudden shout, followed by 
 an intensely eager enumeration of whatever peculiari- 
 ty each had observed ; so that, although the time I 
 allowed was scarcely long enough for the wet col- 
 lodion process, the combination of many observers, 
 with retinae more highly excited than any film of col- 
 lodion, realized a tolerably characteristic portrait. 
 
 In short, the hut is a fashionable lounge. Girls 
 come here to see their sweethearts, and young men to 
 see the girls. On Sunday came a great bevy of 
 bright-eyed damsels out of Yorkshire, led by a fine 
 young Yorkshireman, and escorted by others. The 
 leader of this fair procession silenced me by a very 
 cleverly turned compliment. I said, 66 Well, you're a 
 lucky fellow to have so many fine girls with you ! " 
 whereupon he replied, on behalf of his companions, 
 " Why, sir, you see they've heard tell, where they 
 
4° 
 
 Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 come fro', 'at there's a feefil * 'ansome young chap 
 'at's coined a livin' 'ere fur a bit, an' they couldn't 
 'old fro' comin' to see J im." One old woman came 
 seven miles to see me ; so I asked her in, and explained 
 to her my cooking apparatus and hammock. She 
 went away delighted with what she had seen, and 
 rewarded for her pilgrimage. With strangers I al- 
 ways feign total ignorance of English, answering them 
 only in French, to cut short the else inevitable string 
 of questions. These questions are rather imperative 
 than interrogative, and I have commonly remarked 
 that certain classes of people, in asking the most 
 ordinary question of any one whose appearance does 
 not altogether command their respect, have the air of 
 demanding information rather than requesting it. It 
 was by accident that I happened to think of this ex- 
 pedient of answering in French. One afternoon I was 
 singing one of Frederic Berat's delightful songs, when 
 a gruff Yorkshireman presented himself suddenly be- 
 fore the window I was looking through as I sat at 
 work, and, naturally enough, my thoughts being at 
 the moment far across the Channel, I told him in 
 French to get away from between me and my subject. 
 He stared very oddly, I thought, and then I remem- 
 bered that I was by no means in the country of 
 Frederic Berat, but in the land of the Lancashire 
 dialect ; yet, seeing that the happiest result's followed 
 from my mistake, I have since put it into common 
 practice. It was fatiguing to have to explain twenty 
 times a day that I didn't hawk anything, but was there 
 
 * Feefil is an old Saxon word which now answers to the 
 English very. I do not remember whether its meaning has 
 changed since the Norman Invasion. 
 
Troublesome Visitors. 
 
 41 
 
 to study landscape, and that landscape-painting was 
 not land-surveying, and that I cooked with a spirit- 
 lamp, and that my Newfoundland dog was young, 
 and that the hut was easily taken to pieces, and that 
 it came in a cart, and so on. 
 
 I have a mad friend who comes and sits in the hut 
 whilst I paint, and sings psalms. He dreams dreams, 
 and has the gift of prophecy. He predicted the erec- 
 tion of a house in this place, and regards me with a 
 peculiar affection, as the fulfiller of his sayings. He 
 is civil and attentive in his way, and always calls for 
 letters when he goes to the town in the valley. This 
 crazed creature has many good qualities. He lives in 
 a farm-house near here, where no woman is kept, and 
 does all the work of a farmer's wife and woman- 
 servant : they say, too, that he does this unmasculine 
 work very well indeed, being exceedingly cleanly and 
 industrious. He is a good workman, too, in his 
 masculine capacity, and very strong, physically. His 
 mental aliment produces great wildness of manner, 
 varying in intensity from time to time, but he is not 
 dangerous to anybody who is kind to him, as I am. 
 The enthusiasm of this poor fanatic adds to the wild 
 character of the place. I can fancy myself on the 
 moors above Wuthering Heights, and certainly if 
 Southern critics had lived here, they would be better 
 able to understand the power and truth of what must 
 seem to them a very strange story indeed. 
 
BOOK II. — IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 ARGYLL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TENTS AND BOATS FOR THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 INCE writing the last chapter, I have descended 
 
 ' from my hermitage on the hill, but not without 
 having brought my picture to a satisfactory conclu- 
 sion. I am none the worse for the experiment in any 
 way, and have learned more about camp life in one 
 month of actual apprenticeship than if I had studied it 
 in books of travel for twelve. 
 
 I intend to go to the Highlands in the spring, and 
 encamp there several months. I cannot settle down, 
 as Constable did, to paint subjects of inferior interest, 
 when an inexhaustible land of pictures lies to the 
 north at a distance of only three days' journey. 
 
 In the midst of mere green fields, the higher artistic 
 faculties — such, for instance, as the sense of color — 
 must get debilitated from sheer want of exercise. The 
 pleasant green of a good pasture is all very sweet in 
 its way, especially to cockneys who live surrounded 
 by streets of hideous brick, and to whose sight any- 
 thing green is therefore of itself a wonderful refresh- 
 
 es) 
 
44 
 
 Tents and Boats 
 
 ment ; but I like green best in the little lawns that 
 Nature puts in the middle of purple heather, and I 
 appreciate the richness of these Lancashire pastures 
 considerably less than the farmer who calculates their 
 annual produce, or the cows that consume it. Every- 
 thing seems quainter and more formal than ever now 
 after my month amongst the heather, which I got as 
 much attached to as any grouse. An enclosed meadow 
 gives me an uneasy sensation, as if it were a fine 
 drawing-room. I pine for the purple moors. 
 
 The shepherd lad who used to bring my milk on 
 the hill is permanently installed here as my servant. 
 He is green and awkward yet, having been so recently 
 caught, but I hope to be able to tame and educate 
 him in time. A more fashionable domestic would not 
 serve my purpose ; so I must even accept the trouble 
 of teaching this wild moor bird. In the course of 
 these papers I shall call him " Thursday," that being 
 the day of his arrival here. 
 
 A fine Newfoundland pup I had intended to take 
 with me died during my absence, and the dog I had 
 on the hill is not worth his railway fare ; so he must 
 remain in Lancashire. I have bought a magnificent 
 bloodhound mastiff at a menagerie, where he was 
 exhibited in a cage. He is very young, and of most 
 powerful build, besides being one of the handsomest 
 dogs I ever saw. 
 
 The little lawn in the old-fashioned garden here has 
 quite a look of Chobham or Aldershott. There is my 
 hut erected upon it at present, and two tents. 
 
 In the neighboring town they are busy making two 
 life-boats for me. When they are finished I will con- 
 tinue this chapter with a description of the launch, 
 
for the Highlands, 
 
 45 
 
 and conclude it with a dissertation on Boats, which 
 may be broadly divided into two classes — Zz/*£-boats 
 and Death-hodiXs. 
 
 The largest sheet of water in this neighborhood is a 
 canal reservoir at Colne, covering rather less than a 
 hundred acres of land. I have been passing a few 
 days very pleasantly in teaching Thursday the mys- 
 teries of rowing and steering on my new craft, by way 
 of preparation for the Highland lochs. 
 
 The launch came off gayly. Colonel C. very kindly 
 lent me his fishing cottage at the reservoir, and I in- 
 vited all my friends to see the boats launched, giving 
 them afterwards luncheon in the cottage. Then, after 
 the launch, my good friend, the seigneur of that country, 
 took me and all my guests up to the Hall to spend the 
 evening, and I have been staying there ever since, 
 leaving Mr. Thursday at the cottage to look after the 
 boats. 
 
 Before the launch my crew was a singularly inex- 
 perienced one, he never having even floated upon 
 water in his life ; but now, after an apprenticeship of 
 less than a week, he can row, and steer, and take in a 
 reef in a tolerably tidy manner for so green a hand. 
 
 The reservoir being no bigger than Rydal Water or 
 Grasmere, there is not much sea-room, nor can we 
 hope for an opportunity of observing how the new 
 boats would behave in a heavy sea, but everything 
 hitherto has been satisfactory enough. 
 
 Amongst other voyagers, two young ladies did my 
 boat the honor to go on board of her for a cruise, and 
 having explored the hundred acres of canal water, 
 returned without accident to port. 
 
4 6 
 
 Tents and Boats 
 
 My boats are an adaptation of the double canoe, 
 constructed in galvanized iron with water-tight com- 
 partments. Each canoe has its rudder, and the two 
 rudders work together by a connecting rod. The 
 deck is roomy and firm in proportion to the draught 
 of water, and the larger of the two double boats car- 
 ries a lateen-sail with singular steadiness. In adapt- 
 ing the old savage idea to my own use on the Northern 
 lakes, I wish to have a craft that will possess the fol- 
 lowing qualities in combination : — 
 
 1. She must never require baling. Any water she 
 may ship must discharge itself. 
 
 2. She must be incapable of being capsized. 
 
 3. She must not draw more than nine inches of 
 water. 
 
 4. She must have a large, flat, steady deck, that I 
 can put an easel on, and a chair, and a table in calm 
 weather, just as well as in my painting-room. 
 
 No common boat could possibly possess these quali- 
 fications. It became therefore necessary to set one's 
 inventive faculties to work. 
 
 In the Marine Museum of the Louvre there are 
 some interesting models of South Sea canoes, both 
 double and with the balancer. During a stroll through 
 that Museum I found something which seemed to 
 promise all I required, with a little careful adaptation. 
 
 The result is a craft which, though utterly unortho- 
 dox, the reverse of nautical, and a piece of open rebel- 
 lion against all the traditions of old England on the 
 subject of boats from the days when painted Britons 
 paddled about in coracles, down to the last University 
 boat-race, may, nevertheless, be of much utility to me. 
 
 I have, then, two boats, each of them double, and I 
 
for the Highlands, 
 
 47 
 
 call them the "Britannia" and the "Conway" in 
 honor of the tubular bridges, to which they bear some 
 resemblance, being tubular, double, and of iron. 
 
 A little incident which resulted from some misman- 
 agement on the part of the crew, Mr. Thursday, served 
 as an excellent test of the strength of the " Britannia." 
 In order to teach Thursday a little more rapidity in 
 his movements than he had acquired during his years 
 of contemplative pastoral life, I purposely delayed my 
 orders as long as I dared, and then thundered them 
 forth as if I had been commanding a company in the 
 militia. Yesterday, the wind being stronger than 
 usual, and squally, I sailed at the stone embankment 
 of the reservoir, intending to lower sail in the last 
 thirty yards, and make Thursday break the violence 
 of the concussion with an oar, thinking some practice 
 of this sort might be useful in case of meeting suddenly 
 with rocks. So I went at the stone wall very coura- 
 geously, and when within thirty yards thundered out to 
 Thursday to lower sail. Now, the halyard was fas- 
 tened to belaying pins, and Thursday had contrived to 
 fasten it in so exceedingly effectual a manner that it 
 would have required at least ten minutes of patient 
 labor to undo his knots. We are now ten yards off. 
 Thursday is too confused to get the oar out in time. 
 If I attempt to turn the boat's head into the wind, I 
 shall damage the rudders or bulge her side against the 
 stones. There is nothing for it but to go straight at 
 the solid embankment. The embankment is strong 
 enough, at all events, and the shareholders of the 
 canal company have less to fear than the owner of the 
 " Britannia." 
 
 The wind astern is furious. At it we go ! 
 
43 
 
 Tents and Boats 
 
 A shock — enough, as I thought, to shatter the 
 whole boat to pieces — a slight rebound — another, 
 but less violent shock, and the prows rested on the 
 stones of the sloping bank. Two small grooves were 
 neatly chiselled in the stones by the two iron toes of 
 the double boat, but the boat itself was not injured in 
 any way. 
 
 My hospitable friends here would have me stay 
 longer, but I think that the rudiments of Thursday's 
 nautical education being already theoretically acquired, 
 the rest will be best learned on a stormy Highland 
 lake. 
 
 At the beginning of this chapter I promised to con- 
 clude it with a dissertation on life-boats and death- 
 boats. An unexpected accession of material illustra- 
 tive of that subject has just come to my hands. 
 
 A paragraph recounting the launch of the " Britan- 
 nia" and " Conway" life-boats having appeared in all 
 the Lancashire papers, an unforeseen consequence has 
 resulted from the extraordinary publicity thus given 
 to our little picnic. Mr. Wilman, the ironmonger, of 
 Burnley, who very innocently made the boats after my 
 drawings, has received an angry epistle from a Man- 
 chester agent, demanding royalty upon them as an 
 infringement of some Mr. Richardson's patent. I 
 regret to say that I never heard either of Mr. Richard- 
 son or his patent, having found the type of my boat in 
 the Louvre ; however, it seemed my wisest plan to 
 put myself into communication with Mr. Richardson 
 himself. An amicable correspondence between us 
 has ended by confirming my views on the subject of 
 life-boats to a degree altogether unexpected, and it is 
 
for the Highlands. 
 
 with the greatest pleasure that I find myself obliged to 
 yield any credit of adaptation or invention I might 
 else have claimed in favor of a predecessor in the 
 same path, who has richly earned whatever fame may 
 hereafter reward his exertions. The only fault I find 
 with Mr. Richardson is that he should have patented 
 his improvements. To restrain, for selfish ends, the 
 general adoption of any invention which, as in this 
 instance, is likely to preserve human lives, is to aban- 
 don at once the high ground of humanity. Besides, 
 although Mr. Richardson's practical energy in proving 
 the value of a well-known principle deserves the will- 
 ing recognition I here accord it, the adaptation of the 
 South Sea model to English materials was so obvious 
 and easy that neither Mr. Richardson nor myself have 
 any ostensible claim to originality. 
 
 My correspondent has sent me a most interesting 
 little book published by Pickering, and entitled "The 
 Cruise of the "Challenger" Life-boat, and Voyage 
 from Liverpool to London in 1852. It is one of the 
 most delightful little narratives I ever read.* 
 
 After a series of experiments, extending over many 
 years, Mr. Richardson had a life-boat constructed for 
 him at Manchester, on the principle I have adopted 
 for my own, but with several minor differences, as, for 
 instance, an open grating instead of my flat deck — 
 differences occasioned by the rougher service to which 
 his boat was destined. 
 
 This boat of Mr. Richardson's, the " Challenger," 
 
 * Not for literary merit, which it does not pretend to, but 
 for manliness, which is better. The frankness of its jealousies 
 and animosities is quite pardonable under the circumstances. 
 
 4 
 
5° 
 
 Tents and Boats 
 
 has challenged all the life-boats in England to such a 
 stern trial as no boat-builder ever before imagined. 
 Amongst other startling novelties in this challenge 
 was a proposition that the rival boats should be torn 
 through a tremendous sea, by steamers, and anchored 
 broadside to the surf, with the crew on the windward 
 gunwale. It is scarcely necessary to add that this 
 challenge has never once been accepted. Why these 
 life-boats are not adopted, but, on the contrary, resisted 
 and ridiculed, seems sufficiently intelligible. 
 
 They are not orthodox; they are contrary to im- 
 memorial usage ; they have not the sacred, traditional 
 form of boats. Newspaper writers call them rafts. 
 People attached to conventionalisms will not even 
 look at them. Such persons, who take all on hearsay, 
 and refer nothing to nature, never can believe it pos- 
 sible that a form of boat which has always been used 
 by the first maritime nation in the world is not the 
 best conceivable form. They do not know that our 
 sailors have, until quite recently, been far better than 
 our ships, which, such as they were, the French taught 
 us how to build ; and that ship-building, as a science, 
 is one of the latest of discoveries. And now every- 
 body admits that the common life-boat is full of dan- 
 ger ; and innumerable accidents have proved the very 
 title a mockery, so that " death-ho-dX " has been more 
 than once suggested as an amendment : still the old 
 vicious form is not to be abandoned, because it is or- 
 thodox, it is conservative, it is nautical, and respects 
 the consecrated tradition of old England. 
 
 And is it not better to perish thus respectably in a 
 boat of the true nautical model, than to save one's 
 miserable life at the price of such a violation of estab- 
 
for the Highlands. 
 
 5* 
 
 lishecl custom, as this revolutionary Mr. Richardson 
 proposes? For* what true Englishman would basely 
 save his life on a pair of tin pipes, on a wretched, 
 uncomfortable-looking raft? You would rather drown 
 in dignity, reader — of course you would. 
 
 To this, Mr. Richardson may answer with great 
 truth, that the main question is not whether his tin tubes 
 are nautical, nor yet whether they ought more justly 
 to be classified as a boat or as a raft, according to 
 the somewhat arbitrary rules of maritime nomencla- 
 ture ; but simply whether they are efficacious instru- 
 ments for the saving of shipwrecked men. 
 
 Another reason why such inventions as these, which 
 appeal to natural law (being intended for use on a 
 planet where, so far as all experience seems to tend, 
 natural law is omnipotent), cannot be immediately 
 recognized, is the inconceivable ignorance of the com- 
 monest facts of science, in which the great body of 
 people who call themselves educated lie as yet like 
 brute beasts. Thus it has constantly happened, both 
 to Mr. Richardson and myself, that our boats have 
 elicited questions indicating a degree of darkness 
 which no intelligent person would suppose possible in 
 any civilized country, and proving that one may be 
 highly educated in the conventional sense, and yet 
 remain plunged in the profoundest intellectual bar- 
 barism.* 
 
 * Such questions, for example, as this : " How did jou put 
 the air into the tubes?" proving absolute ignorance of the 
 nature of all fluids, even of the very atmosphere we breathe. 
 Other people often fancy that the buoyancy of the tubes must 
 be obtained by filling them with gas, as if the difference in 
 weight between a few cubic feet of air and a like quantity of 
 
5* 
 
 Tents and Boats 
 
 To have a just idea of the real merits of the com- 
 mon open boat, it is only necessary to consider the 
 following facts. 
 
 A most important contribution to physical geogra- 
 phy has been made by the agency of a very unpre- 
 tending little vessel. This little vessel has no quali- 
 ties of water-line to recommend her ; she is singularly 
 ill-adapted for sailing — does not sail at all, in fact, 
 but only drifts, for it is her business to drift. She has, 
 however, one very valuable quality, which is, that so 
 long as she does not run foul of anything hard, she is 
 particularly safe. True, she has a great objection to 
 hard things, being in fact herself made of glass — a 
 brittle material for a boat. Her market value is two- 
 pence, and she will carry her cargo over three or four 
 thousand miles of ocean waves as cleverly as many a 
 big ship that has cost a fine fortune. This wonderful 
 little vessel is simply a corked bottle. 
 
 An open boat that could bear any comparison with 
 a corked bottle would deserve our respect ; but open 
 boats with shipwrecked sailors in them are not in the 
 habit of making such long voyages as corked bottles do. 
 
 Here is an experiment in nautical science. 
 
 Take, on a windy day, to the nearest fish-pond, a 
 tumbler-glass and a corked beer-bottle, both empty. 
 Let these be your vessels. Set them a-floating from 
 the windward shore. Your corked bottle will arrive 
 quite safe on the other side of the fish-pond (ay, or of 
 an Atlantic Ocean), but the tumbler-glass will be 
 swamped by the first ripple. 
 
 hydrogen were of any practical importance whatever, in com- 
 parison with water. 
 
for the Highlands. 
 
 53 
 
 The tumbler-glass is the common open boat. The 
 corked beer-bottle is the closed tubular life-boat. 
 
 Again, here is another very simple experiment. 
 
 Stand on one leg on a ship's deck in a breeze. 
 
 Having stood as long as you can on one leg, try 
 two. 
 
 Then see which way of standing is the easier, — on 
 one leg, namely, or on two. 
 
 You have now the two great principles of a true 
 life-boat. First, she must be closed like the corked 
 bottle. Second, she must have two supports on the 
 water instead of one, exactly as a two-legged sailor 
 has on a ship's deck. 
 
 Now, after having got well hold of the principle, 
 let us see how it answers in practice. 
 
 On Tuesday, the 15th of February, 1852, Mr. Cui- 
 ball, the proprietor of the "Conqueror" steamer of 
 Liverpool, had a carte-blanche to upset, swamp, or tear 
 the " Challenger" life-boat to pieces, if in his power. 
 A northerly gale being then at its height, Mr. Cuiball 
 towed the life-boat four or five miles head to wind. 
 After this, she was towed with her crew on board 
 through the worst seas up the river. 
 
 After all this, no baling of course was necessary ; 
 nor was the slightest injury to the fabric of the boat 
 perceptible. No other life-boat in existence has un- 
 dergone this test. 
 
 Again : eighty persons leaped at once on one gun- 
 wale of the " Challenger" without upsetting her. No 
 other life-boat in existence has undergone this test. 
 
 These two trials prove the validity of the principles 
 laid down above. The first trial, by towing, proves 
 the value of the closed tube or corked bottle principle. 
 
54 
 
 Tents and Boats 
 
 The second trial, by fourscore persons leaping together 
 on one gunwale, proves the stability gained by the 
 double tube or two-legged principle. 
 
 As for my boat, she was not built for hard service 
 on the sea-coast, but merely to be safer and steadier on 
 fresh water than the common open boat. Let us com- 
 pare her in these two respects with the common open 
 boat. 
 
 First, then, let us examine such a familiar specimen 
 of the common model as we may find at any watering- 
 place on the coast. 
 
 She reminds one, rather, of half a walnut-shell. 
 She is probably half full of water, if it has rained all 
 night ; for she serves not only to float on water like a 
 ship, but to hold it like a cistern. There is a little 
 rusty iron can in the stern, with the handle broken off. 
 This is the instrument with which she is to be emp- 
 tied ; and as the can holds a quart at most, you may 
 calculate how long it will take to empty a hundred 
 gallons, which may be thrown into her at any moment 
 in a rough sea ; and this may lead us to reflect further, 
 whether, in every case, the little tin can would quite 
 clear out the hundred gallons before another wave 
 splashed another hundred into the cistern ; so that the 
 question of Life and Death reduces itself into a contest 
 between one little tin can, the Protector of Life, against 
 an innumerable army of breakers, the Menacers of 
 Death ; for, if the water comes in faster than the tin 
 can empties it out again, you are lost. But there are 
 heavy iron w r eights in her, you see, as w T ell as the tin 
 can. These w r eights constitute, to any one in the 
 habit of reflection, a still more damaging confession 
 of dangerous construction. Without them, the boat 
 
for the Highlands. 55 
 
 could not carry sail ten minutes in a breeze, and with 
 them, if once the boat fall on her side and the weights 
 tumble to leeward, nothing can save you; whilst, in 
 case of a big wave dropping into the boat with that 
 clumsiness peculiar to plethoric masses of water, down 
 she goes at once to the bottom, like a dead sailor with 
 cannon-balls to his feet. So the tin can is a confession 
 that water is expected to enter, and the ballast is a 
 confession of instability. 
 
 My own double iron tubular boat, the " Britannia," 
 offers a striking contrast to this. 
 
 In the first place, there is neither tin can nor ballast 
 to be seen about her, for the sufficient reason that, 
 being closed against the ingress of water, she never 
 requires baling ; and again, that being wonderfully 
 steady under canvas, by reason of her double construc- 
 tion, she is wholly independent of ballast. 
 
 Nay, more. If you choose to send a bullet through 
 one of her tubes under the water-line, so long as the 
 bullet does not pass through her from end to end, still 
 she shall float lightly ; for she is divided internally 
 into little water-tight chambers, each of which has a 
 separate life and buoyancy. 
 
 With regard to speed, though not built for speed in 
 any way, but for stability, that I may draw from na- 
 ture on her deck, she is yet not inferior to ordinary 
 boats of her own length, and sails well to the wind, 
 owing to her two keels, which give a double hold on 
 the water. 
 
 As to Mr. Richardson's object, the saving of life 
 from shipwreck, it is enough to say, in order to prove 
 that the subject deserves some attention, that the aver- 
 age annual catalogue of wrecks on the coast of Britain 
 alone exceeds a thousand. 
 
56 Tents and Boats for the Highlands. 
 
 And as for my own object, which is to render boat- 
 ing a safe recreation, instead of one of the deadliest 
 ever invented, I believe all Europe may be challenged 
 to name any lake or river of importance where fatal 
 accidents have not occurred, in consequence wholly of 
 the unsafe construction of the common open boat. 
 
 Good people fancy that the loss of life by drowning 
 is an inscrutable dispensation of Providence. When 
 it happens on Sunday, it is for Sabbath-breaking ; 
 when, however, it happens on Tuesday or Wednes- 
 day, what then? Are we to be told that it is for 
 Tuesday-breaking or Wednesday-breaking? 
 
 It is very convenient to lay the blame of our own 
 imbecility on Providence ; yet, as it seems to me, it 
 w r ere not only more prudent, but a great deal more 
 pious, to pay some attention to those laws of nature 
 under which Providence has placed us. 
 
 Lastly. If any reader is disposed to be angry with 
 me for getting prosy and argumentative in this chapter, 
 let him reflect a little on the condition of certain 
 widows and orphans, who need never have put on 
 mourning, if the principles here laid down had been 
 generally applied to practice for the last half-century. 
 There have been tragedies enough of the unproductive 
 sort. If there is a superabundance of manly life in 
 England, there may be bloody wars ere long that will 
 quench it in salt water, under clouds of cannon-smoke ; 
 and it were wiser to reserve our victims for this nobler 
 sacrifice, than to let them slip unprofitably out of the 
 world by the upsetting of treacherous toy-boats in 
 ditches and fish-ponds. 
 
57 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE AUTHOR ARRIVES AT LOCH AWE. 
 
 A FEW nights since, there rested on the highest 
 point of the Highland road in Glenara, a sin- 
 gular group. It was past midnight. Far down in the 
 valley lay the expanse of Loch Awe, gray and mys- 
 terious in the dim twilight. A vast range of moun- 
 tains rose beyond, whose outlines and summits were 
 confounded with fantastic cloud of exactly the same 
 color and character. There was just enough light in 
 the sky to show the group of travellers as they halted. 
 Three men, a horse and cart, a great tawny blood- 
 hound, and a shepherd's dog, were easily made out by 
 two graziers who passed that way, but a strange ma- 
 chine on two wheels in the rear baffled them alto- 
 gether. They passed on, however, without arriving 
 at any satisfactory conclusion. 
 
 The three men, the horse and cart, the great blood- 
 hound, and the shepherd's dog, remained where they 
 were ; the strange machine in the rear stood by itself. 
 It had no horse nor shafts, yet it went on wheels, and 
 the difficulty was, how to get this queer machine 
 down the hill, for it was huge and unmanageable. 
 
 "Will she no come doon the brae?" said one of 
 the men with a pure Highland accent. 
 
 " Who'll come fast enoo ; that's all as I'm feared 
 on," answered another in unmistakable Yorkshire. 
 
58 
 
 The Author arrives at Loch Awe. 
 
 " Hold on, Campbell, and let us think the matter 
 over a little," said a third voice in plain English. 
 44 I remember that the road is steep from here to 
 Cladich." 
 
 " The warst brae from Inverara to Lochow, sir." 
 
 " Then we cannot 'old her fro' runnin' over us, for 
 who's th' 'eaviest consarn as ever I tackled sin' I 'ere 
 wick." 
 
 44 Hold your tongue, and do as you're told, and 
 we'll get her down safely. Get the plank out." 
 
 The Yorkshireman found a loose plank in the 
 strange machine. 
 
 44 Tie one end of the plank to the axle, about a foot 
 from the ground. That'll do. Now go in front and 
 guide her, and I'll keep the plank down for a drag." 
 
 Here the speaker took his stand on the plank, and 
 held to the strange machine, which started down the 
 hill, and went tolerably well till it came to a short 
 level. 
 
 " Halt ! this is all very well here, but when we 
 come to the real hill, it won't answer. Campbell, 
 will the mare hold back ? " 
 
 " Ay, sir, the beast '11 do that." 
 
 44 Then suppose we tie her behind the machine in- 
 stead of me, and then I can help my man to guide it 
 in front. One man isn't enough there." 
 
 " The beast would be the better o' the cayrt behind 
 her. Het would keep her back if the wheels were 
 dragged." 
 
 Hereupon horse and cart were fastened to the rear 
 of the strange machine. 
 
 44 And how will you drag the wheels, Campbell?" 
 Before the Highlander could answer this question, 
 
The Author arrives at Loch Awe, 
 
 59 
 
 the Yorkshireman, with great alacrity, seized the 
 loose plank and passed it through the wheels between 
 the spokes. " There, sir," said he, confidently, " that's 
 the way we drag wheels up i' Widdup." 
 
 Off started the whole caravan. 
 
 " What are you stopping for now?" 
 
 " Marecy upon us ! Guid guide us ! " 
 
 Here the Englishman, finding the body of the cart 
 on the ground, with the wheels and axle considerably 
 in the rear, the horse standing stock still, and the 
 Highlander lost in wonder, burst incontinently into 
 peals of laughter. 
 
 The Yorkshireman stared through the dim twilight, 
 and, having felt the cart, satisfied himself that it was 
 without wheels. Then he scratched his head. 
 
 The Highlander became very grave, and solemnly 
 said, " I doot we'll no get harne the mcht." And, in 
 truth, there seemed slight hopes of getting there. 
 
 At last, after careful examination by touch (it was 
 impossible to see), it turned out that since the High- 
 land wright who built the cart had omitted to put nuts 
 to his bolts, the Yorkshire expedient for dragging the 
 wheels had done it more effectually than was desirable, 
 by lifting the body off them altogether and dropping it 
 down in the road. 
 
 After a long delay the cart was lifted upon the axle 
 and reladen ; the mare replaced in the shafts, the 
 strange machine tied in front, the cartwheels locked 
 with ropes, and the whole descended the hill. 
 
 " Hae ye lost something, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, I don't see my dog," — the great bloodhound 
 was missing. " We must not go on till he is found ; 
 he will worry every sheep on the hill." 
 
6o 
 
 The Author arrives at Loch Awe. 
 
 Here the speaker took a dogwhip from his pocket, 
 and, applying the end of it to his mouth, whistled for 
 ten minutes without ceasing. 
 
 Then all listened silently. A faint, distant howl 
 came from the moors. 
 
 Again the shrill whistle sounded for some minutes. 
 A still pause succeeded, and a great spectre-like blood- 
 hound as large as a wolf cantered up. 
 
 At the inn, the innkeeper came out with a candle 
 in his hand to welcome his expected guest. The light 
 fell on the strange machine. It seemed like four great 
 black tubes of iron — a large pair with a lesser pair 
 upon them. 
 
 " What are these, sir?" 
 
 " Only my boats." 
 
 " Well, sir, if these are boats, the like was never 
 seen on Lochow. ,, 
 
 The next day the baggage-wagon came on from 
 Inveraray, where we had left it, and after having staid 
 a day or two at the inn, that I might choose a good site 
 for the encampment, I decided, finally, to establish it 
 on a large green island in the middle of the most pic- 
 turesque part of Loch Awe. 
 
 Astronomers teach us that if we could visit a heavier 
 globe than ours, we should find everything increased 
 in weight, and that the strength which suffices for all 
 ordinary work on the planet Tellus, would be prostra- 
 tion and debility on Jupiter. 
 
 It is not necessary to go to Jupiter for an example 
 of this. A load for one horse in England is more than 
 enough for two in the Highlands. When I left home, 
 my light wagon, full of camp materials, the whole 
 weighing less than a laden cart, was bravely taken to 
 
The Author arrives at Loch Awe. 61 
 
 the station by one mare ; little, old, and out of condi- 
 tion. She had a terrible hill to descend, but did it 
 quite coolly, without dragging a wheel, the driver 
 walking quietly by her side. To take the same wag- 
 on from Cladich to Innistrynich, a shorter distance, 
 two horses, six men, and two boys were found neces- 
 sary, with ropes to hold back, and a shoe to lock the 
 wheel. 
 
 For the first few hundred yards all went well ; but 
 when we came to a little descent, the shaft horse 
 stopped, and, on being remonstrated with, lay down 
 very quietly in the ditch on the road-side, twisting the 
 iron-plated shafts out of shape. 
 
 " Tonald, Tonald, what gars the beast do the like 
 o' that?" 
 
 But Tonald kicked the beast. 
 
 Then the beast rose up and groaned, but refused to 
 labor. And there was a wonderful clamor in Gaelic. 
 As for me, notwithstanding the injury to my shafts, I 
 laughed till I was faint. At last, as soon as I could 
 speak, I suggested that the leader be tried in the shafts. 
 But it fell out that this beast was no better than the 
 other ; so, since the horses could not draw the wagon, 
 I proposed to draw it myself. 
 
 Just then came a little one-eyed man, who shrieked 
 with laughter at my Highlanders and their steeds, and 
 swore roundly that a common railway porter would 
 have carried the whole on his back. He could speak 
 Gaelic, too, and so ridiculed the Celts in their own 
 euphonious tongue that at last they sent the horses 
 back, and took the wagon down to the lake without 
 them. Still the horses figured handsomely in the bill. 
 
62 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE AUTHOR ENCAMPS ON AN UNINHABITED ISLAND. 
 
 ' I ^HIS island of Inishail, where I have pitched my 
 tents, is a long, green pasture in the middle of 
 Loch Awe, of a very tame and quiet aspect, broken 
 only by one rocky eminence, crowned with a few 
 straggling firs. There is a miserable patch of plan- 
 tation on the eastern side which adds nothing to its 
 beauty, and a ruin at the other end surrounded by 
 tombs ; but the ruin has no architectural value. The 
 shore of the island curves beautifully into bays. Be- 
 tween the ruin and the plantation stand my tents. The 
 island is all one blue field of flowers, as if the sky had 
 fallen ; it is always so in spring ; in summer it is cov- 
 ered with green fern ; and in autumn, when the fern 
 dies, it reddens the whole island. 
 
 This bit of pasture land would be nothing anywhere 
 else, but here it is remarkable for its admirable posi- 
 tion. It is placed in the very centre of the most pic- 
 turesque part of Loch Awe. From it you can see 
 Kilchurn Castle, and Ben Cruachan, and Ben Anea, 
 and the Pass of Awe. What Inishail itself lacks of 
 picturesque beauty is compensated by the close neigh- 
 borhood of the Black Islands, as exquisite a pair of 
 wooded isles as the most fastidious artist could desire. 
 In short, this spot of green earth is the best head- 
 quarters I could have chosen. It has been inhabited 
 
The Author encamps on an uninhabited Island. 63 
 
 before, long ago, by a convent of Cistercian nuns. 
 They were turned out at the Reformation, and their 
 poor little chapel has been left for the winds to sing in 
 ever since. Not many stones are left of it now, and 
 its foundations lie low amongst the moss-covered tombs 
 of the old chieftains. But the people bring their dead 
 here yet, and lay them under the shadow of their 
 broken walls, so that the island is a land of death, of 
 utter repose and peace. Was it not well in barbarous 
 mountaineers to bury their dead in lonely isles, where 
 the foot of the marauder trampled not the grass on the 
 grave, and where the living came not, save in sorrow, 
 and reverently ? The main land was for the living to 
 fight upon, to hunt upon, and to dwell upon ; but 
 this green isle was the Silent Land, the Island of the 
 Blest. Hither the chieftains came, generation after 
 generation, borne solemnly across the waters from 
 their castled isles : hither they came to this defence- 
 less one, where they still sleep securely, when their 
 strongholds are roofless ruins ; their claymores dis- 
 solved in rust ; their broad lands, that they fought for 
 all their lives, sold and resold ; and their descendants 
 sent into exile to make a desert for English grouse- 
 shooters. 
 
 On this island, then, inhabited by the dead, stands 
 at length my little hut, cosy as ever. Thursday's hut 
 has a good wooden floor, and wooden walls roofed 
 over by a pyramidal tent, strong and impervious, and 
 heated by a capital little cooking stove in the middle, 
 whose pipe serves for a tent pole. An old Crimean 
 tent stands beyond Thursday's white pyramid, value- 
 less, indeed, for shelter, but useful as a receptacle for 
 
64 The Author encamps on an uninhabited Island. 
 
 fuel, and as a sort of kitchen, being provided with a 
 grate and chimney. 
 
 And there, in the beautiful bay, the " Britannia " 
 rides at anchor, and the " Conway " is drawn up on 
 the sandy shore of the island. 
 
 And down by that sandy shore, still and cold in his 
 grave, lies my poor hound. An uncontrollable thirst 
 for blood, making him utterly ungovernable where 
 sheep were to be got at, has led to this fatal but fore- 
 seen result. I try to console myself for having passed 
 sentence upon him by observing how happily the little 
 flock on the island gathers round the camp, and how 
 the tender lambs graze peacefully even on the shore 
 itself, down by Lion's grave. 
 
65 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EDUCATIONAL. 
 
 AMONGST other labors that I have proposed to 
 myself during my Crusoe life on the island is one 
 worthy of Robinson Crusoe himself — namely, to teach 
 Thursday pure English. Hitherto he has spoken a 
 rich mixture of the Lancashire and Yorkshire dialects, 
 an uncouth and barbarous patois, which, though inter- 
 esting in a philological point of view, preserving, as it 
 undoubtedly does, many words of Saxon or Danish 
 origin long since lost to refined society, does not pos- 
 sess equivalents for those respectful forms of expression 
 commonly used by servants in speaking to their mas- 
 ters. I therefore told Thursday very decidedly that he 
 must do one of two things — either learn English or 
 leave me ; and he preferred learning English. Now, 
 this Thursday was a raw shepherd lad from the moors, 
 ignorant of everything but pastoral life ; and pastoral 
 life is not quite so sentimental on the Yorkshire moors 
 as it is in the foolish poems of cockney writers of the 
 last century. Thursday had, however, a strong desire 
 to improve himself, and, as I was willing to help him, 
 soon fell into the position of a private pupil rather than 
 a domestic servant ; and, indeed, many private pupils 
 pay dearly for instruction of a much less profitable 
 nature. But old habits are not easily rooted out, and 
 the gradual replacing of words peculiar to a barbarous 
 5 
 
66 
 
 Educational. 
 
 patois by words belonging to the accepted language 
 of all England was a very slow and very tedious busi- 
 ness, and one which cost me an infinity of trouble, and 
 him innumerable blows. 
 
 Yes, I thrashed him daily, and that severely, for 
 weeks together ; yet he was a voluntary victim. 
 There was one unlucky word of his, which on the 
 Yorkshire hills stands for our words only, but, and 
 except; I mean the word naut, which is much in 
 vogue in that country, where the people are of so 
 cautious a disposition that they can never state any- 
 thing roundly, but must always qualify every state- 
 ment with a drawback or an exception. Against this 
 detestable word naut my first efforts were vigorously 
 directed ; so in exchange for it I gave Thursday the 
 three words, only, but, and except — an excellent bar- 
 gain for Thursday, since, in place of his single coin, 
 whose origin was obscure and circulation limited, he 
 received three pieces of royal English, current wher- 
 ever that language is spoken on earth. But my un- 
 happy pupil, notwithstanding the most hearty and 
 laudable desire to get rid of his word, and the most 
 perfect willingness to replace it with the three I had 
 given him, found that the old word stuck to him like 
 a burr, whilst the new ones were never at hand when 
 wanted, but required to be sought for, and, when 
 found, inserted into the phrase with the utmost neat- 
 ness and care, like a patch in a garment. One day, 
 therefore, when the obnoxious word had occurred a 
 dozen times in as many minutes, the following con- 
 versation took place between myself and my poor 
 pupil : — 
 
 The Author. — There seems to be only one way 
 
Educational. 
 
 6 7 
 
 left for you, Thursday ; and that is, that you consent 
 to be thrashed every time you use that word. 
 
 Thursday. — Well, sir, I'm sure I'd be rid of it fast 
 enough if I could naut cob it away like a stoan. 
 
 The Author. — There, naut again ! 
 
 Thursday. — Confound it ! eah,* its alius f coinin' 
 when it isn't wanted. — Dang thee (apostrophizing the 
 word itself), dang thee, thou's noan wanted ; go thee 
 back to Widdup, and dunnot thee come back again 
 naut when they send for thee. 
 
 The Author. — There, Thursday, naut again. 
 
 Thursday. — Bless me, sir, that word 's alius corn- 
 in' ! I think it raun % be the devil hissel as sends it ; if 
 I could naut be one day bout § sayin' it I s'd be con- 
 tenter by th'auve. || 
 
 The Author. — Naut again, Thursday. 
 
 Thursday. — Well, sir, you may lick me, then, for 
 I see I's never get no larnin' naut it's licked into me, 
 same as a whelp. 
 
 In short, the poor fellow came to me that evening, 
 snd said that he had taken the resolution to bear 
 patiently any personal chastisement I might think 
 proper to inflict, if only I could make him learn Eng- 
 lish. He said he believed seriously that it was the 
 only way he should ever learn, and that he had de- 
 termined to submit to it as a necessity. The day after, 
 accordingly, this system of instruction was put into 
 practice ; and I am really afraid that, when Thursday 
 
 * Corruption oi yea, used constantly in Lancashire for yes. 
 f Always. J Must. 
 
 § Abbreviation of beout for w//^out. The word deout, un- 
 abridged, is common in Yorkshire. 
 || More content by half. 
 
68 
 
 Educational. 
 
 went to his hammock at night, that heroic martyr to 
 learning scarcely found a bone that was not too sore to 
 rest upon, so often had he been punished during the 
 day. The next day these inflictions were, however, a 
 little less frequent, and at the end of a week a very re- 
 markable diminution was observable. Gradually the 
 obnoxious word fell into disuse ; and although, after the 
 commencement of this excellent course of discipline, 
 Thursday got into a rebellious habit of running away 
 from correction, he steeled himself into fortitude when 
 I pointed out how this resistance to correction would 
 defeat his own ends. The truth is, that Thursday ran 
 much better than I did ; so I could never come up with 
 him ; wherefore I preached him a little sermon, and 
 made an appeal to his feelings of honor and duty, re- 
 buking him in a touching manner for his want of grat- 
 itude in thus refusing what was intended solely for his 
 benefit. But on board the boat escape was impossible, 
 and it was there that the most wholesome lessons were 
 given and received — given, not without sorrow, for it 
 is at all times a sad necessity to inflict chastisement ; 
 all schoolmasters are agreed upon that — and received, 
 not without occasional murmurs of impatience, such as 
 idle threatenings on Thursday's part to throw himself 
 into the water, threatenings which, as I very well 
 knew, were in no danger of being fulfilled. Then I, 
 on my part, would threaten to abandon my pupil to 
 his ancient ignorance of polite letters, rather than re- 
 lax for an instant the severity of discipline. And I am 
 happy to be able to add, to Thursday's immortal honor, 
 that he refused not the rod, but gave his back to the 
 smiter ! 
 
 This system of punishment was never abandoned, 
 
Educational. 
 
 6 9 
 
 nor even relaxed,* but has already become practically 
 obsolete, for the reason that the word against which it 
 was directed has been, by its means, totally banished 
 from Thursday's vocabulary. O, all little school-boys 
 who read this, think how happily you are situated, and 
 what blessings you enjoy ! you, my dear and fortunate 
 young friends, who have had the inestimable privilege 
 of being thrashed from your earliest years ! this poor 
 boy, Thursday, had not your advantages. 
 
 * The system remained in force for several years after the 
 above was written. It was not confined long to the word newt, 
 but removed successively almost all Thursday's habitual faults 
 in speaking. 
 
7o 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE ISLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 IS this a place of toil or a haven of rest? What 
 living thing toils here? Why should I fret myself, 
 and paint under the intolerable glare of this dazzling, 
 cloudless noon? The sheep lie panting round my 
 tents. The white gulls rest on the rocks. My boat 
 sleeps motionless* on the still water; she floats on a 
 vast liquid mirror, so perfect everywhere, that the eye 
 can find no flaw. The splendid lake, from shore to 
 shore, lies hushed in a long, deep' trance of calm, that 
 has lasted I know not how many burning days. I 
 count the days no more. They have been still, and 
 burning, and blue like to-day, now for I know not 
 how long. Why should I count the days? Some- 
 body else will count them, far away in the stifling 
 towns. 
 
 I will float on the lake like the boat, I will rest on 
 the shore like this little flock, I will sit on the dark 
 rocks in the lake like those indolent fowls of the sea ; 
 but one thing I will not do — I will not blind my eyes 
 with staring at that sapphire-flaming sky, nor weary 
 my soul with mixing dull imitations of it from the 
 costly dust of the lapis lazuli. All is rest here. The 
 dead rest in their cool, dark graves, out of the heat 
 and glare, there not far from my tents, round the little 
 ruined church. The countless streams of Cruachan 
 
The Isle of Indolence. 
 
 71 
 
 have ceased to flow ; they too will have their week of 
 rest, and they lie in the cold granite heart of the hills, 
 safe from the fierce god who would change them all 
 into pale white clouds if he could find them. 
 
 I begin to have vague impressions of unreality. 
 This life does not seem quite real. I am dreaming, 
 and expect to be awakened some ordinary common- 
 place morning as usual. But for the present let me 
 at least enjoy my dream. I will eat lotos. Alas, the 
 lotos blooms not here ! I will smoke a yet more fra- 
 grant plant, and envy those lotos-eating Greeks no 
 more. I will sit with my pipe in the tent's cool 
 shadow. 
 
 The tent, I perceive, suffers a degree of lassitude, 
 and is sensible of this Indian heat. It hangs in care- 
 less curves, and has lost its tightness and trim. Well, 
 we are none of us very much on the stretch just at 
 present, and I see no reason why the tent should not 
 participate in the general relaxation. 
 
 I have only bathed eight times to-day. I live like 
 a seal, in the water and out. But I have an advantage 
 over the seal. I found out this morning that I could 
 smoke very comfortably in the water, whereas the 
 unfortunate seals cannot smoke. 
 
 It is pleasant to lie on one's back in the bay, 
 smoking cigars. The combination of sensations is 
 curious and interesting. And there is a certain feeling 
 of triumph in being able to keep that little spark of 
 ethereal fire alive above the abyss of waters. I fancy 
 then that the cigar has a finer flavor than on land — at 
 least, I like it better ; probably, I unconsciously sym- 
 pathize with the cigar, when my life, like its little fire, 
 is kept burning on a fearful deep, which could so 
 easily extinguish both. 
 
72 
 
 The Isle of Indolence. 
 
 Thursday tells me that the candles melt in the can- 
 dlesticks, and fall down when the sun puts forth his 
 strength in the morning. It is an act of becoming 
 humility on the part of the candles. But what is 
 more distressing is, that Thursday and I are in a fair 
 w r ay for being prostrate also before long, and I don't 
 see that we owe the sun any such homage. 
 
 This I take to be due only to our diet. I lived very 
 much better on the Lancashire moors. Now, animal 
 food becomes tainted in a day, and the whole country 
 cannot supply vegetables. Neither beef nor mutton 
 is to be had all round these sixty miles of shore. It 
 is true I might purchase lean kine and bony sheep, if 
 I were willing to take them alive ; but after the first 
 joint what could we do with them but salt them ? and 
 who but a Highlander or a sailor can live long on salt 
 food without suffering from it? I have sent for beef 
 to Inveraray ; but the Lowland poet gave so damaging 
 a report of that city that I never expected to find good 
 flesh of oxen there, nor have I found it. If I send to 
 Glasgow, what then ? the beef will be rotten before it 
 arrives, this hot weather. There is nothing left for it 
 but patience — and a little bread and butter. 
 
 An Englishman out here, accustomed to good keep, 
 is like a corn-fed hunter in a field of thistles. Thurs- 
 day is getting weak, and complains, in his way, of 
 exhaustion. " I feel quite done, somehow, sir," he 
 says. And no wonder, for the poor fellow has not 
 had a dinner this month past. Once, by some mirac- 
 ulous good fortune, we had gathered together w T ith 
 infinite pains the materials of a substantial repast. 
 Smiles of contentment shed their lustre on Thursday's 
 countenance on this auspicious occasion. He strutted 
 
The Isle of Indolence. 
 
 73 
 
 about rather proudly, I thought, as one well fed. 
 " You seem very happy to-day," I said. " Why, yes, 
 sir," answered Thursday, " it's such a ^onor to a man 
 to have eaten a real dinner" 
 
 It never answers to slight the laws of our nature, 
 and pretend to be independent of common necessities. 
 The inexorable master of every man is his belly. 
 Hunger is the most terrible of all besiegers — the 
 strongest fortress in armed Europe cannot contend 
 against him; and, from the poor tinker under his rag 
 to the emperor in his war-pavilion, no one who under- 
 takes camp life can afford to neglect his warnings. 
 
 Day after day the lake has been sinking lower and 
 lower into its bed, and black stony islets lift their sinis- 
 ter-looking heads above its polished surface in a hun- 
 dred places. And now, when the water is at its 
 lowest, there has come an Egyptian plague of flies. 
 Even the water is full of little poisonous red creatures 
 that bury themselves in the skin, and have to be picked 
 out with a penknife. And we have thousands of big 
 flies on the land, that settle continually on our faces 
 and hands, and send a needle-like proboscis down 
 through the skin, leaving on Thursday an envenomed 
 swelling after every stab, but on my own more hap- 
 pily-constituted cuticle nothing worse than a minute 
 puncture. Water and air are filled with a million foes. 
 
 Dim in the upper air rises the red peak of Cruachan. 
 There is a strange patch of white upon it. It is a little 
 field of winter lingering into June. It is pure, cold 
 snow ! O, what a sensation to melt a little of it in 
 this mouth that never tastes anything more refreshing 
 than tepid water ! What pleasure ineffable to plunge 
 these hot and feverish hands into its crystalline depths ! 
 
74 
 
 The Isle of Indolence. 
 
 But that little patch of Paradise is three thousand feet 
 above me ! How shall I ever climb those arduous 
 heights? Day after day I look at it with longing eyes, 
 but it descends no lower — comes no nearer; only I 
 fancy its precious area has somewhat lessened, for it 
 seems not so broad to-day as yesterday, and yesterday 
 it did not seem so broad as the day before. Its shape, 
 too, alters somewhat. It is melting away in the sun's 
 eye ; and tiny rills, cold and pure, are draining its daz- 
 zling field. 
 
 I am on the highest peak of Cruachan. I drink 
 fair water of the rock sublimed with snow ; for the 
 snow rests yet in the stone crevices high above the 
 burning valleys, and the air is still fresh and sw r eet on 
 the mountain, though the vaporous atmosphere that 
 broods on the low lake is heavy with a deadly languor 
 and weariness. 
 
 Weak and exhausted as we are by the overpowering 
 heat, we are in poor condition to climb mountains ; 
 but to breathe for one hour such a delightful air as this 
 that fans my temples now, and to quench one's thirst 
 with one draught of such divine coolness as that bottle 
 of snow-water at my side, is enough to repay one for 
 any toils such as we have gone through. 
 
 When we got into the great desolate valley that lies 
 a thousand feet above the sea, as if the mountain were 
 a colossal statue of granite that held a site for a city in 
 its lap, I realized more distinctly the exquisite truth of 
 John Lewis's Frank Encampment on Mount Sinai ; 
 for here, after the burning drought of June, the dry, 
 red precipices far from us stood out with all their 
 peaks clear in stony detail against a shadeless sky. 
 
The Isle of Indolence, 
 
 75 
 
 Having climbed the great shoulder of the hill in- 
 stead of following the stream in the corrie, we found 
 that a huge chasm still separated us from the peak, 
 but that this chasm might still be in some measure 
 avoided by creeping along the face of a precipice 
 several hundred feet high. Thursday preferred to try 
 the precipice, being an active mountaineer ; but I 
 descended patiently into the chasm, and laboriously 
 toiled out of it again up the stony peak. Thursday, 
 however, very nearly lost his life on that precipice. 
 
 He had proceeded safely along a narrow ledge of 
 the rock, till he came to one particular point, danger- 
 ous enough to frighten a chamois. The path was 
 broken in places by fissures two or three feet wide ; 
 and, having crossed one or two of these, Thursday 
 found that the ledge of rock he had hitherto followed 
 either ceased to exist altogether, or was at least inter- 
 rupted by a massive buttress of granite that projected 
 from the face of the cliff. Now, as it happened, on the 
 buttress itself were two little projecting points ; and 
 Thursday, partly in fool-hardiness, partly, I believe, in 
 that healthy unconsciousness of danger, which is a 
 common characteristic of sound nerves and a clear 
 head, thought he should like to look round the corner. 
 But in order to effect this it was necessary for him to 
 put one knee on the lower projection and one hand on 
 the upper ; and that accordingly was the position he 
 took. It was not an enviable one. Under him was a 
 depth of above a hundred feet of sheer precipice, and 
 below that a long slope of granite debris ; and every- 
 body knows how hard granite is, and what unpleasant- 
 looking edges its fractures offer. Thursday looked 
 round the buttress. There was not a ledge big enough 
 
7 6 
 
 The Isle of Indolence, 
 
 for a sparrow to perch upon ; it was one smooth wall 
 of rock. He told me afterwards that he had given 
 himself up for lost, but thought he might as well try 
 to get back again as drop helplessly from fatigue and 
 giddiness. The projection he held on by was a loose 
 broken bit of granite ; he knew it might come away 
 at any time, and then there would be no hope. So he 
 felt back cautiously with his foot, and in some inex- 
 plicable fashion regained gradually, but in going back- 
 wards all the time, the narrow ledge he had left, and, 
 so returning, escaped death. 
 
 He rejoined me on the great rough pyramid of the 
 peak. The impression of John Lewis's Sinai was so 
 strong upon me that I could have believed we were 
 climbing some great stony mountain of the East ; for 
 there was no mist, and the heat was almost insupport- 
 able. The stones themselves were warm when we 
 touched them, and yet down in the deep fissures the 
 snow lay white as if in winter. 
 
 We rest at last on the summit. The effect of the 
 Highlands of Scotland seen from one of their highest 
 peaks resembles nothing so much as the ocean in a 
 gale of wind fixed forever in a photograph. It is a 
 sea of mountains, sublime in its vastness and in the 
 huge proportions of its granite waves, yet not satisfac- 
 tory to the artistic sense. It offers a splendid pano- 
 rama, but not one picture. The sweetest and even the 
 sublimest pictures are laid in the habitable earth, and 
 w r e need not go to the snowy summits to seek them. 
 Still, if you would feel the immensity of the world, 
 go to the mountain-tops, and reflect that the vast cir- 
 cumference of your horizon is but a round spot on its 
 mighty sphere. 
 
The Isle of Indolence. 
 
 11 
 
 The great precipices of Ben Cruachan are capital 
 subjects for study. I think they are the sublimest 
 walls of barren rock I have yet seen. One of them, 
 on the Loch Etive side, rises grandly between us and 
 the sea. We see nearly the whole length of Loch 
 Awe, the upper end of Loch Etive, and the great 
 calm ocean in the west, dim with heat and vapor, 
 with mountainous islands rising out of it mysteriously. 
 But to the east are the Highland hills, clear and sharp 
 in their innumerable multitude of peaks, — some bril- 
 liant with snow, others pale with inconceivable dis- 
 tance, all various with exquisite changefulness of hue, 
 pale purples, and tender greens, and far away the hues 
 of heaven itself, rose and blue of ineffable delicacy. 
 
 The great lake spreads out below us calm like a 
 sea of glass. It stretches far away into the pale haze 
 of the high horizon ; and on its whole length, from 
 end to end, not a single breeze dims its exquisite sur- 
 face. Floating on it, like fallen leaves in a still basin 
 in a garden, lie the green isles ; and on one of them, 
 a speck of dazzling white, stands the little lonely 
 camp. The moors are spotted with miniature lochs, 
 set like shining mirrors in the hot heath. 
 
 It is time to leave off sketching, and this scribbling. 
 There is a long line of glittering light on the mysteri- 
 ous Atlantic. In half an hour the sun will set. 
 
78 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE THREE MAD MEN OF THE ISLAND, AND THE 
 MAD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 T^HERE dwells by Loch Awe a mysterious per- 
 
 sonage, concerning whom circulate the strangest 
 rumors. Wherever I go I meet him ? for he wanders 
 continually. His face is sunburnt and weather-beaten, 
 and his full, handsome beard has the delicate variety 
 of color a painter loves ; the mustache dark brown, 
 and the beard itself passing into cool dark grays. He 
 wears the Highland costume, with a pair of sabots, 
 such as are common in the provinces of France. His 
 frame is powerful and muscular. No one has ever 
 seen him without a silver-mounted meerschaum, which 
 he smokes leisurely. Like himself, it is brown and 
 well seasoned. 
 
 This mysterious personage is always attended by a 
 young man with long black hair, commonly supposed 
 to be his son. As to the actual relation subsisting be- 
 tween the two, or their purpose in remaining at Loch 
 Awe, no one has any knowledge whatever. It is said 
 that he has before visited the lake under another name, 
 so that the one he now bears is not considered to be 
 his own. In the course of the present narrative we 
 will call him Malcolm. 
 
 What has most excited my interest in the rumors 
 concerning Mr. Malcolm is the prevalent opinion of 
 
The Mad Men. 
 
 79 
 
 his hardihood. It is commonly believed that he is 
 entirely independent of the comforts so generally 
 sought after by tourists — that all hours and all 
 weathers are alike to him. He has a tiny boat 
 upon the loch rigged with jib and mainsail, and in 
 the stormiest gales she may sometimes be seen, like 
 a little white bird on the great waves, flying before 
 the wind. Often in the dead of the night, when the 
 ferryman carries some belated farmer over the lake, 
 he sees this white sail glide across his path till it 
 fades away in the pale gray of the distant waters ; and 
 sometimes, on sunny days, the miniature craft comes 
 gayly with flags and music, and a silver horn wakes 
 the echoing hills. 
 
 I determined to seek this man's acquaintance. I 
 felt sure that the secret of his wanderings was less the 
 pretext of sport than the love of nature ; and it seemed 
 to me that we should have this at least in common, 
 and, it might be, other feelings also. So I gave chase 
 one day, and took him and his friend prisoners on 
 board my craft, and towed his ship like a prize to the 
 green island where my tent was pitched. 
 
 He had been fishing all night, and one of his prizes 
 was a fine twelve-pound trout ; so, knowing very well 
 that Thursday had never seen a trout weighing above 
 half a pound, the ordinary weight of the great prizes 
 of his piscatorial youth caught in Yorkshire rivulets, 
 I told him to " go to the boat and fetch a trout he 
 would find in it." Off he went, and to see him return- 
 ing with the trout was exceedingly amusing. He 
 stopped frequently to look at it ; then he talked to it, 
 and told it in pure Yorkshire that there were no such 
 fish as it where he came from. At last he arrived at 
 
8o The Three Mad Men of the Island, 
 
 the camp, his astonishment still unabated, and burst 
 forth into enthusiastic admiration of the fish, when 
 Malcolm told him that trout twice the weight had 
 often been taken in the lake, and that once or twice 
 an instance had occurred of a capture reaching above 
 thirty pounds, all which wonderfully enlarged Thurs- 
 day's views on the subject of trout-fishing, and, I 
 believe, some time afterwards furnished matter for a 
 letter to his father, a Yorkshire gamekeeper. 
 
 Malcolm left half the trout at the camp, and sailed 
 away in the evening. Two days afterwards, I being 
 at work with Thursday repairing the sail and fitting 
 new stays, a faint bugle-note came with the breeze, 
 and soon a little white sail glided between the wooded 
 islands near Inishail, a red flag flamed against the 
 green foliage, and Malcolm landed. 
 
 That night he fished in the Pass all night long with- 
 out sleeping. I know very well the fascination that 
 held him there. You will not find a scene in all 
 Scotland more impressive than the Brandir Pass, 
 w T hen the black narrowing water moves noiselessly at 
 midnight between its barren precipices, or ripples 
 against them when the wind w 7 ails through its gates 
 of war. Malcolm said it seemed fearful and horrible 
 that night, as if inhabited by supernatural powers ; 
 and truly, to glide before the invisible breeze into its 
 gloomy mountain-portals at black midnight would 
 take the frivolity out of any one, even, I do believe, 
 out of a holiday tourist. It is no time for levity when 
 you hear before you the roar of the rapid Awe, seeing 
 nothing, gliding as it seems to inevitable destruction, 
 in so frail a bark as Malcolm's. On, on glides the 
 fragile thing, on to the stony river! — on to the gates 
 
and the Mad Man of the Mountain. 
 
 81 
 
 of death — gates once barred by brave men when the 
 Bruce fought John of Lorn. The bones of the slain 
 lie there yet, under their gray cairns. 
 
 In the early heat of the next morning, I went down 
 to the beach of the island, and found Malcolm and his 
 friend there, lying sunning themselves on the sands ; 
 so I addressed them after Robinson Crusoe's fashion, 
 and invited them to my castle, where they break- 
 fasted. 
 
 Malcolm's way of eating is peculiar. He has ac- 
 customed his appetite to such irregular supplies that 
 it has gradually acquired the power of storing up 
 materials for future nourishment whenever opportu- 
 nity offers. It is not unusual with little boys, after 
 having eaten as much as they possibly can, to fill 
 their pockets with oranges and cake by way of pro- 
 viding for future necessities. But Malcolm has no 
 occasion for such supplementary magazines, his own 
 natural one being elastic enough to contain provision 
 not only for present use, but future. This vaccine 
 accomplishment of his has proved at times rather in- 
 convenient to his host, when neither meat nor bread 
 would keep, and the stock of both was necessarily 
 limited. The ancient philosophers who objected to 
 the use of the egg as human food on the sufficient 
 ground that it contains the four elements are practi- 
 cally disregarded by him, and the quantity of incipient 
 chicken life sacrificed annually to the support of his 
 would afford matter for calculation. By way of pre- 
 paring himself for the more serious business of break- 
 fast, it is a custom of his, when eggs are attainable, 
 to beat a dozen of them together in a basin with 
 whiskey and sugar, and eat the whole raw mess with 
 6 
 
82 The Three Alad Men of the Island, 
 
 a spoon, like soup. That morning's breakfast in the 
 camp was no unworthy proof of Malcolm's valor. 
 We sat very comfortably in my little hut, with the 
 door open, and the great calm lake around us seen 
 from three of its four windows, like three exquisite 
 pictures painted with supernatural splendor on its 
 walls. We had capital trout to begin with, that Mal- 
 colm had caught a few hours before, with rosy flesh 
 as firm as salmon. How many of these delicious fish 
 we consumed, I cannot tell. To these succeeded 
 mutton-chops and boiled eggs, and here lay the most 
 serious deficiency. Thursday had only boiled half-a- 
 dozen eggs, he having destined one for me, one for 
 Malcolm's friend, and four for Malcolm. But his 
 calculations availed him nothing. When Malcolm 
 perceived that the dish was empty, after having bro- 
 ken his fourth egg, he inquired politely if I would 
 allow him to ask Thursday for another egg ; then 
 called out, — 
 
 " Thursday, how many eggs did you boil ! " 
 
 " Why, sir, I boiled six I" said Thursday aloud; 
 then muttering to himself, " and plenty too for three 
 people, after all them trouts and mutton-chops." 
 
 " Six?" said Malcolm interrogatively. 
 
 " Yes, sir, six" replied Thursday, with firmness. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me you only boiled six eggs, 
 sir?" repeated Malcolm, severely. 
 
 " I thought you'd had enough mutton-chops and 
 fish beout heggs." 
 
 Now, this answer, which implied that Mr. Malcolm 
 was, in Thursday's opinion, eating more than was 
 good for him, was not, I admit, characterized by be- 
 coming humility ; for Thursday, in his position in 
 
and tJie Mad Man of the Mountain. 
 
 83 
 
 life, ought not to have presumed to set bounds to 
 the fleshly appetites of his superiors. Neither does 
 the wording of his reply leave nothing to be desired. 
 I know that beout is not considered so elegant as the 
 more classic " without/' for it is in this latter form that 
 the word is found in our best writers ; and I am aware 
 that the aspirate before the word " eggs " is, in fact, 
 superfluous. But on the part of Thursday, I ought to 
 say that he was not yet disciplined into the submis- 
 sive manners required from servants ; and as to any 
 little defect of language that may have crept into his 
 reply, I may observe that, in every case, people in 
 anger speak the language which long habit has ren- 
 dered most natural to them. Recent refinement is 
 a thin disguise worn only in good humor ; put the 
 wearer out of temper, and he doffs it in a moment. 
 
 " Go and boil six-and-twenty," said Malcolm. 
 
 " Very well, sir ; but where am I to find them?" 
 
 64 You'll find two dozen in the box in my boat." 
 
 Then I told Thursday, privately, not to mind Mal- 
 colm's order, but to boil him four eggs only ; which, 
 with the four he had eaten, the plates of mutton-chops, 
 the plates of trout, the loaf of bread, and the six cups 
 of strong coffee, I considered a sufficient breakfast. 
 
 After breakfast Malcolm always smoked several 
 pipes of tobacco ; and as we smoked together, he told 
 me a good story of some ladies he had met with on 
 the shore of the lake. They were escorted by gentle- 
 men ; and Malcolm exchanged a few words with them 
 about the scenery. " Have you been to the island?" 
 said one ; " there are three men there living in tents ; 
 each has one tent, and they are all mad." Then, 
 turning towards Ben Loy, the fair speaker continued, 
 
84 The TJu'ee Mad Men of the Island, 
 
 u You see that tent up there on the mountain ; it 
 belongs to another mad man of the same party." 
 
 " Well, but," said Malcom, " that happens to be 
 snow." 
 
 The idea of snow in June afforded them infinite 
 amusement, for snow is not often observed at this 
 season on the Alpine heights of the London hills. 
 Malcolm gravely reiterated the truth about the matter, 
 but drew down upon himself nothing but ridicule, and 
 so left the tourists in disgust. 
 
 These people had not learned the use of their eyes. 
 The snow on Ben Loy covers at this moment a larger 
 area than twenty bell-tents ; and the outline of the 
 patch indicates so plainly that it fills a concave surface 
 of rock, that even a cockney might see what it is. 
 
 The cool, round assertion that three mad men live 
 in this camp tickles my fancy exceedingly. I remem- 
 ber that some days ago a yachting party from Inveraray 
 came to see the island. I was painting in the hut, and 
 at the same time giving Thursday his reading lesson, 
 when we found the camp suddenly surrounded by the 
 enemy. I went on with my work, and took no notice 
 of the invading forces, but heard a male voice say, 
 very distinctly and positively, " You see there are three 
 tents, and one man lives in each tent." 
 
 u By Jove!" cried Malcolm, who had finished his 
 third pipe, and was amusing himself in the interim 
 with his telescope, — u by Jove, there they are again, 
 the Oxonians and their sisters ! " 
 
 " So much the better. Since we are here, three of 
 us, why not affect madness, to confirm their idea that 
 the camp is a species of lunatic asylum ? " 
 
 So we rigged ourselves out oddly enough. As for 
 
and tJie Mad Man of the Mountain. 
 
 Malcolm, he required little embellishment. He wore 
 a pair of white sailor's trousers and a blue shirt. His 
 long beard looked wild enough to frighten young 
 ladies whose papas, and uncles, and brothers, and 
 lovers were most probably all shaven like dead pigs. 
 By way of a companion, Malcolm said he must have 
 his big pipe. " Thursday," said he, " will you fetch 
 the rosewood box out of my boat, please ? " Thursday 
 brought a thing like a large w T riting-desk. Malcolm 
 found a key, and opened it. There, in a bed of crim- 
 son velvet, lay the friend of his bosom, the delight of 
 his eyes, the solace of his soul ! It was his favorite 
 pipe. How glorious was its mighty bowl ! What 
 soft and mellow tints the strong oil of a thousand 
 replenishings had given it ! From the pale yellow of 
 the sea-foam clay it had darkened in its ripening, till 
 you might trace in its exquisite gradations all the in- 
 termediate tints, down to a rich brown, like the brown 
 of a deep pool in a Highland torrent. Its broad lid 
 was of massive silver, surmounted by a magnificent 
 cairngorm. By its side, in separate lengths, lay a 
 long tube of the same metal, embossed with rich de- 
 signs ; and the mouth-piece was made from a lump of 
 pure yellow amber. 
 
 Malcolm's friend seemed wild enough with his long 
 black hair and red shirt. 
 
 For myself I reserved a costume such as never was 
 seen in the Highlands. It happened that, last winter 
 but one, I had enrolled myself amongst the pupils at 
 the celebrated Gymnasium of Monsieur Triat, in the 
 Avenue Montaigne, at Paris. Having fortunately fin- 
 ished my course of instruction at that excellent insti- 
 tution without breaking my neck, I bore away, as a 
 
86 
 
 The Three Mad Men of the Island, 
 
 memento of it, the costume used in our exercises. 
 This somewhat gaudy uniform consisted of a pair of 
 tight red drawers, a tight blue jersey, a long red sash, 
 and a pair of yellow boots. It had been slipped, 
 amongst other things, into one of my portmanteaus, 
 and so Thursday found it for me that morning. 
 
 So we spread the deck of the boat with a great 
 buffalo skin and carpets, and set sail, not forgetting 
 Malcolm's cornet-a-piston, and his big pipe. 
 
 As we stepped into the boat, Malcolm cried out, 
 " Robin Crusoe ! Robin Crusoe ! here's a footprint 
 in the sand ! " 
 
 Yes, there on the beach of my desolate island was 
 indeed visible, with fearful distinctness, a footprint in 
 the sand ! Sharply impressed it was, not by the naked 
 foot of some cannibal savage, come to banquet hor- 
 ribly on the shore, but by a pretty Parisian shoe, worn 
 by some delicate lady. 
 
 Then we gave chase to the tourists ; we, the Three 
 Mad Men of the Island. But the Mad Man of the 
 Mountain rested still in his tent of snow. 
 
 Malcolm's pipe was exchanged for the cornet-a- 
 piston, and, with martial music sounding over the 
 water, we were soon in hot pursuit. Alarmed at our 
 possible intentions, (and what evils might not be ap- 
 prehended from three mad men?) these unhappy 
 tourists, pale with fear, hastened by furious rowing 
 to regain the land. Once landed, they escaped to the 
 woods. Malcolm wished to land also, and continue 
 the pursuit ; but being unwilling to bring about a 
 meeting under such circumstances between him and 
 the prettiest of the ladies, I felt it my duty, in his own 
 interest, to oppose that proposition. 
 
and the Mad Man of the Mountain. 
 
 8 7 
 
 Their idea thus confirmed, I have no doubt that 
 these tourists will long embellish their tales of travel 
 with accounts of their courageous conduct in that ter- 
 rible meeting with the Three Mad Men of the Island. 
 
 After this pardonable practical joke, I proposed to 
 Malcolm to have a swim in the loch ; but he excused 
 himself at first on the plea of headache. At length 
 he consented, and I plunged in before him, expecting 
 him to follow. Some minutes afterwards I saw a 
 venerable man approaching me in the water. He 
 was bald and majestic, and as he swam towards me — 
 and he swam remarkably well — I saw that his beard 
 swept the ripples, and behold, it was Malcolm's beard ; 
 but the head was not Malcolm's, for my friend had a 
 profusion of dark brown hair, whereas this strong 
 swimmer was as bald as a phrenological bust. The 
 riddle was explained, and the apprehensions of head- 
 ache also, by a handsome wig which lay with Mal- 
 colm's clothes in the boat. It turned out that Malcolm 
 was a vigorous man of sixty, with all the strength and 
 buoyancy of youth. How elastic his spirits were, and 
 how hardy his frame, I had an excellent opportunity 
 of observing during a voyage we undertook that even- 
 ing to the other end of Loch Awe. 
 
 This man must have drunk of the fountain of 
 Eternal Youth. After fishing during a long, sleepless 
 night in the Pass of Awe, in a little cockle-shell that a 
 strong salmon could upset in a moment, he had gayly 
 taken part in a boyish frolic, then sported in the water 
 like a young Etonian, and now, finally, at sunset, ac- 
 cepted, without any pause or hesitation, my proposal 
 to sail twenty miles and back on a cabinless raft. 
 
88 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A LAKE VOYAGE. LOG OF THE " BRITANNIA." 
 
 AFTER having chased the silly tourists, we made 
 rapid preparations for our long voyage. I left 
 Thursday in the camp as garrison, having an able 
 crew in Malcolm and his friend. The following nar- 
 rative of our voyage is condensed from the log of the 
 " Britannia." 
 
 The wind fell at sunset, and during the whole of 
 that calm summer's night we floated so quietly that 
 our motion was utterly imperceptible. It was a de- 
 lightful voyage ; the very slowness of it was a great 
 charm. Slowly the scenery changed, and slowly the 
 dim shores faded away behind us — before lay endless 
 mysteries. It was like a glorious dream ; it was like 
 a fair mysterious picture of a great white sail, curved 
 by some faint breath of imaginary wind ever going 
 we know not whither, yet resting there eternally ! I 
 lay on the buffalo skin on the deck, warmly clad in 
 fur, and Malcolm sat for hours at the helm. Many a 
 pipe did we smoke that night as we talked over his 
 recollections of forty years — we two watching there 
 together, whilst his friend Campbell slept. At last 
 the dawn came, and we were in another scene ; for 
 we had floated into the second of the three reaches of 
 Loch Awe. 
 
 When the sun rose we landed in a little rocky bay, 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 8 9 
 
 and made preparations for breakfast. A foolish trout 
 or two had snatched at our lifeless flies as they floated 
 behind the boat on the calm water ; so we gathered a 
 few dry sticks, and made a little fire between two 
 stones, to cook the fish and boil our coffee. Then 
 Malcolm, great in culinary science, acted as chef and 
 soon we had a capital breakfast of trout, and eggs, 
 and ham. We had a square stone for a table, and Mr. 
 Campbell, as waiter, covered it with a clean little 
 table-cloth, and laid covers for three. And a merry 
 meal we made of it, we three. 
 
 This was just at sunrise, and we enjoyed that spec- 
 tacle whilst we breakfasted. After a due number of 
 pipes, the sun began to be pleasantly warm, and we 
 resumed our voyage. Reclining on the deck, we at- 
 tained the marvellous speed of half a mile an hour, 
 and floated lazily into the magnificent bay that lies 
 opposite to the ruined castle of Ardhonnel. It was a 
 glorious morning, and we sailed quite fast enough. 
 There is a time to be swift, and a time to be slow. 
 Across ploughed fields, the express from London to 
 Glasgow may go twice as fast as it does, and welcome, 
 — the faster the better; and over the Atlantic waste 
 the mighty steamers may traverse their twenty knots 
 an hour, without drawing forth any other feeling than 
 our most cordial admiration and good wishes. But 
 the traveller who truly understands the uses of the 
 world, only hurries over the dull desert that he may 
 linger in the fair oasis; and there are scenes which 
 excite in us no other desire than to behold them thus 
 forever. 
 
 We three, at least, were determined not to be hur- 
 ried. It is a notable fact that, on a certain day of 
 
9° 
 
 A Lake Voyage. 
 
 June, in the year of grace 1857, three Englishmen 
 were travelling in the Highlands at the rate of half a 
 mile an hour, and would not have thanked anybody to 
 get them forward a bit faster ; they were not tourists. 
 
 We three tortoises, then, or snails, or whatever you 
 like to call us, floated thus lazily into a great bay ; and 
 as the sun was by this time hot, we two younger ones 
 refreshed ourselves in the water, whilst Malcolm looked 
 on from the boat, and criticised our bad swimming. 
 After our bath, we resumed our attitude of profound 
 repose, and lay on the deck luxuriously, with our 
 heads on air-pillows and our bodies stretched on the 
 buffalo skin. My recollections of the rest of our 
 voyage are strangely confused and indistinct. I re- 
 member a ruined castle, ivy-clothed, on a beautiful 
 island. I remember the pale peaks of Cruachan ris- 
 ing far away in the sultry air ; and then the castle 
 changed as if by enchantment, and its broken battle- 
 ment assumed loftier proportions and a more fantastic 
 form : then I heard at intervals the music of ripples on 
 the boat's side, as if she danced before a freshening 
 breeze ; and there were intervals of absolute silence, 
 as if I had become suddenly deaf. And at last I heard 
 the ripple no more, and forgot all about the boat and 
 the lake, to dream of a garden at home in England 
 with six old yew trees and a sundial. 
 
 " Captain, I'm sorry to awake you, but I wish to 
 know whether we are to enter the harbor at Feord, or 
 to lie out for the night." 
 
 It was Malcolm's voice, and I awoke to find myself 
 in a scene quite new to me. During eight miles of our 
 voyage, Campbell and I had slept side by side like two 
 children, and Malcolm had been watching over us all 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 91 
 
 the time, and steering the boat patienly, though he had 
 not so much as dozed for sixty hours. It seemed as if 
 we had sailed into other, and to me unknown, waters ; 
 for the third reacli of Loch Awe is as distinct from the 
 second and first as if it w^ere another lake. We sailed 
 towards what seemed an iron-bound coast with smooth 
 precipices of rock enclosing a little bay. But in the 
 bay, behold a little narrow opening just wide enough 
 to admit the boat ; and through this strait between the 
 rocks we glided softly into the sweetest miniature lake 
 I ever saw, guarded all round by most picturesque 
 miniature mountains, and fed by a tiny stream. I 
 should never have suspected the existence of this ex- 
 quisite natural harbor, if Malcolm had not told me of 
 it before. 
 
 We selected, however, another bay for our bath ; 
 and as Campbell and I bathed together, the boat rode 
 at anchor, and Malcolm slept at last. After my bath 
 I lay reading on the deck, and fell asleep too. Shortly 
 after, Malcolm awoke me. 
 
 "Captain, what's to be done? This is not a good 
 anchorage, and a strong breeze is coming from the 
 east, which will be a gale o' wind at night. Look 
 how the sky is overcast already ; there is going to be 
 a great change in the weather." 
 
 I jumped to my feet at once, and saw the white, 
 waves up already. Even in our sheltered bay the boat 
 dashed and splashed, and tugged at the cable violently. 
 There was a total revolution in the weather. " We 
 must go back to the harbor, Mr. Malcolm, and at 
 once, or we shall not get through the strait without 
 danger." 
 
 So we double-reefed the sail, took off our shoes and 
 
9 2 
 
 A Lake Voyage. 
 
 stockings, rolled up our trousers, packed all the things 
 to secure them from the spray, weighed anchor, and 
 sailed into the white breakers. It was now dusk, and 
 I stood at the bows on the windward tube to act as 
 man on the look-out. Wave after wave came over the 
 tube, and I w T as often up to my knees in water ; but I 
 knew the boat, and trusted her. 
 
 Then we rushed forward to the gloomy precipices, 
 and it seemed in the twilight as if the wall of black 
 rock before us could afford no refuge. Any stranger 
 to the place would have thought we were rushing on 
 certain destruction. Our only chance of hitting the 
 entrance to the harbor, for it was already nearly dark, 
 was to keep quite close to the shore on our right, that 
 descended perpendicularly into the deep water, a tre- 
 mendous wall of solid rock, stained and polished as if 
 it had been built of black marble by an enchanter in 
 the Arabian Nights. So we darted swiftly between 
 the sombre portals, impelled by a howling gust, and in 
 a minute afterwards found ourselves floating on calm 
 water, in a little quiet lake, our speed decreasing as the 
 impetus died away. Then we dropped anchor and 
 arranged ourselves for the night, in some haste, for the 
 big drops were beginning to fall. 
 
 Now, the way we arranged matters was most equita- 
 ble and ingenious. The deck afforded a spacious bed, 
 big enough for three persons, and we gave the middle 
 place to Campbell, he being younger and more deli- 
 cately constituted than we were. I was enveloped in 
 a huge coat of sheepskin, that descended to the ankles, 
 and I wore on my head a seal-skin cap, with flaps tied 
 down over the ears by way of night-cap, and a pair of 
 seal-skin boots to keep my feet warm. I had supplied 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 93 
 
 Campbell with a costume exactly similar. Malcolm 
 had a seal-skin coat of his own, and huge knitted 
 stockings, that did just as well as our seal-skin boots. 
 These stockings were a valuable addition to the pic- 
 turesque of Malcolm's costume, being of a most bril- 
 liant red. 
 
 So we went to bed, not supperless. Our counter- 
 pane was quite water-proof, and we arranged water- 
 proof sheets over our heads in such a manner as to 
 protect both heads and pillows from the rain, without 
 in any way interfering with respiration. Sheltered 
 thus, we lay on the deck as snugly as possible, in a 
 state of comfort really wonderful when you consider 
 that a strong gale was blowing all the while from the 
 east, which entered our harbor in the form of violent 
 gusts from every point of the compass, and that the 
 rain was heavy and incessant the w T hole night long. 
 As for me, I slept so pleasantly, and felt so delightful- 
 ly warm and cosy in my seal-skin boots and night-cap 
 and my great sheepskin coat, that I was quite angry 
 with Malcolm when he disturbed me at five o'clock in 
 the morning. 
 
 u Captain, I say, captain, sorry to disturb you, as you 
 seem so comfortable, but I'll tell you what it is, I must 
 be put ashore." 
 
 " Confound you — ah, I beg your pardon, Mr. Mal- 
 colm : was it your voice I heard ? " 
 
 I opened my sleepy eyes, and a more pitiable yet 
 ludicrous sight they never beheld. There stood Mal- 
 colm in the cold light of early morning, drenched with 
 rain, and presenting an appearance so utterly forlorn 
 and miserable, that he might have made a guinea in an 
 hour or two as a street beggar, if he could have trans- 
 ported himself in that plight to the metropolis. 
 
94 
 
 A Lake Voyage. 
 
 He had slept comfortably enough during the night, 
 but, owing to some movement of his, the water-proof 
 counterpane had hollowed itself into a perfect cistern 
 or reservoir of water, and, another unlucky movement 
 having formed a fold in the counterpane which acted ad- 
 mirably as a conduit, the whole contents of the reservoir 
 had been precipitated upon Malcolm's neck, whence 
 its chilly stream penetrated to his body, and even to 
 his innermost apparel. Thus inundated, Malcolm had 
 endeavored to console himself philosophically with a 
 pipe, but his matches were wet too, and wouldn't burn ; 
 so he yielded to his fate, and prayed to be put ashore 
 that he might seek shelter from the bitter rain. I 
 argued that it was very comfortable where we were, 
 and preached resignation, being warm and dry myself, 
 just as Dives says Lazarus ought to be thankful for his 
 lot, and cheerful under it ; whereas God knows Dives 
 would be anything but patient if he had to take upon 
 himself the lot of Lazarus. At last we went ashore, 
 and walked on to a little Highland village, where we 
 found an inn. 
 
 In ten minutes after our arrival, there was Malcolm 
 all right again, and merry as good-humor could make 
 him. I rather suspected the reason, when a particu- 
 larly pretty Highland girl came into the room to light 
 a fire for us. She was willing to learn the art of cook- 
 ery, and our excellent chef most kindly undertook to 
 be her instructor. And this it was which produced 
 those beaming smiles of satisfaction on good Mr. Mal- 
 colm's face ! Such is the power of benevolence, that 
 the mere hope of communicating to a poor fellow- 
 creature instruction of a nature calculated to mitigate 
 the hardships of her lot is sufficient, as we see, to 
 
JLog of the u J3ritannia" 
 
 95 
 
 shed a pleasing radiance on the countenance in cir- 
 cumstances the reverse of luxurious ! 
 
 We had a capital breakfast of ham and eggs ; and 
 when Malcolm saw that there were only a dozen eggs 
 in the dish, he requested our fair waiter, in the most 
 polite and charming manner, to fry a few more im- 
 mediately. I must confess I felt a little ashamed of 
 Malcolm and his appetite, but without reason ; for he 
 soon ingratiated himself so well with every inhabitant 
 of the inn, that I believe he might have staid there a 
 week for nothing, notwithstanding his appetite. 
 
 It was really delightful to see our friend's happiness ; 
 how he enjoyed his mighty breakfast, and his pipe 
 after it, and how he chatted with the innkeeper and 
 the old mother in the chimney-corner, and the pretty 
 serving-maid. 
 
 At last we decided, in spite of the gale, to try to 
 beat against it as far as the next inn, at any rate, 
 which would be eight miles nearer home. We got 
 out of the harbor, and, under a double-reefed sail, did 
 beat to windward for a while ; but Malcolm was at the 
 helm, and I fancy he regretted the black eyes of his 
 pupil at the inn, for the boat did not sail so near the 
 wind as usual, and we decided to return and wait 
 twenty-four hours for a change of weather. 
 
 On our return, the most important question was, 
 what we were to have for dinner. Our experienced 
 chef charged himself with the organization of this 
 repast. At the mention of dinner, the Highlanders 
 seemed, as usual, much astonished ; for dining is a 
 habit by no means universal, and, like many other 
 southern usages, has as yet acquired but an uncertain 
 footing in the north. It seemed, however, to Mai- 
 
9 6 
 
 A Lake Voyage, 
 
 colm, very much to be regretted that so excellent a 
 custom should be here comparatively unknown, and 
 he busied himself in the kitchen with the instruction 
 of the beautiful maiden in the elements of culinary 
 science. Two or three unlucky chickens were run- 
 ning about before the door, whose lives he ruthlessly 
 sacrificed, and then proceeded with an unheard-of 
 quantity of eggs to make us a capital pudding. Add 
 to this ham and potatoes, and it will be evident that 
 we had as good a dinner as any traveller need 
 wish for. 
 
 After dinner came grog and tobacco ; for were we 
 not sailors in an inn? and who shall forbid us the 
 sailor's luxuries? And so we three sat pleasantly by 
 the great peat-fire whilst the tempest howled outside, 
 and were as merry as if we had been staying there of 
 our own free will. I can't say much for our beds, 
 because, though not proud, I confess to a certain 
 degree of daintiness as to my bedding. I like sheets, 
 for instance, and clean ones, and I don't like dirty 
 blankets, wherein Highland drovers have preceded 
 me. Now, there were no sheets whatever on our 
 beds, and as to the blankets — but these are not 
 agreeable reminiscences. 
 
 The next morning we quitted the inn, and the land- 
 lord, according to the courteous old Highland custom, 
 gave us each a glass of whiskey for nothing after the 
 bill was paid, and then walked with us down to the 
 boat. How astonished he was ! " Never was the 
 like seen on this loch ; she was a wonderful boat ; 
 them that made her was surely clever — they had 
 great schooling." 
 
 The wind was dead against us, and quite strong 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 97 
 
 enough to be agreeable. The waves were five feet 
 high, which indicates rough weather on a narrow, 
 land-locked sheet of water. We packed everything 
 with great care in the water-proof sheets, and laid all 
 the luggage in the middle of the deck, binding it 
 down with cords. Then we pulled through the little 
 strait, and ten minutes afterw T ards were beating to 
 windward. The landlord and a friend of his followed 
 along the shore, watching us with fear and wonder ; 
 for a true mountaineer dreads water, and the art of 
 sailing against the wind is ever to him an incom- 
 prehensible mystery. 
 
 For eight miles w T e worked thus in the teeth of the 
 wind, and so got to Port Inisherrich. Malcolm looked 
 forlorn as he stepped ashore. He had been sitting 
 barefooted in the stern of the boat in his white sailor's 
 trousers ; and now the trousers, which were w r et with 
 rain and spray, clung to his manly limbs, and our 
 friend resembled exactly a professional London men- 
 dicant in the character of a shipwrecked mariner. 
 Malcolm had but that one pair of trousers on board 
 our craft ; so, in order to dry them, it was necessary 
 that he should submit his person to the process of 
 roasting. There being an excellent fire in the kitchen 
 at Port Inisherrich, he took his station before it, and 
 bore with great courage the inevitable torture. It is, 
 in truth, a most uncomfortable way of procuring 
 one's self the luxury of a dry seat. When the evapora- 
 tion begins, one experiences sensations of an alarming 
 character ; yet so mixed, that it would be difficult to 
 analyze them satisfactorily. As to prudence, when 
 the caloric imparted to the person by the fire is in ex- 
 cess of that which is carried off by evaporation, there 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 A Lake Voyage. 
 
 is not the slightest danger to be apprehended. When 
 Malcolm's trousers ceased to steam, and the fine 
 sculpture of his legs was no longer visible, his spirits 
 rose rapidly to their usual degree of good humor ; 
 and having replenished the inevitable pipe, he took 
 his old station at the helm, and we again set sail. 
 
 It was now late in the afternoon, and the wind 
 had fallen. Still, a light breeze blew sufficiently in 
 our favor to allow us to hold our course ; but at night 
 this also fell, and we passed the whole night on 
 board, steering and sleeping by turns, except when 
 we rowed occasionally to get an offing to catch some 
 transient breath. 
 
 In all that night we only made eight miles, for the 
 sun rose as we reached Port Sonachan. And a more 
 magnificent sunrise I never saw. Slowly the dawn 
 came in the east, and gradually the sky brightened ; 
 then suddenly a flood of light illumined every crag 
 and mound on the hills, every tree in the forest, every 
 tuft of grass on the sloping pastures. 
 
 We floated in a glassy calm. Malcolm lay on the 
 deck with his face turned westwards. I was sitting at 
 the stern, looking to the east. 
 
 " There is a delightful breeze in our favor," said 
 Malcolm ; " it is coming up from the west." 
 
 " And there is a tremendous wind against us," I 
 answered ; " it is coming down from the east." 
 
 We were both right. We looked westwards, and 
 saw a steady ripple advancing towards us ; we looked 
 eastwards, and the white waves were foaming under 
 a violent east wind. We ourselves lay becalmed in 
 a neutral sheet of glassy water that separated the 
 hostile winds. 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 99 
 
 The west wind came up quickly and filled our sail. 
 The east wind came down and met the west wind* 
 Our sail flapped and shivered as the two winds strug- 
 gled for the mastery, and then strained tight under 
 the pressure of the conqueror. 
 
 So it was the old story, and we were again beating 
 against a foul wind. Malcolm lay fast asleep on the 
 deck, weary of watching ; and as for Campbell — but 
 to explain the peculiar precariousness of his position, 
 I must revert to the construction of my boat. 
 
 She has four rowlocks, two on each side. Com- 
 monly, she carries only two oars. The rowlocks 
 revolve in iron sockets which stand on the gunwales. 
 The boat has no bulwark, except a little one three 
 inches high, because bulwarks are an impediment to 
 sailing ; but when we are not rowing, the oars rest 
 in these revolving rowlocks, parallel with the keels, 
 and so serve the purpose of rails. It was on one 
 of these oars that Mr. Campbell took his seat ; and 
 I observed with alarm that occasionally, when we 
 fell into the trough of the sea, Mr. Campbell was 
 within a very little of falling backwards into the 
 water. He was fast asleep. So, as I did not consider 
 a boat's rail on a rough day the best seat for a sleeper, 
 I made my friend lie down on the deck, and did all 
 the work of the boat. 
 
 Malcolm awoke soon after, and we beat up to the 
 green island ; and Malcolm was cunning enough to 
 sound the trumpet, under pretext of explaining to me 
 the mechanism of the instrument, but in reality to 
 warn Thursday of our arrival, that he might make 
 culinary preparations for our reception. And then 
 we breakfasted in the most copious manner on the 
 
IOO 
 
 A Lake Voyage. 
 
 grass under the shadow of the tents, and after break- 
 fast fell fast asleep, all three of us, then and there. 
 
 As for Thursday, he had lived alone in the island 
 during these days and nights, sleeping with no other 
 neighbors than those silent ones, the dead people in 
 the graves ; yet we found him in health and safety, 
 and mental calm, with hair unblanched by fear. 
 
IOI 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE LOG OF THE 
 " BRITANNIA." 
 
 AS the reader will propably be troubled with a 
 good deal about sailing in the course of the 
 present work, the author has mercifully decided to 
 spare him for the present, when treating of that sub- 
 ject, a minuteness of detail which would be likely to 
 prove monotonous. It is very possible that the reader 
 regards all boats with dislike or fear — as murderous 
 inventions for the destruction of human life ; or with 
 indifference — as things which do not concern him ; 
 or with contempt — as toys : and a person who does 
 not look upon them with quite other feelings than 
 these would never hear with patience those endless 
 histories of alternate storm and sunshine, foul and fair 
 wind, which possess so inexhaustible an attraction for 
 better-constituted minds. 
 
 So I propose to myself in this chapter to conclude 
 what I have to say of the " Britannia ; " to give some 
 further account of her voyages, and to state fairly the 
 qualities and defects which frequent trials have dis- 
 covered in her. 
 
 I have planned a tent for the deck. This gives 
 more comfortable accommodation on a wet night than 
 Malcolm enjoyed, when, as narrated in the preceding 
 chapter, the rain-water ran down his neck. I extract 
 
102 
 
 Further Extracts from tfa 
 
 from the log the following account of a night passed 
 under this new tent : — 
 
 " In the little basin at Feord, which we entered at 
 nightfall, we cast anchor at once, without landing, and 
 Thursday soon erected his new boat-tent, which I 
 found to be a decided improvement on the former 
 open-air arrangement. There was room in it for two 
 persons in a sitting or recumbent posture ; and I re- 
 joiced, on entering this hospitable pavilion, to dis- 
 cover that Thursday had spread the deck with India- 
 rubber cloth, and had laid over that several strata of 
 dry carpet and skins of beasts, so that, propped up by 
 air-pillows at the end of the tent, which lay to the 
 head of the boat, I reclined luxuriously like a Turk, 
 and dined in great state, being w r aited upon by Thurs- 
 day on his knees. A regard for veracity compels me, 
 however, to observe that these genuflections are not to 
 be understood as a proof of humility on the part of 
 Thursday, nor of inordinate pride on mine, since they 
 arose simply from the deficient height of the dining 
 apartment, which necessitated this abridgment of my 
 domestic's person. After we had both dined, Thurs- 
 day, whom I had taught to read, lay at a distance as 
 respectful as the narrow limits of our lodging per- 
 mitted, and was soon absorbed in the surprising ad- 
 ventures of Robinson Crusoe, which for him, enviable 
 student ! still possessed the first charms of novelty. 
 His master, however, less intellectually inclined, 
 lighted his evening pipe, whose incense-cloud crept to 
 the roof of the tent like a wreath of mist, and thus 
 escaped at the open end at the stern. Then, when 
 the last fibre of tobacco in the bowl of my brown meer- 
 schaum was turned to pale dust, and the history of 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 Robinson Crusoe had no longer power to keep poor 
 Thursday's eyelids from falling, I told him to make 
 my bed, and turned in and fell asleep at once to a 
 strange lullaby of pattering rain-drops and wailing 
 w r inds, and so never stirred till Thursday awoke me 
 in the morning, and the bright sunshine streamed in 
 at the open end of the tent." 
 
 There is a great advantage in a boat-tent which no 
 land-tent can ever possess. It is possible in any boat- 
 tent to combine narrowness of dimension with an 
 abundant supply of air. This may be done by simply 
 leaving that end of the tent quite open which is at the 
 stern of the boat. No matter how the wind changes 
 during the night, the boat will always keep her head 
 to it, and therefore neither wind nor rain will ever 
 enter the open end ; but the foul air is sure to escape 
 as fast as it is generated by running along the roof 
 (just as the tobacco smoke did), and as fast as it es- 
 capes, its place is supplied by fresh air from without. 
 Often that evening in one quarter of an hour the 
 wind would come from every point of the compass ; 
 but the boat swung round and round, and always kept 
 the closed end of the tent to windward. 
 
 Being occupied with my drawing the next morning, 
 it was after one P. M . when I left the bay. I may 
 remind the reader that this bay is at the w r estern ex- 
 tremity of Loch Awe. We left it with a fair wind, 
 sailing through the narrow channel that unites it to 
 the great lake, and then, without a minute's pause or 
 interruption, the same fair wind wafted us up to the 
 River Orchay at the other extremity — a magnificent 
 and memorable voyage on a sunny inland sea as long 
 as Windermere and Ullswater put together. 
 
Further Extracts from the 
 
 It was the perfection of fresh-water sailing. There 
 I lay, hour after hour, in one long trance of tranquil 
 happiness, two instincts strong in me from childhood, 
 the love of landscape and the love of boating, feasted 
 and gratified to the utmost. 
 
 We passed the castle of the Black Knight. We 
 passed the Isle of Erreth, the isle of tombs. We passed 
 the castle Ardhonnel, first nest of feudal Argyll. We 
 heard the roar of Blairgower, where the stream plunges 
 into its deep abyss. We watched the magnificent 
 range of Cruachan, forming the background to an 
 infinite succession of wonderful natural pictures. And 
 all this time the sky above was blue and bright, with 
 only a few white clouds sailing majestically before the 
 wind, and the broad waters, of a yet deeper blue, were 
 broken only by such laughing waves of summer as 
 dance about the golden bark and bear the beautiful 
 swimmers, in Etty's poem of Pleasure. 
 
 Thus, without haste or effort, but serenely as the 
 white clouds above us, the white sail of the " Britan- 
 nia," curved by the constant breeze, drew us with a 
 gentle, luxurious motion through twenty miles of the 
 fairest scenery in Europe. It was nearly sunset when 
 we passed through the narrow strait that separates the 
 Black Islands, then we glided swiftly along the green 
 coast of Inishail, passed the beautiful Fraoch Elan, 
 famous as the enchanted Hesperides of the Highlands, 
 shrouding in thick growth of wood the remains of a 
 little castle whose lords were most chivalrous gentle- 
 men, and whose guests were anointed kings. Then 
 we sailed where the lake is dark and deep, under the 
 shadow of those frowning hills which had shown so 
 pale from afar in the morning. And so we held our 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 way towards Kilchurn, and then into the stream of 
 the Orchay, where we furled sail and cast anchor. 
 
 Thursday erected the boat-tent which had served us 
 so well the preceding night at the other end of the 
 lake, and I was examining the contents of the provis- 
 ion box with a view to supper, when a friendly voice 
 hailed me from the river side ; and, looking up, I rec- 
 ognized my friend the doctor, who invited me to land 
 and spend the evening with him. The doctor had 
 rooms in a comfortable farm-house close at hand ; so 
 we spent a merry evening together, Thursday all the 
 time being under the boat-tent, absorbed in the study 
 of the provision box and the adventures of Robinson 
 Crusoe. Late at night I went on board to sleep, the 
 doctor having pressed me in vain to accept a bed. 
 What did / want with a bed, with so noble a yacht at 
 anchor in the river? 
 
 It is singular that, though everybody has been find- 
 ing fault with the " Britannia" ever since she was 
 built, no one ever finds out her real faults. In kind- 
 ness to these people I here propose to point them out. 
 
 The greatest fault is want of sufficient bulk and 
 buoyancy in the tubes. An enormous reserve of float- 
 ing power is essential in a double boat. For want of 
 it, the " Britannia," in heavy squalls, submerges her 
 lee tube when there is any burden on her. She is, 
 therefore, not fit to carry heavy luggage in rough 
 weather. This want of buoyancy is a great fault. 
 
 Proofs of this have only been too frequent since my 
 arrival here ; for instance, in the following extracts 
 from her log : — 
 
 " We had to beat against a stormy wind in thick, 
 blinding rain from the River Orchay to the Bay of In- 
 
io6 
 
 Further Extracts from the 
 
 nistrynich. Though we sailed under double reefs, the 
 wind was yet violent enough to snap a strong sheet 
 like packthread, and if a snug little bay had not been 
 close at hand we should have lost way whilst replacing 
 it. The waves were high and fierce, with white crests 
 that the gale carried off in a fog of spray. The spray 
 and rain together concealed at times the shores of the 
 loch, so that it seemed as if we were out at sea, far 
 from the land. A heavy squall caught us once, and 
 buried the lee tube entirely, I was up to my knees 
 in water, and the baggage was floating about the 
 deck ; but the good boat rose again immediately, the 
 deck cleared itself of water, and yet we had never to 
 trouble ourselves with baling. In a common open 
 boat, after shipping a sea like that, a desperate contest 
 would have begun immediately between Thursday, 
 armed with the orthodox tin can, and an endless suc- 
 cession of breakers." 
 
 Here is another extract. It describes my removal 
 from the Island of Inishail. 
 
 " In crossing the lake with the 'Britannia' laden 
 to the water's edge, we found ourselves in rather an 
 unpleasant predicament. The walls and floors of the 
 encampment, piled upon the deck, raised us high 
 above it. The sail was doubled-reefed, and the tiller- 
 ropes exceedingly inconvenient to work. The novelty 
 of finding one's self raised up to so lofty a position above 
 the water had a certain charm, and I was expatiating 
 to Thursday on the desirableness of having a deck at 
 the height of the floor we were standing upon, with a 
 snug little cabin under it, when a tremendous squall, 
 from which there was no escape whatever (for we 
 were in the very middle of the lake), came whitening 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 the waves to the eastward. I tried to get the sail low- 
 ered, but there was no way of doing it without cutting 
 the halyard, because the winch was hidden under a 
 quantity of luggage ; so I determined to let the squall 
 do its worst, and leave the sail to shiver in the wind. 
 It was very soon upon us, aizd drove the whole of the 
 lee tube deep under water; indeed, the whole boat 
 ntshed under water, six feet of her leitgth beiivg 
 invisible under a boiling surge, I expected every- 
 thing to be washed off the deck, ourselves included ; 
 but managed to bring her up to the wind, when the 
 bows rose, and shortly afterwards the squall abated. 
 We had passed a cord or two over the cargo, which 
 probably saved it from being washed away. Of course 
 the boat was none the worse for having been under 
 water, as not a drop could ever enter." 
 
 Another fault, also due to want of buoyancy and 
 height in the tubes, is the comparative ease with which 
 the " Britannia's " bows may be forced under water 
 when going before the wind. Often, when sailing 
 before a violent wind, I have let it force three or four 
 feet of her length under water. No real harm comes 
 of this, except that it stops speed, and wets the passen- 
 gers with showers of spray. This is disagreeable, but 
 not dangerous. In common boats, this vice is often 
 the cause of fatal accidents. A yacht on Derwent- 
 water, over-masted, went down head foremost in this 
 way, and those on board were drowned. 
 
 As a piece of construction, another glaring fault of 
 the u Britannia " is, that she is two whole boats joined 
 together by beams, and not two half boats. This de- 
 fect I owe to the South Sea models in the Louvre, and 
 therefore it is none of mine, though I had no business 
 
io8 
 
 FurtJier Extracts from the 
 
 to imitate it. It is indeed a very great defect, and the 
 usual ingenuity of the savages failed them entirely 
 here, or they would have found this out by experience, 
 and discovered the remedy. In every double boat the 
 inner sides ought to be smooth and straight from end 
 to end. If you choke up the channel with bulging 
 forms inside, your boat can never attain high speed. 
 The " Britannia " only sails six knots an hour at best. 
 When I study the currents and eddies produced be- 
 tween the tubes at five or six miles an hour, I see that 
 her wedge-shaped bows drive two currents of water 
 inwards, which meet each other like the two lines in 
 the capital letter V. Where they meet they have to 
 rise into a wave, because at that point the channel be- 
 tween the tubes is exactly a foot narrower than it is at 
 the cutwater. This wave is maintained nearly at its 
 first height till the tube begins to narrow again to- 
 wards the stern, and the force expended in raising this 
 weight of water is of course deducted from the speed 
 of the boat. 
 
 Again, in the construction of a double boat, as much 
 attention ought to be given to her lines as if she were 
 a single one. We have all gone wrong hitherto in 
 this respect. The South Sea savages were wrong 
 with their straight-sided, double canoes,* and straight 
 
 * In the old quarto edition of Captain Cook's Voyages, 
 which I have at hand, I find elaborate drawings of the South 
 Sea double canoe, with plans and sections; and in all these 
 drawings the sides of the canoe are parallel, except at the ex- 
 tremities. In the Louvre, however, the lines of one or two 
 models of double canoes are almost as good as those of a 
 Venetian gondola. The balancing-logs, though, are merely 
 logs of timber pointed at the ends, as one cuts a common lead 
 pencil. 
 
Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 109 
 
 balancing-logs. Mr. Richardson was wrong with his 
 straight-sided, round, iron tubes, and I was wrong 
 with my straight-sided boat-shaped pontoons. 
 
 Now, when I indicate these faults, I know before- 
 hand that all those kind friends who were always 
 finding imaginary defects, but lacked the wit or dis- 
 cernment to discover the real ones, will cry out 
 together, u We told you so ! " Pardon me, good 
 friends, you did not tell me so. You told me the boat 
 would sink, and it has not sunk ; you said the tubes 
 w T ould be torn asunder — they are as stiff and firm as 
 ever, bound tightly to their strong beams ; you told 
 me the boat would be capsized, and she has not been 
 capsized ; you said she would never sail to windward, 
 and I have sailed against a gale from one end of Loch 
 Awe to the other. Of all your idle predictions, not 
 o7te has been verified. And now, when I tell other 
 and more intelligent readers of real faults, in order 
 that future constructors may avail themselves of my 
 experiments, do not pretend you knew them before. 
 You had all the will to discover defects, and all the 
 desire to make predictions of disaster which might be 
 fulfilled, but you lacked the sense to see the really 
 weak points, and the foresight to prophesy the degree 
 and kind of failure. 
 
 As to safety, the object I proposed to myself, I have 
 succeeded completely. The boat is safe to that degree 
 that any one who has been accustomed to her is un- 
 fitted for all common boats ever after. I have got so 
 used to carrying canvas in all weathers, that hence- 
 forth I feel myself disqualified for all other craft. I 
 have lost that wakeful apprehension of possible danger 
 which is so essential to a yachtsman. Safety breeds 
 
no 
 
 Log of the "Britannia" 
 
 carelessness. But are we to place our lives volunta- 
 rily in constant jeopardy that we may not grow care- 
 less ? Is not careless safety better than careful peril ? 
 I would rather sing merrily at the helm, when the 
 storm is raging, than count in anxious silence the 
 chances of Life or Death. 
 
Ill 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A FRIEND IN THE DESERT. 
 
 MALCOLM is not the only person who has visited 
 the camp. Lonely as I am, I have friends and 
 visitors. These visitors are of all sorts, from the peer- 
 age down to absolute pauperism. 
 
 One day, on the island, an old man of eighty came 
 to see me. I knew him here several years ago.^ He 
 is not very rich ; indeed, some people might find 
 it difficult to live on his income, w r hich does not 
 exceed threepence-halfpenny a day. He is a house- 
 holder, but his household is limited to himself ; and 
 his house is worth, as it stands, from three to five 
 pounds, exclusive of the site. A house worth five 
 pounds, and an income of threepence-halfpenny a 
 day, not a soul to help one, and the burden of eighty- 
 two years on one's back ! Somewhat meagre materials 
 for happiness, these. 
 
 The people say he seeks me from selfish motives ; 
 that because I rendered him a little service years ago, 
 he thinks I may do as much to-day or to-morrow. 
 Well, and if a little self-interest does urge his old tot- 
 tering limbs to the camp, what harm is done ? Is poor 
 old Duncan the only person in this world who keeps 
 up an acquaintance which is likely to be advantageous 
 to him? I think I know others who have not the 
 same excuse of iron necessity, and who yet pay court 
 
112 
 
 A Friend in the Desert. 
 
 to more powerful men, with more of slavish syco- 
 phancy than this poor simple old peasant is capable 
 of. His little wiles are so plain and on the surface, I 
 can read them all beforehand, so that there is really 
 no deceit. He knows that I know what he wants. 
 It is all quite straightforward between us. He comes 
 to me, to the camp, and he gets a cup of hot tea or 
 coffee, — beverages rare to him, and precious as the 
 nectar of the gods, — and while he drinks his coffee, he 
 enjoys a conversation in which he finds endless novel- 
 ty, and a pleasant stimulus to an aged but by no 
 means worn-out brain, which still retains its appetite 
 for information. And then he knows that when he 
 goes away there will be a silver shilling in his pocket 
 that was not there when he came. And with all these 
 inducements, is it not rather a proof of great delicacy 
 in my poor neighbor not to come ten times oftener? 
 He was with me a few days ago, and I know he will 
 not come near me again for six weeks, unless I send 
 for him. And what sort of a life will he have of it in 
 the mean time? In the morning, when he awakes in 
 that little damp cottage by the stream, who lights the 
 old fellow's fire? w r ho gets him his breakfast? If you, 
 Mr. Dives, who read this somewhat unsympathetically, 
 — if you live to fourscore years, you will be petted 
 and nursed like a new-born babe. Petted and nursed 
 you entered upon life, nursed and petted you will go 
 out from it. If your lordship's little finger should 
 happen to ache when it shall be venerable with the 
 wrinkles of four fifths of a century, respectful envoys 
 will come galloping on swift steeds from distant castles 
 and halls, to express the deep interest and anxiety of 
 their several masters in the well-being of that impor- 
 
A Friend in the Desert. 113 
 
 tant member of your lordship's person. A maiden, 
 swift and silent in all her movements, shall light your 
 fire whilst you are yet in unconscious sleep in the 
 great, curtained, tented bed. Kind eyes of son or 
 daughter shall watch for your waking, and your 
 wrinkled yellow forehead shall be kissed, let us hope, 
 with true affection, by children whom poverty does 
 not detain far away at relentless labors. Then, when 
 the bright fire is burning in the grate, and the lofty 
 chamber is gay with sunshine, you shall be lifted by 
 strong yet gentle arms out of that soft recess of sleep, 
 and washed and swathed and brushed and combed 
 till you revel in that delightful cleanliness which has 
 nothing to do with godliness, but is the most precious 
 result of wealth. And then your easy chair shall be 
 wheeled over the velvet floors into another atmos- 
 phere, fresh, fragrant, pure, yet warm and genial as 
 summer ; and there shall you be read to, or talked to, 
 all day long, as you will. And, lest your strength fail, 
 there shall be delicate dishes provided for its continual 
 restoration, and the most precious juices of the grape 
 shall fire your thin blood with their sweet stimulus. 
 O Dives, Dives ! not thus is your poor brother at- 
 tended at his levee. 
 
 When he wakes, what then? There is not a soul 
 to help him. He is eighty years old, remember; and 
 at that age one may chance to feel a little tired or 
 faint in the morning. And then the fire, is it alive yet 
 under the heap of ashes, or has it gone out? That is 
 a serious question, especially in winter frost. Well, 
 by chance there is a smouldering yet in the ashy peats. 
 And now for the breakfast. The old man dresses 
 himself with trembling hands. Perhaps he is not over 
 8 
 
ii4 
 
 A Friend in the Desert. 
 
 cleanly. Perhaps he does not take a cold bath from 
 head to foot every morning as you do ; but, in truth, 
 his circumstances are not so favorable to that health- 
 giving observance as yours are, my dear sir. He 
 would have to fetch the water from the stream, and 
 then, where is the sponge-bath to come from? Would 
 you have him flood his clay floor, and make a puddle 
 of it? And then, dirt is a garment, and poor folks, 
 when they are prudent, don't like to throw it aside 
 until they can afford to buy another to supply its 
 place. So I dare say, on the whole, my friend dis- 
 penses with the rite of ablution. He is not a Mahom- 
 etan Turk, you see, but a Scot and a Christian ; so 
 washing is not amongst his religious duties. 
 
 Yet he will say his prayers and read his chapter in 
 the old Bible, if, perchance, this time he find his spec- 
 tacles. And as for the wants of his body, there will 
 at least be none of that hesitation in the choice of 
 dishes which may perplex your old stomach, Mr. 
 Dives ; for if you would live on threepence-halfpenny 
 a day in the Highlands of Scotland, there is only one 
 thing for you, and that is oatmeal. Water, of course, 
 you may have (of a brown color), for the trouble of 
 fetching it ; and, as salt is cheap, you may salt your 
 porridge ; but to porridge you are bound irrevocably. 
 Porridge three times a day for a year makes a thou- 
 sand repasts, all porridge ! Old Duncan thanks God 
 humbly and sincerely for his eighty-thousandth basin 
 of that delectable aliment, and sits down on the untidy 
 bed with his old brown Bible. 
 
 Now, porridge, as I take it, is not a bad thing occa- 
 sionally, with plenty of thick cream ; though, for my 
 own individual organization, I find it rather too heat- 
 
A Friend in the Desert. 
 
 "5 
 
 ing, and not supporting enough to do hard work upon ; 
 yet the most fervent believer in the virtues of that 
 over-extolled mess, oatmeal porridge, would, I fancy, 
 demur to eighty thousand repetitions of it. One could 
 smoke eighty thousand good cigars, if one had a long 
 life to do it in ; but eighty thousand messes of oat- 
 meal porridge — a southern stomach sickens at the 
 thought ! 
 
 And if that judicious old Duncan prefers what he 
 gets here to that eternal porridge, little do I blame 
 him. On the contrary, I applaud his taste and dis- 
 cernment. And if I fancy that he may relish my 
 society as much as the society of his clock, I hope I 
 do not flatter myself unwarrantably. My talk may 
 not always be very wise or very good talk, but there 
 is, at any rate, more variety in it than in the monoto- 
 nous tick-tack of an old cheap clock. But I declare 
 we get positively intellectual together sometimes, Dun- 
 can and I. We talk about London, and the electric 
 telegraph, and the Leviathan, and Louis Napoleon, 
 and other vast and mighty subjects. I believe my con- 
 versations with my old pauper friend are a great deal 
 more interesting than much of the talk I have had to 
 do at rich men's feasts. Here is a specimen of it. I 
 do not pretend that we, either of us, threw any very 
 bright or novel light on the subjects we touched upon, 
 but we were both in earnest ; he entirely interested in 
 the talk, and I in him. 
 
 Fancy the Isle of Inishail on a glorious summer's 
 day, the camp upon it, white and brilliant ; on the 
 green grass in front of the tent a gray-headed High- 
 lander and a young Englishman sipping their coffee 
 together ; Mr. Thursday standing a little way off, 
 
Ii6 A Friend in tJie Desert. 
 
 astonished and scandalized at so unwarrantable a 
 degree of friendliness towards a ragged old fellow, 
 living on public charity — "a regular common beg- 
 gar, for he's naut else." 
 
 Duncan. — Well, sir, and they're sayin' noo that 
 London's an awfu' big toon ; noo, is it as big as 
 Glasco'? 
 
 The Author. — Yes, it's six times as big as 
 Glasgow. 
 
 Duncan. — Sax times as big as Glasco' ; gosh me ! 
 what a fearfu' place ! And they're sayin' that there's 
 a deal o' money in London, and all these rich English 
 shentlemen come frae London, and I'm thinkin' it must 
 be a ter'ble rich place. Mr. Cool, and Mr. Smith, and 
 the Capt'n that was with them, came frae London, and 
 I hae the address o' Mr. Smith's hoose, that he gave 
 me, ye see, and I wrote tull him wi' my ain hand, and 
 I'm eighty-two years of age. 
 
 The Author. — Yes, you write uncommonly well 
 for your age. I've seldom seen a clearer hand. 
 
 Duncan. — An' please, Mr. Hamerton, can ye tell 
 me noo, if it's true what they're sayin', that the letters 
 are goin' frae Glasco' to London in one nicht. They're 
 sayin' that it's the railway that takes them. 
 
 The Author. — Yes, it's quite true. I've come 
 from London to Glasgow myself in one night, in the 
 same train with the letters. 
 
 Duncan. — It's fearfu' fast, gosh me, gosh me ! An' is 
 it true that they've a way o' sendin' word by long wires 
 that reach frae Glasco' to London? They're sayin' 
 that they're sending word by wires instead o' letters. 
 
 The Author. — Yes, you mean the telegraph. It's 
 
A Friend in the Desert. 
 
 117 
 
 quite true. But Fm afraid I cannot make you under- 
 stand it very well ; indeed, nobody quite understands 
 it. They know enough about it to make it act, but 
 not enough to give good reasons why it acts. The 
 news is sent, as you know already, by means of 
 wires. 
 
 Duncan {with eagerness). — An' please, Mr. Ham- 
 erton, can it go fast, the word that they're sendin' by 
 the wires? 
 
 The Author. — Yes, very fast indeed ; a great deal 
 faster than your letter to Mr. Smith, and that, you 
 know, went from Glasgow to London in twelve hours. 
 
 Duncan. — Gosh me, gosh me ! they hae great 
 schoolin\ Gosh me ! faster than my letter to Mr. 
 Smith, that went frae Glasco' to London in twelve 
 hoors ! 
 
 The Author. — Yes, ten times as fast — twenty 
 times as fast — a hundred times as fast ! 
 
 Duncan {astomtded) . — A hunder times as fast! 
 Gosh me ! gosh me ! it flies on the wings o' the 
 wind ! 
 
 The Author. —Yes, you may say so; only the 
 wind does not go half as fast. I've sent messages 
 myself that have gone hundreds of miles between two 
 ticks of your clock at home. The messages go so fast 
 that it really takes no time at all. 
 
 Duncan. — Gosh me ! and they didna ken hoo it 
 flies, and it flies sae fast ! And does the word come 
 right as ye sent it ? 
 
 The Author. — Yes, yes, just as if you wrote it in 
 a letter. 
 
 Duncan. — An' please, Mr. Hamerton, is it true 
 what they're savin', that the Emperor o' France is 
 
n8 A Friend in tJie Desert. 
 
 goin' to make war against Scotland? And has he as 
 large an army as they're tellin' ? 
 
 The Author. — He has a very large army indeed, 
 but I don't think it likely that we shall be troubled 
 with it over here. 
 
 From the Emperor of France, Duncan naturally 
 diverged to the Queen of England ; and after various 
 minute inquiries respecting her Majesty's personal 
 appearance, the number of her children, the size of 
 her establishment, and the extent of her revenues, we 
 got somehow to Balmoral, and thence to the subject 
 of English visitors to Scotland in general, when I 
 asked Duncan what he thought of my tents. Duncan, 
 w T ith much tact, replied that he had a great respect for 
 tents and for them who dwelt in them ; and when I 
 demanded, in some surprise, the reason for so unusual m 
 a sentiment, he answered, " Because the Scriptur' says 
 that Abraham dwelt in a tent." 
 
II 9 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR IN PARIS TO A FRIEND 
 OF HIS IN LANCASHIRE. 
 
 Hotel du Louvre, Paris. 
 
 MY dear : Why I should write to you 
 from Paris apropos of my camp in the High- 
 lands you will learn in the sequel, if you will have a 
 little patience. 
 
 I have an anecdote to tell you of something w r hich 
 amused me very much yesterday. I often dine at the 
 table d'hote in the hotel here. Yesterday, during 
 dinner, I thought I recognized a middle-aged bachelor 
 whom I saw at the camp last year under rather pecu- 
 liar circumstances. He was sitting a long way off, 
 and at another table. You know that immense dining- 
 room, so like one of the big saloons in the French 
 palaces, and you may easily understand that without a 
 telescope it is by no means easy to recognize an ac- 
 quaintance across a parquet broader than many a 
 French estate. 
 
 After dinner I got into conversation with two or 
 three French gentlemen in the coffee-room, and as we 
 were smoking our cigars, I found out that my middle- 
 aged Englishman was in the same room, looking very 
 hard at me indeed. Then he came quite close to me, 
 that he might listen to my French, and get to know 
 whether I were an Englishman or not. I knew he 
 
120 
 
 A Letter from the Author in Paris 
 
 could not find me out ; English people never can un- 
 less I choose to let them, and so I went on with some 
 story I was telling without apparently paying the 
 slightest attention to my English friend, being too 
 much amused with the idea that I was puzzling him ; 
 but not having any desire whatever to cut his ac- 
 quaintance, which I meant to resume when it suited 
 me. At last our little knot broke up, and I was left 
 alone with the Moniteur and the Times on the table, 
 a little porcelain dish of lucifer-matches, and my 
 porcelain cigar tray, in which still lay, temptingly, a 
 fresh cigar. In lighting this I felt that I was very 
 keenly observed, and so took care to choose the 
 Mo7titeur, casting a glance only at the Tunes. My 
 English friend came and took the Times, then sat 
 down and looked at me over it, shielding himself 
 from time to time behind his newspaper. At last, 
 after a hearty stare of full five minutes, which I bore 
 like an Emperor without wincing, he laid down his 
 paper and said, " Excuse me, sir, are you an English- 
 man ?" I answered in English, but with a villanous 
 French accent, that " I had not the honor to be the 
 compatriot of Monsieur." 
 
 " Anyhow," he said, " you understand English?" 
 I answered, with much embarrassment and hesitation, 
 in English words, but with French idioms and a 
 French accent, that I understood English very well, 
 though I could not speak it. On this my English 
 friend began his story, which was exactly what I 
 wanted him to do. 
 
 " Well, sir," he said, " this is the most wonderful 
 instance of an almost perfect resemblance between two 
 people I ever saw in my life. You are the exact dupli- 
 
to a Friend of his in Lancashire. 
 
 121 
 
 cate of a young Englishman I once met with in Scot- 
 land under very singular circumstances. Come, since 
 you understand English, I may as well tell you the 
 whole story. 
 
 "It is as queer an adventure as you ever heard of. 
 I am fifty-seven years old, and what you call rich in 
 France. Nobody was ever less disposed to adventure. 
 I am as quiet and as respectable an old bachelor as 
 any to be found in Cheltenham, where I usually 
 reside. I am particularly careful of my health, at 
 least since my great attack of rheumatism, which 
 seized me in December, 1845, and which my own 
 prudence has kept off since then. 
 
 " Every year I take a tour. I have been up the 
 Rhine, I have been in Switzerland, and I would have 
 gone to Rome, but I hate Popery. Some friends of 
 mine persuaded me in the year 1857 to go to the 
 Highlands of Scotland, and, having no particular 
 reason for going anywhere else, I went. 
 
 " I got safely enough to Inveraray, and thence in a 
 pony-carriage to Dalmally. Dalmally is a very pleas- 
 ant little place, with a large, comfortable inn, and a 
 church conveniently near. They told me there was 
 good fishing to be had upon Loch Awe, which is at 
 no great distance from the inn ; so I resolved to stay 
 at Dalmally some weeks. 
 
 " T^he day of my arrival was a Saturday. Sunday 
 I spent at the inn, with the exception of those hours 
 which I passed in church. On Monday morning I 
 set out for the lake. The hotel-keeper told me there 
 was not a single man at liberty that day, all his 
 men being engaged by a party of tourists who had 
 set out on a pic-nic. But the hotel-keeper said I 
 
122 A Letter from the Azithor in Paris 
 
 might take one of his boats, which I should find 
 by the river-side. 
 
 " I followed the River Orchay through the fields, till 
 I came to Kilchurn Castle. After spending an hour in 
 exploring the castle, I determined to venture out upon 
 the lake. There was a pleasant breeze from the east. 
 So I let the boat drift quietly before the breeze, and 
 fished from it, but did not catch anything. 
 
 " The wind began to freshen, and when I had got 
 fairly out in the greatest breadth of Loch Awe, I 
 began to feel very hungry. So I stopped at a pretty 
 little island, where I found a small ruined castle, and 
 ate my lunch in the castle. The wind began to blow 
 very much stronger then, and I found, on looking at 
 my watch, that I had idled away the whole day. It 
 was late to begin with when I left Dalmally, and I 
 had been botanizing all the way down to Kilchurn 
 Castle, and then I don't know how much time I had 
 spent at the castle itself, for I am a bit of an anti- 
 quarian ; but the day was far spent when I had 
 finished my luncheon on the little island. 
 
 " I had tied my boat up in a corner very nicely 
 sheltered from the wind, and so I found it safe enough 
 when I sought for it again. 
 
 " I got out into the middle of the lake and pulled 
 with all my might, but could not get fast forward on 
 account of the violence of the wind. After rowing 
 like this till I was quite tired, I began to see that I 
 was making very little progress indeed, for the island 
 where I had lunched was still not three hundred 
 yards astern. 
 
 " I then thought that if I could get to either shore 
 so as to walk to the inn, and leave the boat wherever 
 
to a Friend of his in La?icashire. 123 
 
 I might happen to land, it would be a wise thing to 
 do ; but the waves were by this time terribly high, 
 and as soon as ever I tried to turn the boat sideways 
 to the wind, a great wave came splashing into it, 
 wetting me to the skin, and putting a great deal of 
 water into the boat. Talk of the sea being as calm as 
 a lake ! the sea would be anything but pleasant if it 
 were always as rough as Loch Awe was that night. 
 
 " Though I am a prudent old bachelor for the most 
 part, and little disposed at present for adventurous ex- 
 peditions, I have a certain amount of courage, and 
 have served in the volunteers when a lad. So I did not 
 lose my presence of mind when the water came into 
 the boat, but tried to think quietly about my position. 
 
 " I now saw how needless it was for me to think of 
 getting back to Kilchurn ; but what alarmed me more 
 was the impossibility of rowing to the shore across 
 such stormy waves. So with all my prudence I 
 determined to take my chance of an attack of rheu- 
 matism, and pass the night on a large island that lay 
 about a mile farther down the lake than the island 
 where I had landed, but in such a position that I 
 could drift down to it without crossing the waves 
 at all. 
 
 " So I drifted very carefully with the boat half full 
 of water, and my clothes drenched, looking forward 
 with bitterness of soul to a miserable night and a long 
 attack of rheumatism to follow. To add to my dis- 
 comfort, a terrible shower of rain came on, wetting 
 such of my clothes as the spray had left dry, and, 
 thus forlorn and wretched, I drifted on to the shore 
 of the island. 
 
 " About twenty yards from the shore the boat gave 
 
124 A Letter from the Author in Paris 
 
 a tremendous thump against a stone, turned her side 
 to the waves, thumped again twice or three times, and 
 was filled in a minute by the breakers. As for me, 
 I rolled out of her somehow, and stumbled and 
 floundered about, up to my middle in water, till I 
 got ashore. 
 
 " 6 Well, but the boat,' I said to myself ; 6 something 
 must be done about the boat.' 
 
 " 6 Hang the boat ! ' I answered myself ; fi what do 
 ./care about the boat? a five-pound note will make all 
 right when I get back to the inn.' 
 
 " ' Yes ; but how shall I get back to the inn? Here 
 am I, cast ashore on a desolate island, as unhappy a 
 wretch as Robinson Crusoe himself, and I cannot 
 swim ten yards. How can I get back without the 
 • boat?' 
 
 " But the boat bumped and thumped against the 
 stones, and knocked a great hole in her side before 
 ten minutes were over ; so I tried to think no more 
 about her, and turned my attention to the subject of 
 dinner. 
 
 " The subject of dinner was a bitter subject for me. 
 No one enjoys a good dinner more than I do. I have 
 lived six months in Paris, and know all about French 
 dishes except their names, which I never could learn 
 for the life of me. But I am a good judge of a dinner, 
 only I must have a dinner to judge. My dinner that 
 night on the island seemed like one of those wonder- 
 ful assizes one hears of now and then, where the 
 judge comes gravely to try cases and there are no 
 cases to be tried. 
 
 " On examining such materials of comfort as I had 
 about me, I found that I had a flask of brandy half 
 
to a Friend of his in Lancashire. 125 
 
 full, a box containing two sandwiches, wetted, and a 
 cigar-case not badly replenished. But my matches 
 were all thoroughly damped, and would not burn. 
 So I looked at the cigars with a bitter feeling of their 
 uselessness, and took a pull at the brandy-flask by way 
 of consolation. I was not yet sufficiently reduced to 
 eat the wet sandwiches — nor my shoes. 
 
 " I found a little wood of fir trees on the island, and 
 lay down in it with such miserable sensations as I 
 hope I may never experience again while I live. I 
 was dreadfully cold. The wind howled through the 
 little wood most dismally, and the rain, which pelted 
 continually against the fir trees over my head, dropped 
 from them upon me in big drops, so that I felt as if 
 I were under the dropping well at Knaresborough, 
 in a fair way of becoming a beautiful specimen of 
 petrifaction. 
 
 " I wish I could give a fair notion of my misery. 
 When one is really and truly miserable, as I was 
 then, it would be a comfort to think one had some 
 chance of finding sympathy ; but nobody will sympa- 
 thize with an old bachelor like me. I have told this 
 story twenty times, and people always laughed at me 
 and called me Robinson Crusoe. But I should like 
 to see them in such a position. It was no laughing 
 matter for me. It became very serious indeed ; and 
 as I got colder and colder in the wood, I began to 
 feel that I might be found there cold and dead in the 
 morning, like the babes in the nursery tale. 
 
 " I took another pull at the brandy. I tried once 
 more to light a cigar, but it was no use with my wet 
 matches. Then I tried to get into a better sheltered 
 place, and found a few branches that some one had 
 
126 A Letter from the Author in Paris 
 
 cut from the fir trees, and with them made myself a 
 sort of a bed. O, how sadly I thought on the aches 
 and pains I might have to suffer for that night ! 
 
 " I lay thus covered up with pine branches, and said 
 my prayers. Then I tried to sleep, and I believe I did 
 sleep some time, for when I next opened my eyes all 
 seemed much darker than before ; in fact, it was al- 
 ready eleven o'clock. But after this I could sleep no 
 more, for my teeth chattered together with cold, and I 
 was as stiff as a corpse. 
 
 " There was nothing for it, then, but to take exer- 
 cise ; so I walked out of the wood weary and stiff as I 
 was, and made my way to the shore. There was light 
 enough to distinguish land from water, and I stumbled 
 along over the stones on the beach till I came to a 
 piece of drift-wood, which I did not see ; so I fell over 
 it and hurt my knees. When I picked myself up, I 
 walked on but slowly, and soon got into the thick of a 
 wilderness of fern ; but I knew that I must w r alk on and 
 on to keep up the circulation. The rain all this time 
 never ceased at all, but kept hard at it, pelting at me 
 most cruelly. 
 
 " Well, I stumbled on till I came to the corner of a 
 precipitous rock ; and on turning this corner, I saw the 
 most unexpected and astonishing sight that ever I saw 
 in my life. 
 
 " There were three tents, or rather two tents and a 
 hut, all in a line, as I have seen the tents at Chobham 
 camp. I went up to the first tent ; there was nobody 
 there ; I looked into it, and saw a good fire burning in 
 an iron grate. The grate had a stove-pipe for a chim- 
 ney, which went through a hole in the tent. Now, I 
 could not have resisted this chance of lighting one of 
 
to a Friend of his in Lancashire. 127 
 
 my cigars if I must have been transported for it to 
 Botany Bay the next morning ; so I crept into the tent, 
 and lighted my cigar at the fire. 
 
 " When I had lighted my cigar I sat down to warm 
 my hands, which were fearfully cold. I found the in- 
 terior of the tent comfortable enough, at least in com- 
 parison with the wood, but it did not seem to be in- 
 habited regularly. Some peat and firewood were piled 
 up in it, and a frying-pan left on the ground led me to 
 suppose that it served as a kitchen to the other tents. 
 The tent was comfortably sheltered from the wind, and 
 I enjoyed the good fire. Bright as the fire was, how- 
 ever, I took the liberty of putting another peat or two 
 upon it, and then I believe I fell asleep. 
 
 " When I awoke I found myself still in the same 
 place, with the fire very low, and a chill feeling in my 
 limbs, on account of my wet clothes. Just then I heard 
 steps approaching the tent, and a voice singing, — 
 
 c In the days we went a-gypsying 
 A long time ago.' 
 
 In a minute afterwards, a sharp, active-looking servant- 
 man came into the tent. On seeing me he stopped 
 short in his song, and started very violently, staring at 
 me without saying a word. So I told him that I had 
 been cast ashore on the island, and begged leave to 
 warm myself at the fire. Then he said he must tell 
 his master, and so left me to myself again. 
 
 " I had not long to wait before he returned, and his 
 master with him. His master was a young man of 
 twenty-five, with a beard and mustache, and a pleas- 
 ant, friendly countenance. He shook my hand as if 
 we had been old friends, and began to scold me for not 
 
128 A Letter from the Author in Paris 
 
 coming straight to his ' hut,' as he called it, where he 
 said I must have some supper ; then, seeing how wet 
 I was, ' But first,' he said, 4 you must change every- 
 thing you have on. Thursday,' he said to the servant, 
 ' put out a suit of my clothes, with flannels, and a clean 
 shirt for this gentleman, in your tent, and let him have 
 a hot foot-bath. Put some water on in the big pan 
 here immediately.' Then, turning to me, ' I must 
 apologize for putting you to dress in my servant's tent r 
 but we must have our supper in mine, and he will 
 prepare it here.' Then he led the way, and I followed 
 him out in the rain to the next tent. I found it a very 
 comfortable place indeed, with a wooden floor, and 
 low wooden walls, and a stove in the middle, the 
 stove-pipe serving as a tent-pole. Here the servant 
 laid me out a complete suit of dry clothes, and, having 
 aired the shirt and flannels at the stove, and put me a 
 clean comb and brush, left me to my reflections. 
 
 " 4 Well, after all,' I thought, 6 this is not a bad end- 
 ing to my adventure. I'd rather be here than in the 
 wood. I used to think a tent a very poor sort of a 
 house indeed ; but, by Jove, I shall know its value for 
 the future.' Then, looking up at the nice striped lin- 
 ing of the servant's tent, I thought, as I heard the rain 
 pelting on it outside, what a blessing it was to be so 
 well sheltered. 
 
 " In a quarter of an hour I was in a dry suit, and 
 sat by the stove waiting for the servant to bring my 
 foot-bath. I had not long to wait ; he came very soon, 
 and gave me a round tin foot-bath, with hot water, and 
 a clean towel. c Please, sir,' he said, ' master says you 
 had better not eat anything if you can wait a few min- 
 utes till supper is ready in his hut ; but if you are very 
 
to a Friend of his in Lancashire. 129 
 
 faint he will send you some whiskey.' I thanked the 
 lad with all my heart, but said I could wait cheerfully 
 enough ; and so there I sat, with my feet in the warm 
 bath, and my body in dry garments, with the pleasant 
 prospect of a good supper before me. Then the ques- 
 tion presented itself suddenly, why the camp should 
 be on the island at all. Hitherto it had seemed to be 
 there merely for my accommodation ; but, as my senses 
 recovered themselves gradually, under the pleasant in- 
 fluences of surrounding comforts, I began to speculate 
 about the camp. c Anyhow,' I thought, ' I shall get to 
 know all in time.' 
 
 " The servant-man had laid by my side clean stock- 
 ings and a pair of seal-skin boots, lined with white 
 down. I had just encased my feet in these delightful- 
 ly soft and comfortable boots when the servant came 
 again and said, c Please, sir, supper 's ready ; will you 
 come this way, sir?' Then I followed him to the hut, 
 or rather walked close to his side, for he held up an 
 enormous white umbrella to shelter me from the rain ; 
 and soon I found myself in as snug a little box as one 
 would wish to see. It was something like a yacht's 
 cabin. The walls were painted white and hung with 
 beautiful engravings, except where green curtains con- 
 cealed four windows, one in each wall. There was a 
 little fireplace, too, with a fire in it, and the floor, 
 which was of wood, and elevated to a considerable 
 height above the ground, was covered with a dark red 
 carpet. A small square table of mahogany stood in 
 the middle of this little apartment, with a cloth laid for 
 supper and a little lamp burning. Two chairs were 
 placed opposite to each other, and my host, having 
 welcomed me afresh, and kindly inquired if I had 
 9 
 
130 A Letter frofn the Author in Paris 
 
 overcome the effects of the cold, took one of the two 
 chairs and invited me to take the other. 
 
 " I believe I never ha^d a merrier supper in my life. 
 The servant brought first a dish of red lake trout, very 
 well cooked indeed, and after that a venison cutlet. 
 Then we had coffee and cigars ; my host smoking in 
 preference a seasoned meerschaum, evidently an old 
 friend. Then he would have me narrate the history 
 of my arrival on the island, but when I came to that 
 part about lying down under the trees like the babes 
 in the wood, he became quite grave, and said I might 
 easily have died there if I had slept till I was be- 
 numbed ; then he would have me take a glass of toddy 
 to keep off the bad consequences of my miserable 
 hours in the wood. And so we got very merry in- 
 deed. 
 
 " Then I thought it a good opportunity of getting at 
 the purpose of the camp, why it was there at all on the 
 island ; but I could not obtain any satisfactory answer 
 whatever, and was left to ascribe it to mere whim, or 
 any better reason that I could find out for myself. 
 There seemed to be a mystery hanging over the camp. 
 Not a w T ord on the subject could be got out of my host.* 
 4 Never mind,' thought I, c I will tip the servant to- 
 morrow morning, and so get to know all about it.' 
 
 u We talked about all sorts of things ; about politics, 
 and Paris, and Louis Napoleon amongst the rest. 
 That led me to think you must be my host, because 
 he seemed familiar with Paris. 
 
 " After that we talked about the French and English 
 military camps, and then I began to fancy my host was 
 a military officer, but could not explain to my own 
 satisfaction what so small a military camp could mean. 
 
to a Friend of his in Lancashire. 131 
 
 " When we had smoked, I don't know how long, my 
 host said, 4 1 beg pardon for my want of hospitality, 
 but you must really go to bed now ; ' and without 
 further preface he called for his servant, who removed 
 everything from the table in a jiffy, and unscrewed its 
 legs and stowed it away,, putting the lamp and other 
 things on four corner-shelves, that seemed made on 
 purpose for such services. Then, in two minutes 
 more, by unrolling a hammock that was strapped up 
 to one end of the hut, and fastening it with straps to 
 staples in the other end, he provided me with a bed. 
 Then, opening a sort of ottoman, he took out several 
 bags of flannel and linen, put them one within another, 
 and laid them on the stretched hammock. My host 
 then explained to me how I was to enter with much 
 circumspection the innermost of these bags, and so 
 said, ' Good night/ and left me. It was not without 
 some difficulty that I introduced myself into the bags ; 
 but once in, I felt wonderfully comfortable, and fell 
 fast asleep in a minute. 
 
 u The next morning was gloriously fine, with a 
 brisk breeze from the old quarter. At eight o'clock 
 my host knocked at the hut door, and told me that 
 breakfast was ready. We breakfasted outside the hut, 
 in the open air. We had ham and eggs, and mutton- 
 chops, and coffee. After breakfast my host said, c I 
 have been to look at your boat, but it is quite useless 
 for the present ; you must let me put you over in 
 mine : ' and so we went down to the beach, where my 
 host had two boats, one at anchor in a little bay, the 
 other drawn up on the sand. 
 
 " I never saw such queer boats in my life. They 
 were something like flat rafts, being merely tin tubes 
 
132 A Letter from tJie Author in Paris 
 
 supporting a wooden deck ; but my host assured me 
 they were perfectly safe ; and, indeed, we sailed over 
 very pleasantly on the larger one. All this time I 
 could not get a word out of my host as to the nature 
 of his occupations, or his object in living in camp. 
 My last hope was in the rather heavy tip I reserved 
 for the servant-man. 
 
 " Watching my opportunity when we had landed 
 on the main land, I slipped half-a-crown into his hand, 
 and then asked carelessly, 'Who is your master? and 
 why does he live here in camp ? ' But the servant was 
 a Yorkshireman, and told me such a history about his 
 master and himself as I could neither make head nor 
 tail of ; but not one word of direct answer could I get 
 out of the lad. 
 
 " When I got to Dalmally, I asked the waiter if he 
 knew. My host, it turned out, was a young English- 
 man, already known to me by reputation for about a 
 week before I saw him, as the author of a poem called 
 6 The Isles of Loch Awe,' which I bought at Inve- 
 raray, as I was going to see Loch Awe itself, and 
 thought I might as well know something about it, 
 though it was only poetry. I don't think he's much 
 of a poet. He seems to me to take after Wordsworth, 
 and the lakers, and that American poet, Tennyson ; 
 now I prefer Lord Byron to the whole lot of them. 
 As to his purpose in encamping, it seems to be the 
 study of landscape-painting. I know nothing about 
 painting, and care as little ; but I have learned the 
 value of a tent, and shall never forget the lesson as 
 long as I live." 
 
 So he ended his history. " Well," said I, in pure 
 English, " I'm very glad you enjoyed such hospitality 
 as I was able to offer you." 
 
to a Friend of his in Lancashire. 
 
 133 
 
 " Begad ! it's you, after all ! " exclaimed he, like an 
 Irishman. u I could not believe there was such a 
 duplicate in the world, and I couldn't make out how 
 one of those horrid foreigners came to look so like an 
 Englishman ; but," added he, checking himself sud- 
 denly, and looking rather grave, you musn't mind 
 what I said about the poetry — will you? I dare say 
 it's very pretty : I don't know much about poetry ; 
 you must excuse me." 
 
 " No, I won't excuse you," I answered, laughing, 
 " for you have been guilty of a bit of invention your- 
 self, and invention, you k;now, is the very fountain of 
 poetry." 
 
 " Do you mean to say I've been embellishing a bit? 
 lipon my honor, everything happened as I've told- it. 
 You yourself are a witness." 
 
 " It's all correct but the cutlets. You said they 
 were venison ; now I remember distinctly that they 
 were nothing but plain Scotch mutton." 
 
 On this my friend declared that, mutton or venison, 
 they had saved his life, and he meant to repay them 
 with interest, though he never could give me a supper 
 which would do me as much good as that supper did 
 him. However, next day he made me dine with him 
 at the Trois Freres Provencaux, in the Palais Royal, 
 and invited two other Englishmen to meet me, to 
 whom he narrated the whole adventure over again. 
 The dinner was something wonderful, and the bill 
 tremendous, but he paid it without wincing. 
 
J 34 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE ISLAND FARM. 
 
 ALL who have read the beautiful story of Undine 
 must remember the opening lines. 
 " Several hundred years have probably elapsed since 
 a worthy old fisherman sat at the door of his hut on 
 a beautiful evening, mending his nets. The spot of 
 ground on which his dwelling was situated was ex- 
 tremely picturesque. The emerald turf on which it 
 was built extended far into a broad lake ; and to an 
 imaginative mind it seemed as though the promon- 
 tory, enamoured, strove with all its force to penetrate 
 into the beautifully blue limpid stream ; while, on the 
 other hand, the water, actuated by mutual passion, en- 
 deavored to encircle in its embrace the lovely spot, 
 with its undulating grass and flowers, its waving trees, 
 and • cool recesses. The one was impelled towards 
 the other with almost human sympathy, and it was 
 natural, each was so beautiful." 
 
 Not less beautiful is the peninsula of Innistrynich, 
 which juts into Loch Awe, joined to the main land 
 only by a low green meadow, submerged when the 
 waters rise. I have chosen this place as a kind of 
 depot and centre of operation, and taken it on a lease 
 of five years. 
 
 It is so rich in fair natural pictures that I shall 
 probably travel very little for the next year or two, till 
 
The Island Farm. 
 
 135 
 
 I have painted the best of them. The old hut is erected 
 here, and will be moved about from place to place on 
 the island, as its services may be needed. 
 
 The island rises into rounded knolls of fair pasture, 
 with green park-like glades, and great stones of a mar- 
 vellous color, rich in wonderful lichens and mosses. 
 There is one noble stone in particular for which I 
 have the friendliest love and admiration, and which I 
 visit every day. It stands about twelve feet high, and 
 overhangs like a leaning tower. It is covered with a 
 perfect mosaic of silver and purple and green. The 
 broad spots of lichen upon it seem like a map of some 
 unknown archipelago. How many thousand years 
 has it stood there whilst those silver spots have 
 spread ! 
 
 And not only have I excellent studies of stones quite 
 close at hand, but also most noble studies of trees. 
 There is no better place on Loch Awe than this 
 peninsula for rich and picturesque foliage. There are 
 some magnificent groups of oaks, not very large, it is 
 true, but not the less grand artistically. These little 
 oaks of Innistrynich, rooted in the hollows of the 
 rock, and nurtured by a rude climate, are as magnifi- 
 cent in their gray, knotted, ancient, long-suffering 
 hardihood, as a Highland bull, though short in stature, 
 is mighty in his bold bearing, and massive build, and 
 black, terrible mane. And there are old hollies, cen- 
 turies old, not pitiful garden shrubs, but strong trees, 
 whose twisted trunks are washed by storm-waves in 
 the winter ; and there are venerable thorn trees, that 
 stand in the spring like tall hillocks covered with the 
 thick snow of their sweet blossom. Then there is the 
 mountain ash, clothed with scarlet in the season, when 
 
136 
 
 The IslctJid Farm. 
 
 his million berries glow like heaped-up beads of red 
 coral. And there are delicate little birches with silver 
 stems, and young aspens with little leaves fluttering 
 like the wings of butterflies in the faint breeze. But 
 high above the oak and the birch tower the stately 
 sycamores and firs, and there are two or three great 
 ash trees fit for a king's demesne. 
 
 And between and beyond these fair and stately trees, 
 and through the intricate trellises of their leaves, there 
 are yet lovely sights to be seen. You cannot walk 
 twenty yards on this island without coming upon some 
 new and striking picture. The lake, in fine weather 
 intensely blue, shines through the lower branches, and 
 through the girdle of little shrubs round the shore its 
 tiny waves gleam like sapphires ; and the fair moun- 
 tains rise beyond it with green, soft, mysterious sur- 
 faces, and delicate, untraceable edges, against the soft 
 blue sky. 
 
 And then, in front of the island, at the extremity 
 which juts the farthest into the lake, there is a little 
 square whitewashed cottage, with a veranda. I made 
 it a condition, when I agreed to take the island, that 
 four of the windows of this cottage, those belong- 
 ing to the principal rooms, should be removed, and 
 replaced with fair sheets of perfect plate-glass. They 
 had little lozenge-shaped panes before, which no student 
 of nature could tolerate in such scenery. The invention 
 of plate-glass is one for wdiich we landscape-painters 
 can never be sufficiently grateful. I heard of a man 
 the other day who put a thousand pounds' worth of 
 plate-glass windows into his house all at once, and not 
 only that, but paid the bill without a murmur. I sym- 
 pathize with that man — I honor him ! On the other 
 
The Island Farm. 
 
 137 
 
 hand, I hate little lozenge-shaped panes, no bigger 
 than a visiting card, that cut up a splendid scene into 
 meaningless fragments. They are fit only for churches 
 and schools, where nobody ought ever to think of look- 
 ing out of the window. 
 
 My cottage, however, is a complete artistic observa- 
 tory. I have a reach of lake before me five or six 
 miles long to the westward, visible through two of 
 my plate-glass windows ; and to the north there is 
 Ben Cruachan, himself visible through another. So 
 long as I remain in the house, not a single effect of 
 importance on those broad waters and mighty moun- 
 tain-side will escape me, and I shall obtain a compre- 
 sive series of memoranda, including effects of every 
 season of the year, and every hour of the day, and 
 every state of the atmosphere. By this means, watch- 
 ing continually the changes of aspect produced in a 
 few familiar scenes by every change of effect, and 
 taking careful notes of such changes, I shall solve the 
 most perplexing of those difficulties which baffled me 
 last year, and, I confidently hope, after five years of 
 such constant observation, winter and summer, here 
 and in the camp, come at last to realize my ideal of 
 fidelity in landscape-painting. 
 
 This little cottage is a considerable addition to my 
 accommodation. It contains twelve habitable rooms, 
 each about ten feet square. I shall, however, require 
 an increase in my establishment, for poor Thursday, 
 ingenious as he is, cannot do everything. 
 
 And there is a farm, too, to be looked after. The 
 island contains twenty-eight acres of land, which will 
 keep me a horse, and a couple of cows, and a few 
 sheep. I shall make a good garden on the southern 
 
The Island Farm. 
 
 slope of the island, from the house to the shore ; there 
 is nothing but a little square kailyard now. 
 
 I have put a Scotch farm-servant into a cottage on 
 the island. He will be my gardener, and go to In- 
 veraray with a cart for supplies. 
 
 With the garden, and easy communication with 
 Inveraray, I hope to live considerably better than I 
 did last year. No one knows the utility of green 
 vegetables till he has been deprived of them. I got 
 quite out of health last year for want of such common 
 things as any market gardener near London would 
 supply for a shilling or two, rarities utterly unattain- 
 able in this famous county of Argyll, except by actual- 
 ly sowing them in the ground, and waiting patiently 
 till they grow. 
 
 A little re-arrangement has wonderfully increased 
 the utility of the camp. Hitherto it has not been suffi- 
 ciently portable to be easily removed from place to 
 place, and so I have lost, in a great measure, the ad- 
 vantages of a nomadic life. But the whole camp is 
 now quite portable. The hut is erected on two large 
 wheels, and presents a striking resemblance to a bath- 
 ing-machine, with the door at the back : if there were 
 a good beach here I should certainly employ it in that 
 character, as well as for artistic purposes. To the old 
 wagon is now added a convenient box or body, com- 
 posed of the wooden walls of Thursday's hut, and 
 capable of containing all the materials necessary to a 
 gypsy expedition — tents, boxes, provisions, &c. Out- 
 side this body, and on the top of it, are seats for four 
 persons, like those in a dog cart; and the interior, 
 being lighted by two small windows, affords, when 
 empty, an excellent berth for Thursday. My travel- 
 
The Island Farm. 
 
 !39 
 
 ling camp will consist of two of Edgington's best 
 travelling-tents, with strong water-proof floor-cloths. 
 With this I hope to make several extended expedi- 
 tions, but for the present shall probably confine my- 
 self to the work immediately around me, of which 
 there is a bewildering abundance. 
 
 The greatest inconvenience I foresee here is a want 
 of out-buildings. I have only two or three thatched 
 constructions — they look like old cottages. Lanca- 
 shire people have a passion for spacious farm-build- 
 ings, which I share to the full, because space is always 
 necessary to a high degree of order and cleanliness. 
 It is quite beneath the dignity of my mare to be lodged 
 with cows, and yet there is no other place for her. 
 However, both she and I will have to bear with little 
 inconveniences, and I am happy to have secured so 
 desirable a centre for the execution of my future plans. 
 I shall begin first by working near home, and paint 
 perhaps a dozen pictures of scenes within five minutes' 
 walk of my house ; then I shall gradually enlarge the 
 circle of my labor, till it reaches a diameter of about 
 a hundred miles, with my house for a centre. It is 
 probable, therefore, that for some time to come there 
 will be no matter of interest to narrate in these pages, 
 unless it be an occasional excursion to a distance in 
 order to keep up our efficiency in the practice of en- 
 camping, and to prepare us for the last two years of 
 my lease, which will in all probability be exceedingly 
 active, as the circle of my work will by that time have 
 enormously expanded. 
 
 For such a purpose as mine it would indeed be im- 
 possible to find a better position than this island of 
 Innistrynich, and it is pleasant to feel myself estab- 
 
140 
 
 The Island Farm. 
 
 lished here securely for five years of uninterrupted 
 observation, during which the proprietors, in the ele- 
 gant diction of the lease, " have bound and obliged 
 their respective constituents, and their heirs, to war- 
 rant it to the said Philip Gilbert Hamerton, and his 
 foresaids, at all hands and against all mortals." These 
 cautious Scots dare not warrant the island to me against 
 the zV/zmortals, that is, the ghosts. And they are es- 
 pecially precise and explicit in the form of words by 
 which they make me bind myself to leave at my end 
 of the lease : — 
 
 " And the said Philip Gilbert Hamerton bound and 
 obliged himself and his foresaids to flit and remove 
 himself, his wife, bairns, family, servants, goods, and 
 gear, forth and from the said possession at the expiry 
 of this tack, and to leave the same void and redd to 
 the effect that the said First parties or their foresaids, 
 or others in their name, may then enter thereto, and 
 enjoy the same in all time thereafter." 
 
i4i 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A GYPSY JOURNEY TO GLEN COE. 
 
 WE have had a wild summer here this year. In 
 England, I hear it has been glorious and golden, 
 like the climate of Egypt. In France, the beautiful 
 sun, like a generous host, has given, without stint or 
 limit, the rich juice of a vintage unparalleled in its 
 abundance, so that the laborers in the vineyards knew 
 not where to stow the overflow of wine, and put it in 
 washing-tubs and cattle-troughs, because their casks 
 would contain no more. This very year, in the un- 
 favored mountains of Scotland, the peasant could not 
 get his peat for the winter hearth, nor the farmer his 
 little crop of hay, nor his poor harvest of oats. The 
 peats were cut, but never dried ; there they lay, in 
 little miserable mounds, on the black moor, and soaked 
 and rotted, day by day, till all the virtue was soaked 
 out of them. The thin blades of corn have been 
 levelled by the wind, as though cavalry had charged 
 over them ; and farmers have deferred their hay har- 
 vest, in the bare hope of a little sunshine, till the dead 
 leaves lie upon it now, in this dreary month of Novem- 
 ber. I suppose they will cut it soon, and the feeble 
 sun will look upon it languidly, from the southern 
 hills, a few short hours by day, hardly long enough to 
 melt the hoar frost from it. 
 
 As for me, my farm is such a miniature affair that 
 
142 
 
 A Gypsy yourney to Glen Coe. 
 
 I made my hay in a tolerably fine week we had in the 
 summer, and got it all safely housed in my little barn. 
 In the month of September, one fine morning, I issued 
 marching orders, and set forth on a campaign. 
 
 The whole of my insular kingdom was instantly 
 thrown into unwonted commotion by the promulga- 
 tion of these commands. Seven fires were lighted, 
 and provisions for several days cooked in an hour or 
 two. A terrible sentence thinned the poultry-yard, 
 and many a fine cock that crowed that morning in the 
 vigor and pride of youth, lay cooked and cold in a 
 provision-box far away on the morrow ! My gardener 
 (an excellent butcher, by the by, a very desirable quali- 
 fication in a Highland servant) had killed a sheep the 
 day before ; so we had plenty of mutton. 
 
 We started with the wagon at sunset, and encamped 
 that night in Glen Urchay. I occupied one of Edging- 
 ton's tents, and Thursday slept in the wagon. As we 
 were pitching the tent two friends of mine came from 
 the hotel at Dalmally to see me. We sat talking and 
 smoking till two in the morning, when my friends left 
 me, and I laced the tent door, having first looked at 
 Thursday through the window of his wagon, where 
 he seemed marvellously comfortable, and at poor Meg, 
 the mare, who stood tethered hard by with an air of 
 perfect resignation. 
 
 And yet the only member of the expedition who 
 was dissatisfied with the arrangements for the night 
 was this mare, Meg, whose resigned expression had 
 probably been assumed to mask her sinister intentions. 
 No sooner were we asleep than she got entangled with 
 her tether, and, struggling violently, awoke Thursday, 
 who went to her assistance with his lantern, and then 
 
A Gypsy journey to Glen Coe. 143 
 
 returned as fast as possible to his cosy berth in the 
 wagon, anticipating no further interruption to his 
 slumbers. Delusive hope of rest ! an hour later Meg 
 was wandering over the wild moor, and Thursday 
 stumbling after her in the dark, cursing her in his 
 heart. 
 
 Now, by good luck, Thursday caught the beast after 
 a long chase ; but he had no rope to make a halter of, 
 and the mare had left hers behind her. So poor 
 Thursday was obliged to take Meg by the forelock 
 (as in the days of our youth we were metaphorically 
 recommended to catch a venerable personification of 
 Time), and endeavor to persuade her to return quietly 
 to her post. Wandering thus, the mare led Thursday, 
 who, of course, had no control over her whatever, to a 
 little Highland farmstead ; and then Thursday called 
 out to the farmer, and pretended he had led the mare, 
 just as an unhappy king or prime minister, who is 
 dragged by a perverse nation into all manner of diffi- 
 culties, always pretends to act of his own royal will 
 and pleasure. 
 
 " Have you a bit of rope?" cries Thursday. 
 
 " Na, na ! there's nae rope about the hoose." 
 
 "Have you a bit of rope for sixpence?" cries 
 Thursday, with a profound knowledge of human na- 
 ture. 
 
 " Weel, weel, maybe there's a bit o' rope ; but ye'll 
 no be wanting a lang ane." 
 
 So the farmer gave Thursday the shabbiest six- 
 penny-worth of old rotten cord that ever was bought 
 and sold, and Thursday paid for it, there and then, 
 the sum of sixpence, on his own responsibility. 
 
 Then Meg, believing herself effectually haltered 
 
144 ^ Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 (though that was a delusion), followed Thursday very 
 submissively to the camp. And, during the rest of the 
 night, he got a quarter of an hour's sleep out of every 
 half-hour, like the man who walked a thousand miles 
 in a thousand half-hours. But Meg, the mare, slept 
 not, neither did she slumber, but entangled herself 
 continually. 
 
 The next morning I breakfasted luxuriously in the 
 tent, and after breakfast one or two carriages passed 
 with tourists. I may observe here that Thursday is 
 very sensitive, and hates tourists on account of their 
 impertinent manners ; so he never misses an opportu- 
 nity of irritating himself by watching these contempt- 
 uous travellers. As for me, I calmly proceed with 
 whatever business I may have in hand, whether eat- 
 ing or smoking, or even the low and degrading occu- 
 pation of studying from nature, without particularly 
 troubling myself about the giggling companies of 
 snobs who infest the Highland roads at a certain 
 season of the year. For is it not in the nature of the 
 true British snob on his travels to stare at all things? 
 I should as soon think of being angry with the owls 
 in the Zoological Gardens, because they stared, or at 
 the monkeys because they chattered, as at the noble 
 animal first classified by the celebrated naturalist, Mr. 
 Thackeray, for acting after its nature, which combines 
 the observation of the owlet and the eloquence of 
 the ape. 
 
 But Thursday, not being acquainted with the writ- 
 ings of Mr. Thackeray, has not learned to see the snob 
 on his amusing side ; and on this occasion he remarked 
 to me, with much irritation, in what a very contempt- 
 uous way these tourists had stared at the camp, and 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 how exceedingly high and mighty and majestic they 
 seemed. Why, of course they did. It's a fine thing 
 to ride in a carriage occasionally ; and, when people 
 aren't used to it, that lofty kind of locomotion has a 
 certain elevating influence on their sense of dignity ; 
 and I am sure I should be sorry to say a word against 
 the innocent gratification of this proper pride, especial- 
 ly since it is not expensive, but may be freely indulged 
 in for ninepence a mile. 
 
 During the day's journey we had a good opportu- 
 nity of admiring that wisdom of our ancestors which, 
 instead of carrying roads through valleys, as is our 
 more modern custom, did formerly, in order to give 
 exercise to horses, compel these animals to climb and 
 descend the sides of the surrounding hills. It would 
 have been quite possible to construct a road in the 
 level tract at the foot of Ben Loy, but the engineer 
 preferred to display his activity by leading all future 
 travellers a very fatiguing race over the inequalities of 
 the mountain opposite. The labor wasted in the 
 course of one century by a little bad civil engineering 
 at the first planning of a road is rather startling when 
 w T e think of it. 
 
 We were descending a very steep declivity, and the 
 mist was thick in the valley. Through the mist came 
 a great stream down from the opposite mountain, and 
 we saw it gleaming below us, gray and dim, like a 
 silent stream in Ossian. Then we looked up, and the 
 mist broke away for one minute, and lo ! toppling over 
 our very heads, up, up, in the air, like an eagle, hung 
 a shapely mass of something we knew not, something 
 purple and gray, mysteriously marked with a thousand 
 scars, and spotted with a thousand shadows, hanging 
 10 
 
146 
 
 A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 in the full sunshine, as if a fragment of another planet 
 were hovering over the world ; for it seemed of solid 
 rock, and yet shapely in its magnificence ; and it was 
 wet, and glistening as with recent rain, and colored 
 with fair hues, like the mosaics of a marble dome ! 
 
 It was the crest of Ben Loy. I have seen Ben Loy 
 a hundred times, but never like that. The mist had 
 exaggerated it, so that it seemed as if no mortal foot 
 could ever wander there. It did not belong to the 
 world. It seemed unearthly, supernatural, terrible. 
 
 The illusion was easily accounted for. The base 
 seemed remote in the mist, but we saw the stony crest 
 without any mist whatever, in the full, clear sunshine, 
 so that it seemed quite close to us — far nearer than 
 the stream at the base. It came upon us, too, unex- 
 pectedly. Lord Dufferin.has recorded a similar effect* 
 
 Then we drove through a long, dreary valley, till we 
 came to Tyndrum, where I had hoped to increase my 
 
 * " Hour after hour passed by, and brought no change. 
 Fitz and Sigurdr — who had begun quite to disbelieve in the 
 existence of the island — went to bed, while I remained pacing 
 up and down the deck, anxiously questioning each quarter of 
 the gray canopy that enveloped us. At last, about four in the 
 morning, I fancied some change was going to take place : the 
 heavy wreaths of vapor seemed to be imperceptibly separat- 
 ing, and in a few minutes more the solid roof of gray suddenly 
 split asunder, and I beheld through the gap, thousands of feet 
 overhead, as if suspended in the crystal sky, a cone of illumi- 
 nated snow." — Letters from High Latitudes* 
 
 This effect did not, however, contain the contradiction that 
 astonished me before Ben Loy. Lord Dufferin did not see the 
 base of Jan Mayen at all. Now, I did see the base of Ben 
 Loy, removed far away by the mist; and this discrepancy be- 
 tween the apparent distance of the base and the nearness of 
 the summit made the effect almost incredible. 
 
A Gypsy yourney to Glen Coe. 
 
 147 
 
 stock of provisions ; but there were none in the place, 
 not even a morsel of bread, nor an egg. I saw a High- 
 land boy, however, whose admirable beauty would 
 have done credit to any palace in England where beef 
 and other tissue-forming materials are most abundant. 
 His face was of the very richest coloring, rather dark 
 in complexion, with carnation glowing through the 
 brown. He was a precious study of color. I think 
 I shall invite him to spend a week at Innistrynich, and 
 then paint a few oil-studies of him from nature. How 
 rich was that dirty tartan of his, with its vivid, soft 
 colors and picturesque texture ; and how well formed 
 his bare legs below the kilt, with their early promise 
 of manly strength, and the lithe suppleness of their 
 boyish grace ! Graceful indeed he was, as a young 
 stag, with a certain shy waywardness in his attitude, 
 as he leaned against the rude walls of his father's hut 
 and gazed at us when we passed by. 
 
 As we approached the Black Forest the lines of the 
 hills changed their character. They fell in grand con- 
 cave curves, drawn with the utmost force from the 
 summits to the stream down in the glen — mighty and 
 majestic curves, so simple that any amateur would 
 think he could draw them, and yet so subtle, that the 
 genius never lived who could have rendered them with 
 absolute accuracy. On our left was a frightful preci- 
 pice, and as Meg trotted down the steep road I often 
 congratulated myself on her steadiness and discretion. 
 In the valley below there was a vast desolation of gray 
 stones, rolled and rounded in a thousand floods, and 
 spread broadcast over the barren vale, with a pure 
 stream picking its way amongst them. 
 
 I encamped that night in as lonely a place as I could 
 
148 
 
 A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 find ; and, having backed the wagon down on the 
 moorland, tied the mare to it, with a sheet on her back 
 to keep her warm, and a little haycock to afford her 
 occupation and amusement. An hour afterwards we 
 were as comfortable, as possible. Thursday had got 
 his supper, and lay asleep on the wagon, Meg was 
 busy with her hay, and I was sitting with my pipe 
 after dinner, in an elysium of repose. It is with 
 especial pleasure that I recall those evenings in the 
 tent. When the fatigues of the day were over, and 
 my house built for the night, with the buffalo-skins 
 spread over the thick carpet, candles burning, and 
 smoke curling gracefully in long wreaths from my 
 brown old pipe up to the gabled roof, with no sound 
 but the babbling of a brook, or the pattering of the 
 rain, I felt as thoroughly happy as our poor querulous 
 human nature will admit of. 
 
 There is the finest wood of Scotch firs at Loch Tulla 
 that I have yet seen. Near Lord Breadalbane's ken- 
 nels I found a good subject for Landseer — an invalid 
 deer-hound that had been gored by a stag at bay. 
 
 A great advantage about the wagon in comparison 
 with the public coach is, that I can stop whenever I 
 want to take a sketch. Thus, during the whole of this 
 pleasant journey, I had a box containing sketching 
 materials close to me on the roof of the wagon ; and 
 whenever a fine mountain outline or good natural com- 
 position struck me, I pulled up Meg, who soon accus- 
 tomed herself to these intervals of repose, and drew 
 very much at my ease, where I sat, on the box. On 
 a coach I should have been whirled through the coun- 
 try without a chance of sketching. I enjoy this sort 
 of pilgrimage, especially on account of the facility of 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 149 
 
 sleeping wherever I will, without having to consider 
 the distance from the inns. In ten minutes from the 
 time I pull up, I can have a house ready to receive me 
 on the wildest heath ; and a good, serviceable house, 
 too, weather-proof and warm. This is delightful for a 
 painter, to whom nothing is more tormenting than 
 prudential considerations about eating and sleeping. 
 As for me, I may take a drawing of any subject I 
 choose, and have my house at hand when it is done ; 
 and whilst I am busy with my work, Thursday, an 
 artist no less earnest in his own line, is organizing a 
 repast to refresh. me after my labors. In the mean 
 time, envious artists pass me on the tops of coaches, or 
 on foot, compelled by absolute necessity to dine at an 
 inn ten miles off; and very likely when they get there 
 they will have to post on another ten miles to sleep. 
 The coach passed us in the Black Forest, when I was 
 too busy to look at the passengers ; but Thursday suf- 
 fered much annoyance from their uncivil behavior. 
 He was highly indignant, and declared the travellers 
 to be " no gentlefolks ; " but they were a fair sample 
 of the common tourist class, no worse than the aver- 
 age ; and I have no doubt the most of them would 
 have treated me with great respect under other cir- 
 cumstances, but on this occasion the sketch-book ex- 
 cited their contempt, as a sketch-book always does, 
 when they believe the holder of it to be an artist. 
 
 In trying to analyze this question, so as to find out 
 why silly people invariably behave impertinently when- 
 ever they see a painter at work, I came to the conclu- 
 sion that, independently of the social contempt for the 
 artist, which the best modern novelists have recognized 
 as a characteristic of our age, there is another reason, 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 less obvious, and still not to be overlooked. On those 
 occasions, when a painter is annoyed by the flippancy 
 of pleasure-seekers, he is almost invariably the only 
 person present who has at the time any serious thought 
 or occupation whatever. This sense of non-conformity 
 on the part of the painter to the humor of the hour 
 excites instantaneously in the spectators a disposition 
 to combine against him. I believe any seriously- 
 occupied student would have to put up with similar 
 interruptions ; but it is fortunate for students in other 
 pursuits that they can study in the retirement of the 
 closet. Besides, there are certain things which, how- 
 ever innocent in themselves, appear odd and incon- 
 gruous whenever a third party comes upon the scene ; 
 and, as Emerson has very well shown, the study of 
 nature is one of these things. No one but a landscape- 
 painter ever dares to enjoy nature without some mask 
 or apology. Other people seek this enjoyment also ; 
 but they always pretend to have other business on 
 foot, either shooting, or a necessary journey, or their 
 health, or some other prosaic every-day excuse. But 
 the painter avows his object frankly ; he is, indeed, 
 forced into this exceptional frankness by the circum- 
 stances of his position ; for, if he were only to glance 
 at nature furtively when out on other business, like 
 the rest of the world, he would never come to produce 
 good pictures. 
 
 When the coach passed me I was hard at work try- 
 ing to analyze and make a note of an effect of rich, 
 soft, misty moorland color, which Linnell has rendered 
 with wonderful veracity, and which no other man, so 
 far as I remember, has ever yet been able to interpret 
 at all. But it is no use talking about it here. I used 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 to delude myself with the belief that words recalling 
 scenes vividly to myself which I had studied intensely 
 in nature were capable of producing the same effect 
 on others. I forgot that to render vivid an impression 
 once made, as the developing solution does in photog- 
 raphy, is quite an easy thing in comparison with the 
 object I proposed to myself ; namely, to create, the 
 same impression in minds where it had no previous 
 existence. I waste very little time in description now, 
 because I find words quite incapable of conveying any 
 idea of effects of color and light to persons who have 
 not seen them, and have come to discover that written 
 language, however justly chosen and carefully fitted, 
 must always, for purposes of landscape-painting, be a 
 very clumsy and unmanageable medium. 
 
 So we will say no more about this effect, though in 
 truth I look upon it as by far the most important event 
 of the whole expedition. 
 
 And now to Glen Coe. Meg had three miles to 
 trot down hill, which is the only trotting Meg ever 
 does. Whenever I came to a certain angle of declivity, 
 without putting on the break, Meg began to show 
 symptoms of uneasiness, going first to one side and 
 then to another, till at last, when she found that I 
 neither wanted her to go over the precipice on the 
 one hand nor to break her neck against the rock on 
 the other, Meg prudently decided to submit to the 
 pressure from behind, and even trot a little, like an 
 unprogressive government with public opinion at its 
 heels. Then, when the wagon pressed hard, and 
 seemed to get heavier and heavier, what a flurry Meg 
 would get into ! till, for safety's sake, I tightened the 
 break on the hind wheels, and so relieved her. 
 
A Gypsy yourney to Glen Coe. 
 
 I fancy the scenery of Glen Coe approaches nearer 
 to the stony Arabian landscape than any other scenery 
 in Scotland, for the mountains have a barren strength 
 and steepness which remind one continually of the 
 stone buttresses of Sinai, as we have seen Sinai in 
 photographs and the drawings of John Lewis. Glen 
 Coe, being not only one of the grandest scenes in 
 Britain, but the most terrible of all in its associations, 
 deserves a closer record than water-color sketches of 
 misty weather, or studio pictures done from hasty 
 pencil memoranda. It is an excellent subject for pho- 
 tography, but no photograph can give its color, which 
 is delightful. 
 
 I was fortunate in seeing Glen Coe for the first time 
 under a noble and mysterious effect, for the whole air 
 was full of mystery. Far below us stretched a valley 
 that seemed of supernatural vastness, whose entrance 
 w r as guarded on the one hand by a wall of precipices, 
 and on the other by a domed tower of solid granite, 
 huge and pale in the misty air. This dome gleamed 
 all over with purple and green, changing continually. 
 It w r as covered with a network of irregular, fantastic 
 decoration, a wild arabesque of faint rose color, paler 
 than the pale green ground it was laid upon. This 
 enchanted dome was a solid rock far higher than St. 
 Paul's, and its mosaic of purple and green and rose 
 color was only the little patches of short grass, and 
 red, dry channels of a thousand streams, and purple 
 steps of precipice. 
 
 But in the vastness of the valley, over the dim, 
 silver stream that flowed away into its infinite dis- 
 tance, brooded a heavy cloud, stained with a crimson 
 hue, as if the innocent blood shed there rose from the 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 153 
 
 earth even yet, to bear witness against the assassins 
 who gave the name of Glen Coe such power over the 
 hearts of men. For so long as history shall be read, 
 and treachery hated, that name, Glen Coe, shall thrill 
 mankind with undiminished horror! The story is a 
 century old now ; the human race has heard it talked 
 over for a hundred years. But the tale is as fresh 
 in its fearful interest as the latest murder in the 
 newspapers. Kind hospitality was never so cruelly 
 requited ; British soldiers were never at once so 
 cowardly and so ferocious. That massacre was not 
 warfare ; it was not the execution of justice ; it was 
 assassination on a great scale, and under circumstances 
 every detail of which adds to the inexpressible pain- 
 fulness of the fact. It is lamentable that the character 
 of William, on the whole respectable, should be black- 
 ened by so foul a stain. 
 
 When we got to the King's House, I stopped to 
 drink a glass of beer, not in honor of his majesty, 
 but for my private refreshment. The landlady and 
 hangers-on evidently expected me to descend from the 
 box, send Meg to the stable, and order dinner and two 
 bed-rooms. They never were more mistaken. Their 
 representations of the distance from King's House to 
 the next inn were quite thrown away upon a wander- 
 ing gypsy like me, with a snug tent packed up inside 
 his wagon. I thanked them for the information, paid 
 for the two glasses of beer, and trotted on, leaving the 
 astonished landlady and her staff to meditate on my 
 cruelty to animals, and on my unaccountable repug- 
 nance to a night's rest in the royal precincts. Half an 
 hour later I was dining comfortably in my own private 
 hotel, and Meg, unconscious of the landlady's tender 
 
i54 
 
 A Gypsy yourney to Glen Coe. 
 
 sentiments on her behalf, was dining very comfort- 
 ably too. 
 
 I pitched my tent by the side of a little stream, and 
 under the shadow of the great dome of rock I men- 
 tioned before, the relative position of my tent and the 
 dome being like that of a shop in St. Paul's Church- 
 yard and the dome of the cathedral. The moon rose 
 behind it, and one or two splintered pinnacles of rock 
 came sharply against her light in a black silhouette. 
 The whole scene was exceedingly impressive, from its 
 indescribable desolation. As I have observed before, 
 it is of course in such desolate situations that a tent or 
 hut seems by contrast most snug and cosy. That 
 night the rain fell in torrents, and I was busy until 
 very late, sensitizing waxed paper for photographic 
 negatives — a tiresome process. 
 
 The next day was very windy and wild, but I got a 
 study in pencil and two photographs. This expedi- 
 tion being in part a photographic experiment, I men- 
 tion these negatives here. In another chapter I mean 
 to consider the whole question of the relation between 
 photography and painting, and the ways in which 
 photography may serve a painter who employs it for 
 especial purposes, at greater length than I can here, 
 in a parenthesis. Having had occasion to spend some 
 time in Paris last winter, I had profited by the oppor- 
 tunity of learning the waxed paper process, from a 
 pupil and assistant of Gustave le Gray, who invented 
 it ; and during my journey to Glen Coe I determined 
 to try whether its convenience in travelling was as 
 ample a compensation for the comparative imperfec- 
 tion of its results as some photographers consider it 
 to be. 
 
A Gypsy jfourney to Glen Coe. 
 
 '55 
 
 The second night in Glen Coe was wilder and 
 wetter than ever ; and as on the following morning 
 the weather seemed to have settled for rain, it seemed 
 wiser, under the circumstances, to retreat to the granite 
 stream in the Black Forest, where I had some draw- 
 ings and photographs to take, as that position would 
 be nearer home, and we were only provisioned for a 
 week. To start on an expedition in the Highlands 
 one ought to be provisioned beforehand, like a ship 
 leaving port. In order to lessen the consumption of 
 my own provisions I sometimes stop and feed at an 
 inn, when it happens to be convenient ; but it is not 
 often so, on account of my work. Innkeepers, I find, 
 will not let you have provisions, except in the shape 
 of orthodox repasts, unless you know them ; and as the 
 innkeepers are the only people in the country who 
 have either fresh meat or common bread, one may be 
 temporarily reduced to considerable inconvenience for 
 supplies. In future I shall act upon the experience 
 acquired during this gypsy expedition, and pay greater 
 attention to the commissariat. 
 
 I find, too, that Meg is not strong enough for the 
 work she has to do ; so on a future expedition I must 
 have two horses. For this once I hired a leader at 
 the King's House, to climb the hill. 
 
 I pitched my tent, then, by the granite stream. It 
 was the finest study of granite I had yet found. The 
 clear water ran swiftly in its smoothly-polished chan- 
 nels, down at the bottom of its deep and narrow 
 crevices. And the color of the rock ! how exquisite ! 
 Stern, and hard, and cold as it was, older a hundred 
 times than the Pyramids or the Sphinx, it had the 
 hues of the dawn and the rose. And down in its rjal- 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 lowed basins the water lay clear as the pale green sea, 
 and the granite seemed to glow with a ruddier hue 
 when it rose to the air out of the cold waters, as if 
 those flames lingered in its substance yet that made 
 it fluid as the sea, an infinite ocean of fire, far back 
 in the immeasurable past. But the pale gray lichen 
 spreads on it now, and the sweet waters flow over it, 
 and the naked foot of the shepherd treads it, and the 
 snows of winter rest upon it perennially in the moun- 
 tains, and the water does not fly off in hissing clouds 
 of steam, but lies still in the polished basins ; and the 
 bare sole of the shepherd's foot presses it unscathed, 
 and the snow melts not from its hollows on the hills, 
 for the great globe has cooled, like a cannon-ball from 
 the casting. 
 
 In the evening the weather had improved, and I got 
 a few photographs on the papers already sensitized at 
 Glen Coe. It was a beautiful moonlight night, with 
 a sharp frost. During the night I got up very often 
 to look after my negatives, which were developing 
 slowly. The waxed-paper process is tedious and un- 
 satisfactory. In the morning I was up very early 
 photographing, and getting color memoranda. I de- 
 veloped my negatives afterwards on my road home. 
 I found that one was really valuable, and the rest 
 nearly worthless. 
 
 The waxed-paper process is in one respect more 
 striking than the wet collodion. I mean it its prop- 
 erty of retaining the undeveloped image. When, at 
 the end of my day's march, far from the scene where I 
 had exposed the papers in the camera, I took them 
 from my portfolio at night, I often gazed long and 
 wonderingly on the white waxed paper, paper as 
 
A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 157 
 
 blank and void as when it came fresh from the mill. 
 Then I laid each in the bath, ignorant of what image 
 would come there ; and slowly a faint chocolate tinge 
 appeared here and there on the white surface, and 
 then, amongst the strange patches of brown, a pale, 
 ghostly image became dimly visible, the phantom of 
 some scene I had passed that day, and this pale phan- 
 tom-scene grew more and more defined, but with all 
 the natural conditions reversed, the most brilliant light 
 represented by the intensest black, and the deepest 
 points of shade left in perfectly stainless paper, over 
 which the acid brooded powerless ; and the objects at 
 the right hand were changed to the left, and still, with 
 all this reversal of natural order, how marvellously 
 truthful those images were as they seemed to rise out 
 of the paper, and fix themselves upon it, like the 
 magic pictures of an enchanter ! It is a wonderful 
 quality, indeed, of this sensitized waxed paper that it 
 shall retain so long an accurate image, utterly invisi- 
 ble ! There is a strange analogy between this and the 
 action of the memory. The image is impressed on 
 the leaves in the brain, but is laid aside quite blank 
 in the portfolio. Years hence some circumstance shall 
 arise that shall flood that forgotten sheet with a magi- 
 cal developing fluid, and the images shall come forth, 
 as those wonderful w T aters flow over it, clear in every 
 detail, till we shall be startled and frightened at its 
 fidelity ! 
 
 My habit of stopping to sketch on the road pro- 
 duced quite a little collection of memoranda — things 
 of no use whatever to paint from, being far too slight 
 for that, yet excellent practice in their way, as a prep- 
 aration for sterner mountain-drawing. The photo- 
 
158 A Gypsy Journey to Glen Coe. 
 
 graphs I find to be practically of no use. I might 
 have known this before, if I would have condescended 
 to try to copy one ; but though I saw no harm in get- 
 ting a photographic memorandum of something I had 
 myself seen and studied in nature, I had determined 
 in my own mind that no artist could wisely copy pho- 
 tographs taken by other people of places he had never 
 seen.* This distinction always appeared to me very 
 clear indeed, not so much as regarding the interest of 
 the purchaser of the picture as the painter's own inter- 
 est. Whoever buys a picture buys it with his eyes 
 open, and it is his own fault if he cannot tell whether 
 it is good or worthless without being told the history 
 of its construction. But I considered that a painter who 
 painted from bought photographs, instead of studying 
 nature for himself, would cheat himself out of the 
 study he so missed, and thus be by far the greater loser 
 of the two. 
 
 As to other matters, I came to the conclusion that a 
 camp, to be kept in the highest degree of efficiency, 
 ought to be systematically provisioned, because the 
 physical work of everybody out in camp is exceedingly 
 heavy, and Englishmen are quite worthless without 
 
 * I leave this just as it was written. Subsequent investiga- 
 tion has convinced me that no artist should ever copy a photo- 
 graph at all, though most artists do, more or less. But as 
 memoranda of isolated natural facts, photographs are invalu- 
 able. By seeking only for one fact in each photograph, you 
 may get, in a large collection, a rich encyclopaedia of facts of 
 form. In this way the photograph is very useful to all stu- 
 dents of nature ; not otherwise. It can never replace good 
 drawing, and is valueless for pictorial purposes, on account 
 of its defective scale of light, and its false translation of color 
 into shade. I will explain this at length hereafter. 
 
A Gypsy yourney to Glen Coe. 
 
 159 
 
 good keep. There was Thursday, for instance, as 
 strong and hearty a fellow as you would wish to see 
 on a Lancashire moor, quite knocked up at the end of 
 our journey, as soon as the cold chicken and mutton- 
 chops ran short ; and, as to a painter, his work from na- 
 ture is in itself exceedingly fatiguing, and the slightest 
 derangement of health is fatal to all such labor as that. 
 After a little more experience, when my plans are 
 definitively arranged, I think it probable that I shall 
 reach a high degree of efficiency in the art of camp- 
 life, and conduct successfully extended expeditions. 
 Already we are far sharper and livelier than we used 
 to be. 
 
 We got home at last, quite ravenous. A week's 
 gypsying is good for the appetite. 
 
i6o 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CONCERNING MOONLIGHT AND OLD CASTLES. 
 
 SOME of the prettiest and most popular lines in the 
 " Lay of the Last Minstrel " are the well-known 
 ones in which the tourist who would see fair Melrose 
 right is counselled to 
 
 "visit it by the pale moonlight; 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray." 
 
 I knew all Scott's best poetry by heart when I was 
 a boy, and these lines had, I remember, an especial 
 charm for me in those days. I did not perceive then, 
 what I know now, that this is one of the few passages 
 in the writings of Scott in which the color is false and 
 the sentiment affected. The ivory and silver were 
 very pretty in the poetry, when I did not know that 
 Melrose was red, and the preference of moonshine 
 to sunshine highly poetical and just, before I knew 
 that the Minstrel was so little in earnest on the subject 
 as never to have, once taken the trouble to drive over 
 from Abbotsford and see Melrose for himself, as he 
 had so warmly recommended everybody else to see it ; 
 whereas I, poor enthusiast as I was, befooled by the 
 Northern Wizard, had put myself to considerable in- 
 convenience to do his bidding. Still, as everything 
 has its use, this disappointment led me to study color 
 
Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles* 161 
 
 in moonlight far more attentively than I had ever 
 thought of doing before. Formerly I had accepted, 
 without question, the popular conception of moon- 
 light — the colorless ivory and ebony ideal. But 
 Melrose taught me much. I got into die ruins fur- 
 tively, one moonlight night, clambering the wall with 
 a school-boy's eagerness, my head full of an endless 
 music of melodious rhyme, expecting to see before 
 me, in magnificent reality, a vast abbey, whose 
 imagery was edged as with silver, and whose but- 
 tresses were alternately built as of ebon and ivory — 
 a fair white fane standing in the moonlight like a 
 poet's vision. 
 
 Well, it was very beautiful, certainly, but not in that 
 way. I have since seen the sculptured pavilions of 
 the new Louvre, white as alabaster in the full moon, 
 whilst the long row of lighted windows in the dark 
 old Tuileries told of an imperial festival in the hall of 
 the Ambassadors. Silver or ivory would be a per- 
 missible material wherewith to construct a simile if 
 one were describing this moonlit palace of new white 
 stone, fresh from French quarries, just carved all over 
 by sculptors yet alive.* But Melrose never looked 
 like ivory at its newest, still less so many centuries 
 after the death of its builders. The local color of 
 Melrose bears a closer resemblance to common Lon- 
 don brick than to ivory. So I, poor simple youth, 
 
 * And yet, even already, this is no longer true. At the 
 time I speak of, the stone was only just carved, the scaffolding 
 only just removed. But now, when I copy out this manuscript 
 for the press, the new Louvre is already gray, and no moon 
 that will ever shine on that palace henceforth will have the 
 power of again realizing Scott's ideal of moonlight. 
 II 
 
1 62 Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 
 
 saw my illusion destroyed by a single glance, and 
 have remembered ever since that the moon respects 
 local color, and does not translate everything into 
 black and white, like an engraver. 
 
 The moon respects local color, yet modifies it. 
 Other changes are also produced by the transient 
 color and condition of the atmosphere ; so that, as 
 in all art-criticism, it is a difficult task to arrive at 
 any positive laws which can be stated definitively 
 in words. For instance, one of the most commonly 
 known laws about reflection is, that the reflection of 
 any object in water is darker than the object itself; 
 but an ignorant person who had found this law in 
 some critical work would inevitably commit himself 
 if he attempted to apply it indiscriminately, for it 
 often happens that reflections are very much paler 
 than the objects reflected, merely because there is a 
 thin stratum of mist on the surface of the water ; and 
 this mist may be so thin, and lie so level on a calm 
 lake, as to be utterly imperceptible in itself, and only 
 recognizable by an experienced landscape-painter, 
 on account of the refection being somewhat paler 
 than usual. 
 
 Moonlight on ruined castles and glittering lakes is 
 the favorite subject of the very worst painters. They 
 paint it by recipe. I have seen pictures of moonlight 
 which were executed in a London picture manufactory 
 on that recognized Commercial principle of division of 
 labor which is so scientifically applied to the produc- 
 tion of a pin. I was informed by a person in the 
 secret that these works of art were, each of them, pro- 
 duced by a series of workmen — a draughtsman, a 
 dead-colorer, a man for details, a glazer, a scumbler, 
 
Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles, 163 
 
 and a finisher. The result of their successive labors 
 had that skilful hardness and decision peculiar to pure 
 handicraft. The question occurred to me how many 
 of these mechanics had ever seen a ruined castle by 
 moonlight. Theirs was the ivory and ebony ideal — 
 the pianoforte fingerboard ideal, as one may say — 
 where buttress and buttress alternately seem framed 
 of ebon and ivory. The moon shed a flood of light 
 on the rippling water, broad at the spectator's feet, 
 and narrowing itself gradually as it receded to a 
 vanishing point in the distance, according to the 
 orthodox laws of perspective, and in direct reversal 
 of the facts of nature. I am afraid that this great 
 modern principle of the division of labor is, after all, 
 better applied to the production of pins than pictures. 
 
 Not being myself willing to wreck any reputation I 
 might hereafter have to acquire on those mysterious 
 moonlit waters which so few have sailed with success, 
 I determined long ago to let no amount of personal 
 inconvenience prevent me from studying moonlight 
 thoroughly from nature ; and when sober people are 
 gone to bed, and the moon high in heaven silvers the 
 broad waters, I often take Thursday with me, and a 
 solitary white sail flies all night long from island to 
 island, a lonely wanderer of the waves. 
 
 I always take a note-book with me on these oc- 
 casions, and, when the moonlight is not strong enough 
 to write by, have a little lamp on deck to illumine its 
 pages whilst I cover them with hasty memoranda. 
 Then the next day I try to approach in oil color the 
 hues I have studied in nature, and, after many ig- 
 nominious failures, am just now beginning to see 
 why so few painters can manage moonshine. Grave 
 
164 Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 
 
 gentlemen of a practical turn of mind may think 
 these midnight voyages very silly and enthusiastic 
 enterprises, and maids who love the moon may think 
 them very romantic. They were undertaken, per- 
 haps, with an artist's enthusiasm at first, and since 
 pursued not without some feelings of romance. For 
 art cannot be attempted successfully without strong 
 enthusiasm, nor what is best in nature felt without 
 some sense of her deep and intense romance ; but 
 neither the one nor the other is an illusion. My work 
 from nature is no more the result of illusion than the 
 work of any other naturalist. The art of landscape- 
 painting is not to be learned within brick walls. 
 When I am out with my memorandum-books amongst 
 these islands at two o'clock in the morning, I am 
 working just as hard at my profession as a London 
 lawyer at his, who at the same hour is immersed in 
 the details of a case before a lamplighted ocean of law 
 papers. Few people can understand this now, so that 
 I always expect such voyages to be attributed to freak, 
 which, as I am aware, is the explanation that most 
 readily presents itself to others, and is, indeed, very 
 generally adopted by my friends and neighbors. But 
 people will understand these things one day, when 
 they shall come to perceive that true art is not a 
 school-giiTs pastime, as they think now, but a man's 
 pursuit, which, like any other worthy and noble 
 occupation, requires the sternest devotion of all his 
 energies. 
 
 One bright evening late in September, I set out, 
 after dinner, for Kilchurn, to get a series of observa- 
 tions on moonlight color ; for I had studied Kilchurn 
 closely enough to remember the ordinary daylight 
 
Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 165 
 
 color of every part of it. Dugald and Thursday 
 rowed, for the water was like glass. Gradually the 
 exquisite little island of Fraoch Elan grew larger and 
 larger, and then detached itself from its twin sister 
 island, and the two dropped gently astern like islands 
 in a panorama. Then companies of white mists in 
 pillar-like shapes, about as tall as human beings, 
 glided over the smooth floor of water like a proces- 
 sion of ghosts. When we got to Kilchurn, and had 
 safely passed the bar at the entrance of the bay, we 
 floated quietly out into the midst, and Kilchurn stood 
 before us in the full, mellow light of the moon. 
 
 A shallow mist had flooded the broad pastures by 
 the Orchay. Gradually it crept across the bay. It 
 was not above a foot deep, but all the reflections 
 turned j)ale suddenly. Even the stars themselves 
 became ruefully wan down there in the water, and 
 the mountains were mere ghosts of mountains. 
 
 The stones of the masonry were all distinctly visible 
 in the keep of Kilchurn, and the color just as various 
 as in daylight, only every tint was mixed with moon- 
 gray. The grass at the foot was of a grayish-green, 
 glistening with dew. There was very little purple or 
 blue of a positive kind, though a true picture of that ■ 
 scene might appear bluish by contrast with pictures 
 of sunshine if hung near to such pictures in a gallery, 
 or by contrast with the sunshine itself, as it plays on 
 the warm furniture of a dining-room ; but as I saw 
 Kilchurn then, purple or blue were by no means its 
 pervading colors. The sky, which was intensely deep 
 and clear, was of a blue-gray, but the castle was all 
 subdued pale greens and gray gold. The shadows 
 were without detail, and soft in outline ; the detail, 
 
1 66 Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 
 
 where visible, seemed more mysterious and unintelligi- 
 ble than in daylight, but not less abundant. Every 
 observation I find in the note-book I took with me, 
 and every sentence scribbled on the sketches I made 
 that night, seem like hostile criticisms on popular pic- 
 tures — not, however, on such works as Turner's little 
 study of warm moonlight at Millbank, done as far back 
 as 1797 ; nor the Eve of St. Agnes by Mr. Hughes; 
 least of all on Landseer's illustration of the Midsum- 
 mer Night's Dream. 
 
 Landing under the keep, I walked to a little distance 
 from the north-east angle, and sat down there to watch 
 the changes in the aspect of the castle, as a pure, white 
 mist from the River Orchay became gradually denser. 
 A little aspen near me came with fairy-like delicacy 
 against the sky, and contrasted well with the massive 
 breadth of the keep. No detail whatever of masonry 
 was visible now — only a sort of gray roughness. The 
 moon shone through all the barrack windows (from 
 the inside, for there was no roof), and corresponding 
 spots of light lay in their places in the great shadow 
 under the north side. Some trees at the west end re- 
 ceded like phantoms into vacancy. The whole castle 
 now became a pale, mighty phantom, and certainly I 
 never saw it under a more poetic aspect. Londoners 
 are familiar enough with effects of fog ; but rows of 
 hideous brick houses seen through a filthy Thames 
 miasma do not take that hold on the imagination which 
 I confess Kilchurn conquered over mine when I saw 
 her silent towers fading away like a dream in the 
 moonlight, as the pure exhalations of the Orchay 
 gathered in a great white cloud around her. 
 * The legend of Kilchurn is very beautiful and affect- 
 
Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 167 
 
 ing ; I have told it already in verse (in " The Isles of 
 Loch Awe"), and cannot repeat it here in prose. 
 Legends of that sort are scarcely fit for prose, which 
 lets the sweet essence escape. 
 
 The old castle, like most old buildings, has* been 
 ruined by man, and not by time. Henry the Eighth, 
 Oliver Cromwell, blundering stewards, and apathetic 
 proprietors, are the real authors of most of the ruins in 
 Britain. With a little friendly care and attention a 
 strong building will last a thousand years, but a fool 
 will demolish it in a day. Kilchurn is a ruin merely 
 because an economical steward thought the roof-timber 
 would come in very well for the new castle at Tay- 
 mouth, and so carried it thither. But he had omitted 
 to measure the beams, which turned out to be too 
 short, and therefore, of course, useless. Then, when 
 the roof was off, the old castle became a general stone 
 quarry, and furnished stones ready cut to all the farm- 
 ers who chose to steal them. And the new inn at 
 Dalmally, and the queer little sham Gothic church 
 over the bridge, being erected some time afterwards, 
 the now ruined castle furnished hewn stones to both 
 those edifices. There is not a fragment of wood in all 
 Kilchurn ; there is not one step left there of all its 
 winding stairs. Yet, in the forty-five, the building 
 was garrisoned against the Prince ; and in the latter 
 end of the last century there were tapestry on the walls, 
 and wine in the cellar, and a casque and shirt of mail 
 still hung on the walls of the armory. Alone with 
 these relics lingered one old servant as housekeeper. 
 She was the last inhabitant. Some domestics might 
 have objected to the situation. Fancy a London house- 
 keeper shut up alone in a great ghostly feudal castle on 
 
1 68 Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 
 
 a narrow island rock, with waves roaring round it in 
 the long northern winter nights, and the sobbing wind 
 flapping the figured tapestry, and rattling the armor 
 in the armory ! Not an attractive place, certainly, and 
 scarcely likely to suit one of those numerous applicants 
 whose advertisements crowd the columns of the Times. 
 I think, if I had been the old housekeeper, I should 
 have paid frequent visits to the wine cellar. 
 
 Fifteen miles from Kilchurn is the little island of 
 Anlhonnel, with its sturdy little castle, where flie great 
 Campbells lived long ago. A gentle breeze had dis- 
 persed the vapor that gathered round Kilchurn, and 
 its faithful reflections were effaced by the ripple that 
 gained strength every minute under the increasing 
 wind. It was only half past ten o'clock, and the 
 temptation to sail to Ardhonnel was irresistible. I 
 took a little boat in tow at Innistrynich, filled with 
 camp necessaries, and soon sped with a full sail before 
 a vigorous breeze. It was pleasant to lie on deck in 
 a buffalo-skin, and smoke a meditative pipe, as I 
 watched the moonlight dancing on the waves, and the 
 changing forms of the mountains. The shores were 
 so vague and mysterious that I could scarcely see a 
 recognizable detail, and yet so infinitely full and rich 
 that, except in the shadows, there was nothing like 
 vacancy. What baffles bad painters when they at- 
 tempt moonlight is this mystery both of color and 
 form. Color is subdued in moonlight ; so men whose 
 senses are dull think there is no color at all : detail is 
 confused in moonlight ; so they think there is no detail. 
 But a moonlight picture requires just as much paint- 
 ing as to color, and drawing as to form, as a sunlight 
 one. The hues are as various as in sunlight, and the 
 
Concerning Moonlight and Old CastleS. 169 
 
 detail as infinite, only the hues are under a magic 
 spell, and the detail thrown into an inextricable con- 
 fusion. But so far from moonlight being easier to 
 paint than sunlight, it is, if possible, more difficult ; 
 for ten men can paint a positive, visible fact that the 
 eye can lay hold of, for one man who can render the 
 subtlety of that mystery which the imagination alone is 
 qualified to apprehend. 
 
 I think never lover doted on a mistress as I on these 
 landscapes. I am never tired of watching them ; I can 
 never have enough. Never yet have I been able to go 
 to bed on a bright moonlight night without a secret 
 pang, as if it were a sin not to sit forever at the divine 
 spectacle ; and even then I open my shutters, that the 
 moon may look into my room, and I on her white 
 clouds. How intense and deep the sky is around her ! 
 how soft are the white exhalations ! And as one is 
 passing before her, see how its edge burns with pale 
 crimson and violet ! O, who shall penetrate the eter- 
 nal mystery of the night? what poet shall ever exhaust, 
 what painter worthily imitate, its splendors? 
 
 Soon after midnight we found ourselves off Port 
 Sonachan ; but it was three in the morning when the 
 boat glided under the shadow of Ardhonnel, between 
 the castled island and the shore. The men immedi- 
 ately pitched the tents, and I busied myself with writ- 
 ing observations in my note-book, intending at some 
 future period to paint the castle as I saw it then. The 
 moon was golden now, and near her setting ; she hung 
 over the opposite shore of the lake, and laid a long, 
 unquiet path of light across it. Her warm, low light 
 glanced across the thick ivy on the castle wall. 
 
 Ardhonnel is an exquisite little island. There is 
 
170 Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 
 
 just room enough upon it for the narrow stronghold, 
 and no more. A few trees, stately in form and heavy 
 with foliage, stand to the east of the building, and the 
 building itself is covered all over with ivy. In the 
 trees there dwells a colony of rooks, and in the ivy an 
 owl. These are the only garrison of the ancient for- 
 tress of Argyll. 
 
 My tent was soon ready ; so when the moon had set 
 I shut up my memorandum-book and went to bed ; 
 that is, rolled myself up in a buffalo-skin. I was busy 
 again at sunrise, making a study of color and taking 
 photographs. Ardhonnel is magnificent at sunrise ; 
 its light-and-shade is so powerful, and its color so rich. 
 When the massive towers are relieved thus vigorously, 
 and reflected in every detail down in the calm water, 
 it is one of the most effective studies in the Highlands. 
 
 Long ago, when Ardhonnel was a strong fortress 
 full of warlike men, like a ship of war anchored for- 
 ever in an inland sea, the sentinel pacing the bat- 
 tlement at sunset fancied he heard a faint cry from 
 the mountains. Very likely he paused a minute and 
 looked in the direction of Loch Avich, then, hearing 
 nothing more, resumed his measured beat. 
 
 An hour has elapsed, and the sun has set. The 
 sentinel stops again suddenly ; this time, too, he has 
 heard a cry, but nearer and clearer than before, and so 
 piteous, that he is thoroughly interested now. 
 
 A boat leaves the island. The -rowers pull -vigor- 
 ously across the lake. Just as they reach the mouth 
 of the little River Avich, which flows from Loch Avich 
 down to Loch Awe, there is a rush of men in the green 
 copse as of hunters after their prey. 
 
 The boat scrapes the pebbles. Out of the copse 
 
Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles. 171 
 
 rushes a beautiful woman, clad like a chieftain's wife. 
 She leaps into the boat and falls down exhausted. 
 The rowers push off instantly ; the pursuers reach the 
 shore too late. The lady is saved. 
 
 " 'Tis a far cry to Loch Awe ! " said the sentinel who 
 had saved her. 
 
 And they told the story in the country round about, 
 how the wife of Mac Dougal of Lorn had fled from 
 her husband who threatened her life, and how, when 
 she came to the hill above Loch Avich, whence her 
 father's castle of Ardhonnel first became visible in the 
 far distance, she had cried for help in her agony, flee- 
 ing before her pursuers. Then all the people won- 
 dered, and thinking that no earthly power had brought 
 her cry so far, they said one to another, " Far is the 
 cry to Loch Awe ! " 
 
 And the lady's brother went out to the Holy War, 
 and, being in Egypt on his way, was surrounded by 
 Saracens ; so he cried for help. But one of his com- 
 panions sarcastically quoted the common saying, " Far 
 is the cry to Loch Awe ! " 
 
 And another chief of the Campbells, in battle in the 
 north of Scotland, told his men how they had to rely 
 on themselves alone, for, said he, " 'Tis a far cry to 
 Loch Awe, and far help from Cruachan ! " 
 
 So the saying passed into a proverb, and became the 
 watchword of the clan Campbell. 
 
173 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 1859. 
 
 I WILL not trouble the reader with details of studies 
 always pursued in scenes with which he is already 
 familiar. It cannot interest anybody to know the in- 
 significant details of an uneventful life. I have had 
 many difficulties to contend against, which may lead, 
 ultimately, to conclusions of some value to others who 
 pursue the same objects ; but these conclusions cannot 
 be fully stated as yet, nor in this place. For instance, 
 with regard to photography in its relation to landscape- 
 painting. Nobody has ever yet answered the often- 
 suggested question how far photography may be useful 
 to the landscape-painter ; and whether, under certain 
 limitations, he can wisely practise it himself. Nor can 
 I answer this question yet, in any decisive way. I have 
 hitherto only practised the waxed-paper process, and 
 cannot speak authoritatively of the limitations of the 
 wet collodion. Besides, I perceive that photographs 
 taken for especial purposes, as memoranda, may be 
 useful to a degree which as yet nobody has any idea 
 of, for such photographs are not to be had in the mar- 
 ket, where they would be unsalable, except to artists. 
 
 Again, with reference to the study of nature, I dare 
 not as yet advance definite opinions, because my object 
 is so new, that the experience of my predecessors is of 
 little assistance, except in merely technical matters. 
 
The Pool of Death. 173 
 
 For instance, Turner's way of study, good for an ima- 
 ginative painter, is not exact enough for a topographic 
 one ; just as in literature, the degree of accuracy in 
 historical facts which suffices for the poet or the nov- 
 elist is quite unsatisfactory to the historian. On the 
 other hand, what is known as the pre-Raphaelite 
 system, of doing all from nature, is obviously inap- 
 plicable to transient effects. Between these two some 
 other system will have to be ultimately traced out, and 
 I am making experiments to that end, which include 
 the painting of a good many pictures, so that it is not 
 likely I shall be able for some time to offer any definite 
 conclusions on this subject either. In the mean time, 
 my journeys are limited to twenty miles from home. 
 
 In my private note-books for this year I find only 
 two passages likely to interest anybody but myself : 
 the first is a description of a beautiful pool, where 
 two young men were drowned when bathing, and 
 the other an account of the coming of the first rain- 
 clouds across the Atlantic after the long drought, 
 which I was fortunate enough to witness from the 
 summit of Ben Cruachan. 
 
 THE POOL OF DEATH. 
 
 The weather here is terribly hot still. I have ex- 
 plored all the streams in the neighborhood in search 
 of a good bath, and have at last found one. It is five 
 miles from here, but I ride that distance willingly to 
 enjoy a swim in its clear, sweet waters. 
 
 I found the pool out by accident. Not very far 
 from Dalmally a little stream glides under the road, 
 as it slips away noiselessly by the thick hedgerows till 
 
i74 
 
 1859. 
 
 it buries itself finally in the broad Orchay. A few 
 hundred yards higher this stream passes through some 
 of the very richest rock scenery I know anywhere. 
 The dell is dark and narrow. The slender stream 
 runs under and over huge masses of rock ; but there 
 are marks on those masses which prove the force of 
 mightier floods — holes, broad, deep, and regular, 
 bored as smoothly as a cannon's mouth, by the whirl- 
 pools of ten thousand winters. After studying these 
 exquisite subjects with the delight of a painter who 
 has loved streams since childhood, I continued to 
 climb higher, and came at last quite suddenly on the 
 most delicious natural bath I ever saw in my life. It 
 was surrounded on three sides by walls of perpen- 
 dicular rock. Over one of these walls fell the whole 
 stream in one narrow waterfall of intense and silvery 
 whiteness. The pool itself was deep under the water- 
 fall, and the bottom rose gradually to within five or 
 six feet from the surface ; but the water was so clear 
 that every pebble was distinctly visible. 
 
 One of my neighbors, who followed a little behind, 
 now joined me. He had never seen the pool before, 
 but immediately recollected that two young men had 
 been drowned there. No one ever died in a more 
 lovely place. One could easily fancy their fair young 
 bodies, pale and cold as marble, lying deep under the 
 crystalline waters like sunken statues, motionless, when 
 their bereaved friends found them, some bright after- 
 noon in summer. The stream fell into the quiet pool 
 with the same sweet music the day of their death, no 
 doubt. The blue sky canopied them with a color as 
 bright and gay, the merle sang over them in the silver 
 birch, and nothing in Nature mourned for them. But 
 
The Coming of the Clouds. 
 
 *75 
 
 down in the village, one or two dark huts were darker 
 and sadder that night, and for many a day from that 
 date the murmur of the unthinking rivulet must have 
 sounded in the ear of the mourner like the confused 
 mutterings of a remorseful murderer. 
 
 THE COMING OF THE CLOUDS. 
 
 The summer of 1859 wm * l° n g be remembered in 
 the Highlands for its African drought. Towards the 
 middle of June, the thin soil was parched like the 
 desert all over the country ; the grass was baked 
 brown in the pastures, the cattle were dying of thirst ; 
 water was carried in boats from the main land to the 
 islands in the w T estern sea, for all their springs were 
 dry. Dunoon was supplied with w r ater from Gree- 
 nock. The crops would not grow. Day after day the 
 blazing sun stared with his hot eye unveiled upon us. 
 One afternoon, as I was painting from nature, I had 
 the curiosity to ascertain the actual heat of the sun's 
 rays where I was sitting at work, and found it to be a 
 hundred and ten degrees. And this heat lasted for 
 months. Most of the streams were dried up entirely, 
 and remained mere stony beds, giving geological evi- 
 dence of aqueous action at some indefinite period of 
 the earth's history. The lake receded from its shores, 
 and shrank daily within a space that grew narrower 
 and narrower, till the inhabitants of Loch-Awe-side 
 began to wonder whether their loch was not going to 
 evaporate altogether. At last a day came, the 17th of 
 June, so ineffably clear and brilliant that you might 
 see every stone on the crests of the highest mountains, 
 as if one could have touched them by stretching out a 
 
176 
 
 1859. 
 
 hand. Aerial perspective was annihilated. The eye, 
 accustomed to the broad, well-defined spaces of misty 
 weather, was utterly at fault in judging of distance. 
 Seen from Innistrynich Island, the peak of Cruachan 
 seemed to belong to Ben Vorich ; yet there is a chasm 
 between them two thousand feet deep and two miles 
 across, as a bird flies. I could not resist the tempta- 
 tion to climb the mountain on such a day. 
 
 When we got into the corrie, I was more and more 
 confirmed in the hope of seeing all that magnificent 
 panorama which, on rare occasions, is visible from 
 the summit of Ben Cruachan. The rugged outlines 
 of the mountain stood clear and sharp against the 
 deep azure of the sky ; and in the pastures near the 
 summit of Ben Vorich every stone and every tuft of 
 grass were visible. 
 
 At last we gained the summit, and as Thursday 
 was arranging a few provisions he had brought in his 
 haversack, I adjusted my telescope and looked round 
 me. In the south, far beyond the remotest hills, the 
 blue Lowland plain lifted itself to the sky. I saw the 
 great expanse of Loch Awe glittering in the bright 
 sunshine. There was not a detail hidden. The 
 whole valley was burning and parching, as it had 
 done for three terrible months, except where the nar- 
 row lake lay wasting in its stony bed, day by day. 
 
 But the hour of deliverance was at hand. The isles 
 of the sea were darkened by a gloom of vapor that 
 came heavily over the Atlantic. Shining clouds of 
 silvery brilliance were built like glittering domes on 
 the peaks of the thirsting islands, ready to melt them- 
 selves into numberless streams. The black masses of 
 rain-cloud behind came fast over the sea-encircled 
 
The Coming of tJie Clouds. 
 
 177 
 
 mountains, summit after summit was hidden, island 
 after island was ingulfed in the advancing vapors. 
 At last a shred of white mist came whirling over our 
 heads within six feet of us, and was gone with the 
 speed of an eagle in wild flight over the abyss. It 
 was the pioneer of a great army of clouds that invaded 
 the shores of Scotland beneficently that day. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards came two other shreds of 
 mist, whirling and tumbling till they dashed fairly 
 against the sharp peak of the mountain, and then, 
 gathering themselves together, rushed on to the south. 
 And then the glittering sea became dim, and the sun 
 himself was shorn of his dazzling rays, and looked 
 through the mist with a round, white face, like the 
 moon's, and that was the last glimpse we had of him ; 
 for in a few seconds the whole ocean of Atlantic vapor 
 was upon us, tumbling and wreathing itself, and tear- 
 ing and surging with mad velocity, till it overwhelmed 
 the whole chain of the Grampians in one deluge of 
 gray mist. 
 
 The view by this time being strictly confined to 
 half a dozen gray stones, a few broken bottles (relics 
 of tourists who, not having the fear of Ruskin before 
 their eyes, had eaten lunch on the mountains instead 
 of saying their prayers), and other matters of familiar 
 detail of a like interesting nature, I determined to 
 descend, which we could still do with perfect safety, 
 as we could see at least six feet before us ; which, as 
 Thursday observed, " is plenty for somebody 'at isn't 
 reight gaumless." 
 
178 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I. 
 
 BEN CRUACIIAN ON A DECEMBER EVENING. 
 
 LL the hills are thickly covered with snow, deli- 
 
 -^A- cately finished by the wind as a sculptor finishes 
 a statue. Every now and then I can see a little wreath 
 of what looks like intensely white smoke rising into 
 the thin evening air from the edge of the great preci- 
 pice near the summit of Cruachan ; it leaves the slope 
 of the mountain outline rather slowly at first, then 
 curls itself suddenly and vanishes ; it flickers like a 
 white flame. It is snow carried by contending whirl- 
 winds ; if we were in it, we should be blinded by it, 
 and think it rather a terrible phenomenon. From 
 this island it looks like a little silver flame cresting the 
 mountain with its feathery wreathing. 
 
 The sun is setting on the opposite side of the lake. 
 Every boss on the mountain casts its sharp azure 
 shadow on the snow. The great shoulder of the hill 
 throws a broad shadow into the deep corrie. It 
 would take a week for a hard-working artist to draw 
 all these shadows with tolerable accuracy. I am 
 obliged to content myself with a hasty sketch, for the 
 sun is descending. 
 
 At this moment the picture is perfect. The sky has 
 become an exquisite pearly green, full of gradation. 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 179 
 
 There is only one lonely cloud, and that has come 
 exactly where it ought. It has risen just behind the 
 summit of Cruachan, and pauses there like the golden 
 disk behind a saint's white head. But this cloud is 
 rose-color, with a swift gradation to dark purple-gray. 
 Its under edge is sharply smoothed into a clearly-cut 
 curve by the wind ; the upper edge floats and melts 
 away gradually in the pale green air. The cloud is 
 shaped rather like a dolphin with its tail hidden be- 
 hind the hill. 
 
 The sunlight 6n all the hill, but especially towards 
 the summit, has turned from mere warm light to a 
 delicate, definite rose-color ; the shadows are more in- 
 tensely azure, the sky of a deeper green. The lake, 
 which is perfectly calm, reflects and reverberates all 
 this magnificence. The islands, however, are below 
 the level of sunshine, and lie dark and cold, the deep 
 green Scotch firs on the Black Isles telling strongly 
 against the snows of Craiganunie. The island be- 
 tween here and Ben Cruachan is so thinly covered 
 with snow that the dead rusty fern shows through. 
 
 All the forest on the steep slopes of Cruachan is 
 dark purple-gray. 
 
 The lake shivers here and there where the cold 
 north wind descends upon it. Sheltered by the moun- 
 tains, the rest of its vast floor is tranced in glassy calm. 
 
 II. 
 
 LOCH AWE ON A MISTY MORNING. 
 
 All the lake excessively pale, and nearly the same 
 color as the sky, which is one sheet of tender gray. 
 
i8o 
 
 Highland Landscape, 
 
 Two promontories stand opposite each other, one ter- 
 minated by a domed hill, the other by two wooded 
 islands. 
 
 All this land is reflected quite accurately in the 
 quiet water, the only difference being, that the double 
 image is harder in the air above than in the water 
 beneath. 
 
 The reflections are not darker than the reality, be- 
 cause the thin mist coming between has paled them. 
 
 Between the two promontories there is an open 
 space of water ; nothing is visible beyond it. There 
 is a range of hills in reality, whose base is only two 
 miles beyond the promontory, but they are totally in- 
 visible. The lake, therefore, looks infinite and very 
 sublime. 
 
 III. 
 
 LOCH AWE AFTER SUNSET, OCTOBER IO, 1859, LOOK- 
 ING TO WHERE THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN. 
 
 The lake shore is all massed in rich, intense, in- 
 describable, deep brownish blackish purplish obscurity. 
 There is not one detail to be seen in it. 
 
 The distant hills on the left, however, rise in flat 
 
 gray- 
 Behind all this there is a great dim ash-colored 
 cloud, rising very high. In this ashy cloud is a great 
 rent showing golden-yellow through it, like the dress 
 of a disguised princess gleaming through a beggar's 
 rags. 
 
 Far above this yellow rent is a great opening, show- 
 ing a pale green sky, and, above this, barred rain- 
 cloud of a dun color, illumined by soft warm light 
 reverberated from the hidden gold of the sky below. 
 
Highland Landscape, 
 
 The water is quite calm for the most part, but about 
 a thousand acres of it are just now slightly rippled by 
 a soft, inaudible breeze. Wherever this breeze is 
 breathing, the reflections are of course effaced ; in its 
 stead there is a great field of a pale ash-color reflected 
 from the cloud, except the edges of the field under the 
 golem rent in the cloud, which take a narrow border 
 of bright yellow. 
 
 But in the middle of these thousand acres of breeze 
 there is one spot, perhaps in reality about a ^flindred 
 yards across, which the breeze has not touched at all : 
 it is a little isle of enchanted calm, set in a rippling sea. 
 
 There is also a promontory of calm, about three 
 hundred yards long, entering boldly into the midst 
 of the breeze, yet resting there in charmed peace, for 
 the moving zephyr leaps over it, and leaves it, as if it 
 were protected by some supernatural spell. 
 
 What the reason of this phenomenon may be I 
 leave to men of science. I should be glad to hear of 
 a satisfactory solution, but could scarcely offer one. 
 What becomes of the lost breeze? Does it die, or 
 does it rise ? It certainly leaves the water quite un- 
 touched. It is, however, enough for me as an artist 
 that the fact is so. If I were to paint no facts but 
 such as I could explain, I should not advance far. 
 And these mirrors of perfect calm inlaid in great fields 
 of ripple, are one of the most beautiful of all the 
 phenomena of water, so that I cannot help painting 
 them. It is quite incomprehensible to me that other 
 painters never attempt this effect at all. It occurs at 
 least fifty days in every year on all our great lakes. 
 
 Of course each square yard of calm surface, how- 
 ever isolated, reflects its own portion of the landscape, 
 
l82 
 
 Highland Landscape. 
 
 just as if all the rest of the lake were calm. I have 
 met with people who could not, for the lives of them, 
 make out how this should be. It is for the same 
 reason, I suppose, which makes one human being 
 sensitive to natural truth, and all the crowd round him 
 quite incapable of receiving it. The isolated human 
 soul receives nature truly, in spite of the opacity of 
 the great multitude that hems him in on every side, 
 but cannot disturb his guarded calm ; the isolated mir- 
 ror of protected water reflects the land quite faithfully, 
 though the millions of ripples round it look dull and 
 opaque as lead. 
 
 I have often gone in my boat on purpose to examine 
 these isolated calms. I have found them sometimes 
 no bigger than the floor of a good dining-room. I 
 have crossed lines of calm as narrow as the lobbies in 
 the House of Commons, and apparently quite as well 
 protected against the wind. The fishermen on Loch 
 Fyne, who have observed the phenomenon, account 
 for it by a theory that it is produced by oil rising from 
 fishes. It is certain that the thinnest film of oil will 
 prevent the wind from rzcbbing water into a ripple, 
 but this explanation seems to me quite insufficient. I 
 believe the true reason is to be sought in the peculiar 
 movements of light breezes, about which very little is 
 known. 
 
 When I put these things in my pictures, many peo- 
 ple, I find, will not believe me, as if a painter who 
 had planted himself for five years on an island in 
 Loch Awe, for the express purpose of studying the 
 phenomena of water, might not be supposed to know 
 enough of the subject to entitle him to common 
 credence. 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 183 
 
 IV. 
 
 LOCH AWE AFTER SUNSET, SEPTEMBER 23, i860, 
 LOOKING TO WHERE THE SUN HAD SET. 
 
 A line of low hills, with great woods of larch and 
 fir. Behind these, purple heather hills, ridge behind 
 ridge. All the local color, which is very rich, is sub- 
 dued and modified by gray. 
 
 Above the hills a pale green aquamarine sky grad- 
 uated to pale yellow at the horizon. A cumulus rises 
 behind the hill, and the cumulus is warm gray, edged 
 all round with burning but pale gold. Two clouds 
 above lie in level golden lines, full of light. 
 
 The water is most of it rippled pretty strongly, and 
 this ripple is all of a cold slaty gray, which seems to 
 bear no relation to the sky, nor to anj'thing else. 
 
 But in the midst of this strong ripple there are 
 spaces of an acre or two each, which are just dulled 
 by a very faint breeze, which seems independent of 
 the other and stronger breeze that causes the slate-gray 
 ripple. 
 
 Now, these little dull calms reflect the sky perfectly, 
 and they are so placed that if they were glassy calms 
 they would reflect the dark hills. 
 
 These little dull calms reflect, as I said, the sky ; con- 
 sequently they are paler than the surrounding slate- 
 gray ripple. 
 
 To complete the picture, we have a space, which in 
 reality is about a hundred yards by fifty, of perfect, 
 glassy calm, unruffled by the lightest breath of air, yet 
 surrou?zded entirely by a breeze. 
 
184 
 
 Highland Landscape. 
 
 This streak reflects a portion of the heather hills, 
 and is consequently very dark and very rich in color. 
 What is very curious about it is the exquisitely beauti- 
 ful golden edging, quite narrow, that runs nearly round 
 it like a delicate golden binding round a piece of dark 
 brown velvet, only the edging here is softly gradated. 
 This golden edging comes from the bright clouds. 
 
 Why all this should be I cannot quite positively ex- 
 plain. What makes the very narrow line between a 
 glassy calm and a breeze reflect the intensest color it 
 can find in the sky, so as to border the dark calm so 
 artistically, is more than I undertake to find reasons 
 for. But I paint this truth without hesitation, because 
 I have seen it. 
 
 V. 
 
 CRAIGANUNIE AFTER SUNSET, JULY 1 5, 1 858. 
 
 The mountain is green-gray, colder and greener 
 towards the summit. All details of field and wood 
 are dimly visible. Two islands nearer me are distinct 
 against the hill, but their foliage seems black, and no 
 details are visible in them. 
 
 The sky is all clouded over. From the horizon to 
 the zenith it is one veil of formless vapor. 
 
 At the zenith it is of a cold gray-slate color ; but 
 lower down it becomes violet, dashed all over with 
 soft wavy plumes of glowing crimson flame, as if it 
 had really taken fire and were burning underneath 
 like the rafters of a burning hall. 
 
 The water is wonderfully elaborate. There is one 
 streak of dead calm, which reflects the green mountain 
 perfectly from edge to edge of it. There is another 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 185 
 
 calm shaped like a great river, which is all green, 
 touched with crimson. Besides these there are deli- 
 cate half calms, just dulled over with faint breathings 
 of the evening air ; these, for the most part, being vio- 
 let (from the sky), except at a distance, where they 
 take a deep crimson ; and there is one piece of crim- 
 son calm near me set between a faint violet breeze 
 and a calm of a different violet. There are one or two 
 breezes sufficiently strong to cause ripple, and these 
 rippled spaces take the dull gray slate of the upper 
 sky. 
 
 Realize this picture as well as you may be able, and 
 then put in the final touch. Between the dull calms 
 and the glassy calms there are drawn thin threads of 
 division burning with scarlet fire. 
 
 This fire is of course got from the lower sky. I 
 know whence it comes, but how or why it lies in those 
 thin scarlet threads there, where it is most wanted, 
 and not elsewhere, I cannot satisfactorily explain. I 
 offer the following, however, as a solution : — 
 
 A miniature swell is produced at the edge of the calm 
 water by the neighboring ripple. This swell consists 
 of low, long wavelets, whose surfaces, not being really 
 touched by any wind, retain as perfect a polish as the 
 calm itself. On the summits of these shining little 
 waves the most brilliant light in the lower sky, what- 
 ever its color, is sure to be reflected like a low moon 
 on the sea ripple. Thus these wavelets select the 
 brightest edging of the clouds, and reflect it a million- 
 fold. These millions of reflections, w 7 hich in reality 
 are spread over a considerable surface of gently undu- 
 lating water, say five or six yards broad, and some 
 hundreds of yards long, as the case may be, are to the 
 
Highland La?zdscafte. 
 
 remote spectator massed together in one thin line of 
 intense light and color between the glassy calm and 
 the surface actually touched by the breeze. 
 
 The half calms, or dulled calms, already described, 
 appear to take their color nearly always from the sky 
 towards the horizon. The strong breezes, on the 
 other hand, take it from the zenith, owing, of course, 
 to the angle of the wavelets. What I call a dulled 
 calm is, I am inclined to believe, a surface of water 
 which has been visited by a breeze, and rippled, then 
 suddenly abandoned by it. The ripples take a long 
 time to settle away altogether into the glassy calm ; 
 in the interval they leave a very low, long swell, which 
 takes, when seen from a distance, the character I call 
 a dull calm. When a very soft breeze is just begin- 
 ning to agitate a surface of glassy calm, it will produce 
 nearly the same effect upon it. 
 
 The reader, however, is only bound to rely upon my 
 facts, not my explanations. I never state anything in 
 paint without having the fullest authority for it, be- 
 cause paint only states facts, and does not pretend to 
 account for them. But when I write, and try to find 
 reasons for the phenomena I describe, it is probable 
 that I may often be in error. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A FINE DAY IN JUNE, i860. 
 
 In perfectly serene weather, with a refreshing breeze, 
 the phenomena produced are extremely simple. The 
 atmosphere in sunny weather is rarely quite clear in 
 damp countries ; and a fine day in the Highlands gen- 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 187 
 
 erally produces vapor enough to make the hills very 
 soft and tender in outline. The type of the most 
 enjoyable Highland weather is this : The mountains in 
 their own local color, not much altered by the effect ; 
 green for the most part, and scarred with reddish, 
 or purplish, or gray rocks, all outlines soft and tender 
 and vague, still perfectly well defined even in their 
 softness. The sky, a very pale lovely blue, delicate- 
 ly gradated ; the water, if under a pleasant sailing- 
 breeze, as intensely blue as ultramarine can get it, yet 
 a very deep color, not to be got out of ultramarine 
 alone, because there are purplish browns in it pro- 
 duced by the play of the dark brown water with the 
 azure sky-reflections. Lastly, if the wind freshens, 
 all this dark blue will be flecked with snowy crests 
 of breakers. 
 
 Highland scenery is never so lovely as under this 
 aspect. It has, of course, much more power over the 
 mind when the effects are succeeding each other in 
 their strength. There are effects which are enough to 
 make one weep, and others that fill one w T ith active 
 excitement; but this soft and tender purity of the 
 wandering air, the light music of the waters as they 
 break in tiny waves all round the quiet isles, the vel- 
 vet texture of all the earth's covering, the pale azure 
 of the cloudless sky, the deep blue of "the lonely inland 
 sea, — all these things lull us into dreams of another 
 life and world ; as if these were the sapphire floors of 
 heaven, and these its isles of rest ! 
 
 The loveliness of the coloring in such weather is 
 due to the exquisite harmony of three great fields of 
 color. First, the blue of the sky, tender and pale ; 
 then the rich olive-green of the mountains, pale also, 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 yet full in color ; lastly, the deep, intense blue of the 
 water. 
 
 Nature will sometimes heighten this picture with 
 brilliant white. She will put pure white clouds in 
 the sky, and whiten her dark blue waves with foam. 
 Man does no wrong to her picture when he cleaves 
 those waves under a cloud of white canvas, scarcely 
 less lovely upon the water than Nature's own clouds 
 in the air above. 
 
 VII. 
 
 AFTER RAIN, JULY I, l86l — 9.3O P. M. 
 
 The summits of the Cruachan range are all hidden 
 in mist. The lake is not dead calm, but just subsiding 
 into it. All the breezes have died away. 
 
 There is a huge cloud at the base of Cruachan, of a 
 pale bluish gray. It is all quite clearly defined against 
 the dark hill. Its base is about sixty feet above the 
 lake at the lowest point. Its summit rises to a height 
 of sixteen or eighteen hundred feet. It is exactly 
 seven miles long. All its outline is sharp and hard, 
 except towards Kilchurn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 CALM AFTER RAIN, MAY 21, 1 86 1 8 P. M. 
 
 The sky is blue at the zenith, greenish towards the 
 horizon. Great lake clouds are rising fast, and one 
 peak is perfectly islanded by them. This summit is 
 dark purple, and as hard and definite in outline as it 
 would be possible to draw it. An enormous cloud is 
 
Highland Landscape. 189 
 
 ingulfing this mountain all round in vast billows of 
 opaque, aluminium-colored gray. 
 
 A mountain on the left has a sort of peruke, more 
 like cotton wool than I ever saw any cloud before ; 
 the crown of the hill piercing the peruke as a priest's 
 skull seems to pierce his natural head of hair when he 
 is tonsured. This mountain-top, however, is intensely 
 dark and deep in tone. 
 
 All the local coloring of the land is uncommonly 
 full and rich, on account of the recent rain. Under 
 the cloud in the far distance the hills run into an 
 azure, quite like Titian's distances. The whole light 
 is Titianesque in its solemn evening gloom. Titian, 
 however, would not have valued the pearly gray of 
 the cloud at its true worth ; it would have been too 
 cold for his feeling. Veronese would have liked it 
 better. Neither would have painted it as it is. I 
 wonder how David Cox would have interpreted it. 
 
 IX. 
 
 OCTOBER IO, 1859 9 P « M ' 
 
 At this season, Ben Cruachan is patched with 
 blood-red fields of fern. To-night it is belted with 
 a narrow girdle of white cloud, which is carried in 
 the front of Ben Vorich too, thin and light as a girl's 
 sash. In the corrie, the upper part of the mountain 
 is intensely and darkly blue. The summit is hidden 
 in pale gray rain-cloud. The lake is calm and re- 
 flects everything. 
 
190 
 
 Highland Landscape. 
 
 X. 
 
 OCTOBER IO, 1859 4.3O P.M. 
 
 The mountains are all extremely full in color after 
 rain, and this autumnal color. The distant ones 
 mingle an intense blue with all their purples. Far 
 off rises one pale gray crest, neither purple nor blue. 
 
 On the right, a thick, opaque whitish-gray cloud 
 lies low in the valley ; the mountains rising far above 
 it clearly and sharply. The cloud looks as heavy as 
 if it had been cut out of white marble. 
 
 The hills to the left have, as it were, thin scarves of 
 white semi-transparent mist floating in graceful curves 
 about their feet. 
 
 There is a great promontory jutting into the lake 
 which receives the full splendor of the setting sun, and 
 is all in one flame of red and gold autumn color, made 
 intense by late rain, .and relieved against the dark 
 mountains behind it which lie in the shadow of 
 Cruachan. This burning promontory is all reflected 
 in the calm lake. 
 
 The sunshine catches the side of Ben Vorich. The 
 anatomy of Ben Vorich comes out wonderfully under 
 slanting light, it is so muscular and complex. Its full 
 golden color in the lights is very fine to-night. 
 
 The little group of islands about Fraoch Elan is in 
 full light. 
 
 All the details of cloud and mountain are repro- 
 duced in the calm lake, but slightly brushed together 
 by an invisible ripple. 
 
 The foreground consists of trees with foliage of 
 burning gold. 
 
Highland Landscape. 1 91 
 
 Over all this splendor the sky is one roof of leaden 
 gray, elaborately carved into a thousand beams of 
 wavy cloud one behind another. In all this vast roof 
 there is only one little narrow opening, and the sky 
 seen through it is of a yellowish-gray. Towards the 
 horizon the cloud itself becomes bluer, and then 
 finally gradates also to a yellowish-gray. 
 
 XL 
 
 THE BLUE HAZE. 
 
 A landscape-painter once asked me if I had ever 
 seen the blue haze in Wales. I knew what he meant, 
 and said " Yes ; " for it is a very common effect there, 
 but a very beautiful one, and not easily forgotten. It 
 has the advantage of marking the recession of dis- 
 tances better than any other ; and, as the color is ex- 
 tremely lovely, this effect is a great favorite with artists. 
 
 It comes on here in the Highlands very often in the 
 afternoon, when the weather is calm. The skv about 
 the sun is generally very warm in tone. 
 
 Out of the blue haze all the minor hills on the flank 
 of a great mountain rise sharply one behind another, 
 paler and paler as they recede, with every interval 
 marked with a precision no other effect admits of. 
 
 I see no reason why this effect should not be gen- 
 erally intelligible. Mr. Wyld, the painter to whom 
 this work is dedicated, has rendered it often, and 
 with complete success, and buyers appear to like 
 it in his works. It is an effect admirably suited 
 to Mr. WykTs feeling for tender passages of pale 
 color, and his general love for softness of outline, 
 
192 
 
 Highland Landscape, 
 
 which is here essential to truth. It suited Turner, too, 
 who attempted it often, and Claude aimed at it in 
 some of his most delicate distances. But I cannot, 
 at this moment, call to mind any work by either 
 Turner or Claude, nor, indeed, by any other master, 
 which has interpreted this particular effect with such 
 unquestionable success as Wyld's large picture of 
 Conway. 
 
 I cannot at present refer the reader to any work of 
 my own in which this blue haze is seriously at- 
 tempted, except a large picture on which I shall 
 be occupied in the autumn of the present year 
 (1862), to be entitled " The Upper Gates of Glen 
 Etive." 
 
 XII. 
 
 A BIT OF LAKE SHORE. 
 
 It rises in three distances, one behind another. 
 
 The first consists of woods and fields, till we reach 
 a gray precipice with a velvety green bank on the top 
 of it. This part of the subject is full of various greens 
 and yellows. There are pale greens and dark greens, 
 bluish greens and yellowish greens. In this lie golden 
 fields of corn, and other fields where the gold and the 
 green contend together. These different greens and 
 golds, though they gleam as if they were strewn all 
 over with emeralds and nuggets, would be worth 
 little, comparatively, if there were not that great 
 curtain of hill just behind it, a curtain of deep pur- 
 ple heather, more intense, more precious, and more 
 lovely, than the purple of a king's mantle. 
 
 Behind it rises the third ridge, much paler, yet still 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 J 93 
 
 richly purple, only streaked and variegated with 
 greens and grays. 
 
 I am speaking quite soberly when I say that, if all 
 the velvet weavers of Lyons, and all the goldsmiths 
 in London, were set to clothe a model hill with velvet 
 and jewels, they could never match the glory of this 
 wild Highland shore. 
 
 In this miserable art of word-painting, when we 
 would convey an idea of depth and softness of lustre- 
 less color, we talk of velvet ; when of brilliant color, 
 we talk of gems. Less than a month ago I held in 
 my hand the purple velvet mantle of a crowned king, 
 good velvet enough, good as ever came from the 
 looms of Lyons. It was a handsome cloak, no doubt ; 
 but these hills are more royally clad than he who 
 w T ore it. Their purple is subtle and varied, and 
 modulated over every inch of it ; the royal mantle was 
 monotonously dyed. And as to emeralds, one dewy 
 gleam of soft short grass in a damp spot is better, so 
 far as color goes, than a whole basketful of them. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 SUNRISE IN AUTUMN. MIST RISING. 
 
 The sky is perfectly clear, quite blue, but as pale as 
 possible. 
 
 All the upper part of the hills beyond Cladich is 
 intensely clear, so that the outline seems quite hard 
 against the sky. For about a thousand feet down- 
 wards this clearness continues. All this is already in 
 full early sunshine, the color in the light being a 
 mixture of greens and reddish browns, very rich in 
 *3 
 
i 9 4 
 
 Highland Landscape. 
 
 its way ; but all the shadows are very pale, and have 
 a great deal of blue in them. 
 
 A w r ood comes down to the shore, on the left, 
 which is quite free from mist ; but between this wood 
 and the mountain a white cloud is rising. It is about 
 a thousand feet high, and cuts quite sharply against 
 the hill-side, where the top of it looks so solid and 
 so level that an imaginative person might fancy it 
 would be agreeable to ride along it on horseback. 
 
 The most beautiful and peculiar feature of this pic- 
 ture remains to be described. The mountain-crest, 
 which is in reality seven miles off as the crow 
 flies, looks quite close at hand, because it is in the 
 clear upper air. The shore of the lake, which lies 
 in the mist, seems to recede into infinite space, tree 
 behind tree, each paler and paler in the gray veil of 
 cloud. So here we have a hill whose base actually 
 appears much farther from us than its summit; 
 and yet the effect is a strangely attractive one for a 
 painter, for there is the contrast of silvery mist on 
 the lake and ineffable clearness in the upper air. 
 
 I intend to paint a picture of this effect, and shall 
 get it as true as I can ; but only for my own private 
 collection. It is quite useless to exhibit such effects, 
 because they are not understood — a most lamentable 
 impediment, for they are exquisitely beautiful, and 
 ought by all means to be recorded. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A MORNING IN MARCH. 
 
 Against a sky of pale pure green stand out the snow- 
 covered mountains. They are plated with thin snow 
 
Highland Landscape, 
 
 195 
 
 this time as a bronze statue might be plated with 
 silver. No form is lost ; every detail of the mountain's 
 muscle is so well defined that it looks as if it were all 
 carved out of supernaturally white marble. 
 
 Across a thousand hillocks, streams, ravines, bosses, 
 and buttresses, the bright early sun is shining. Every 
 shadow has its own sharp, clear, exquisite outline ; 
 and as for their color ! it is to pale ultramarine what 
 fresh mountain-snow in strong sunshine is to white- 
 lead in a garret. 
 
 Under this the lake lies gray and cold, rippled by a 
 light breeze ; and its tiny waves break on the snow- 
 covered islands with a low, monotonous music. And 
 behold ! on the high and dazzling brow of Ben Crua- 
 chan a cloud has wreathed itself suddenly, like a white 
 turban ; and, as I look, I hardly know which is the 
 whiter, the mountain or the mist. 
 
 XV. 
 
 LOCH AWE ON AN EVENING IN MARCH. 
 
 The shores and. islands are all covered. with snow, 
 yet thinly, so as to let the dark moorland appear 
 through it in a thousand fantastic streaks. The sky is 
 like lead, the lake of a dull, monotonous gray ; and the 
 cold wind comes across it from the northern moun- 
 tains in fitful, melancholy gusts. The island I live 
 upon is the foreground of the picture ; it is covered 
 thinly with snow, and dotted with heaps of dead fern. 
 The stunted oaks look sad and gray. Ben Cruachan 
 rises in the north, pale against the leaden sky, covered 
 from head to foot with half-melted snow, arrested in 
 its thawing by the night cold. 
 
196 HigJil(Z7td Landscape. 
 
 The shades deepen, the hills and islands grow 
 stranger and stranger. They are truly ghastly now, 
 like corpses of hills laid out in solemn state around a 
 desolate mere. Has my island floated away into the 
 northern sea ; and are these the hills of the dark ice- 
 world ? 
 
 It is a landscape to make one weep for mere mourn- 
 fulness — so lonely and sad it is, so utterly chilling and 
 cheerless. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A CLACHAN. 
 
 A genuine Highland clachan (hamlet) is one of the 
 most picturesque things in the world, especially just 
 after rain, when the color comes out. The houses, as 
 everybody knows, of one story only, are built of great 
 rough stones, and thatched in a rude way with rushes- 
 Considered as artificial things, they do no honor to 
 their artificers, for all their beauty is due to nature, 
 and to the poverty of the builders, who were not rich 
 enough to contend with nature. Whenever High- 
 landers are well off they cease to build picturesquely 
 altogether, the inns, and farm-houses, and kirks, being 
 uniformly square and hideous, whilst the castles of 
 the nobility are usually, if of recent date, devoid of all 
 interest, except as enduring examples of the lowest 
 bathos of the "Gothic" renaissance. If the High- 
 landers could build churches and castles as grandly as 
 they build poor men's huts, their country would be as 
 great in architecture as it is in scenery. 
 
 The poor men's huts have the sublimity of rocks 
 and hillocks. The coloring of the walls is so exquisite 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 197 
 
 that it would take a noble colorist to imitate it at all. 
 Gold of lichen, rose of granite, green of moss, make 
 the rude stones of the poor man's house glorious with 
 such color as no palace in all England rivals. And, 
 as if it were especially intended by nature that full 
 justice should be done to her fair coloring by the most 
 desirable foil and contrast, she has given the High- 
 landers peat, which they build into stacks close to 
 their habitations, and whose intense depth of mingled 
 purples and browns makes their walls gleam like 
 jewelry. And when some cottage in the clachan lies 
 empty and deserted, and the wood-work of the roof 
 rises, a grim skeleton, above the abandoned walls, 
 blacker than black, yet full of deep purples in its 
 blackness, arrangements of color become possible to 
 the painter such as the strongest colorists desire. 
 
 And all the adjuncts are so perfect. The landscape 
 about a clachan is nearly always lovely. There is 
 sure to be a gray precipice or purple hill within sight, 
 or a rocky stream, or, at any rate, a picturesque group 
 of trees. Then the people who live in it are so pic- 
 turesque. I have never in my life seen finer figure- 
 subjects than some noble groups of strong, hardy 
 children, playing about the doors of the huts, and clad 
 in all manner of admirable rags. And the very cows 
 are clothed in lovelier fur than any other cows. Noth- 
 ing in animal life is grander than a little Highland 
 bull, black as coal, and majestic as a king, marching 
 heavily, with a strong sense of his own personal 
 dignity and might. No wonder Rosa Bonheur likes 
 the Highland cattle. It is enough to drive a painter 
 half crazy with delight to see the sunshine in their fur ! 
 Then what variety of color there is in them ! You 
 
198 
 
 Highland Landscape. 
 
 have them of all colors — black, cream, tawny, red, 
 and brown, grouping with each other exactly as if 
 they were artistic cows composing grand living pic- 
 tures for our especial pleasure. 
 
 Nor is any painter likely to forget the sheep with 
 their twisted horns, that the travelling tinker will 
 make spoons of some day for the cottagers' wives. 
 And now and then he will find a goat, or even a 
 young roe-fawn from the mountains, as I have seen 
 cherished and petted by children as lovely and grace- 
 ful and active as itself. 
 
 These things shall you see about the cottages of our 
 poor peasantry ; these, and commonly also a little 
 field of corn, all green and gold in its partial ripening, 
 and laid, perhaps, by thoughtless gales. There will 
 be a little kail-yard, too — that is, a miniature garden 
 for cabbages — and a plot for potatoes. 
 
 And out of these little huts there come as fine 
 women as eyes can behold. Mighty and robust is the 
 typical Highland beauty. Her eyes are brown, like 
 the pool of a stream in the heather ; her cheeks are 
 full and florid as red apples ; her hair is of deepest 
 brown or black. Strong arms has she for labor, stout 
 legs for travel, full breasts to feed her babes. Her 
 structure is more for use than grace ; her feet are 
 large, her ankles thick, yet she is a glorious creature. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A LAKE STORM, OCTOBER, i860. 
 
 The wind is tearing the trees up by the roots. 
 There are breakers in front of my house as large as 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 199 
 
 those on the sea-shore in a fresh breeze. I think the 
 waves out on the loch are about five feet high, meas- 
 uring from the bottom of the hollows to the crests, 
 but I doubt if they are higher, though when you are 
 amongst them they look so. 
 
 I tried to get my " Britannia" (double tubular life- 
 boat) out in it, but found it impossible for Thursday 
 and me to make way against the wind, which was 
 perfectly furious. We could not have pulled out of 
 the bay to save our lives. I had the boat broadside 
 on for some time, and she bore it well. I was as 
 comfortable as if I had been in the house. 
 
 The shores of the lake are all dim monotonous 
 gray. The water looks fearfully black at times, all 
 flecked with white yeast, that flies from crest to crest 
 when caught in the air. Terrible rain-squalls cover 
 the lake from shore to shore with a sharp line of ghast- 
 ly gray, that advances in all its breadth over the great 
 black caldron of waters as fast as charging cavalry. 
 
 The hills are streaked with white streams ; there is 
 a torrent in every ravine. The distant roar of a thou- 
 sand waterfalls mingles with the loud noises of the 
 wind and waves. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A CALM DAY, MARCH 29, 1 859. 
 
 We have had several weeks of continual storms. 
 They have come from the Atlantic, like the march of 
 an infinite army. It seemed as if they would never 
 end, never have passed over us. 
 
 The last of their tumultuous host is gone. A morn- 
 ing has dawned at last, the Sabbath of the winds and 
 waves. 
 
200 Highland Landscape. 
 
 The lake lies stilled in sleep, reflecting every isle and 
 every tree along the shore, its bright plain dimmed 
 here and there by faint breezes, that remain each 
 in its place with singular constancy, as if invisible 
 angels hovered over the waters and breathed upon 
 them here and there. And under the great mountain 
 what a dark, unfathomable calm ! What utter repose 
 and peace ! It is incredible that ever wind blew there, 
 and though but yesterday this shining liquid plain was 
 covered with ten thousand crested w r aves,?and count- 
 less squalls struck it all over like swooping eagles 
 flying from every quarter of the heavens, it lies so 
 calmly to-day in its deep bed, that one cannot help 
 believing, in spite of all evidence, that thus it has been 
 from the foundation of the world, and thus it shall be 
 forever and forever ! 
 
 The hills are clothed with purple, slashed w T ith 
 green. The sky is not cloudless, but the clouds move 
 so languidly that their slowness of movement is more 
 expressive of indolence than the uttermost stony still- 
 ness. Like great ships on a rippling sea, with all 
 their white sails spread, they float imperceptibly west- 
 wards, as though they had eternity to voyage in. And 
 just under them, in blinding light, behold the shining 
 crests of snow ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A STREAM IN ACTION. 
 
 If the reader happens to possess the " The Isles 
 of Loch Awe," he w T ill find a vignette entitled the 
 " Bridge of Cladich." Its subject is a single pictu- 
 resque arch thrown high over a rocky stream, with 
 waterfalls. 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 20 1 
 
 The stream, as I said, is rocky, and the rocks are 
 very bold and high. Yet sometimes the volume of 
 water is so tremendous as to hide every rock in it, 
 even that great central mass under the bridge in the 
 vignette. 
 
 On such occasions it is worth while to stand upon 
 the bridge and look over. The water is very wild, 
 and very fierce, and very strong, yet not lawless, for it 
 follows certain forms with wonderful fidelity. The 
 rocks under it dictate the form of its flowing, and the 
 water steadily obeys. Yet there appear to be little 
 periodical pulsations and variations from the law, 
 caused by subtle minor laws. Thus, I perceive that a 
 certain jet of spray is thrown up every quarter of a 
 minute or so, at a particular spot, as regularly as the 
 action of a steam engine, and at certain statable in- 
 tervals a wave on the shore rises three inches higher, 
 then subsides to its old level. The end of an alder 
 bough is dipped in the current and thrown out by the 
 force of the water ; but the spring of the wood forces 
 it back again, and the contention of the two produces 
 an alternate movement as regular as that of a pen- 
 dulum. 
 
 In spite of the rapidity of this torrent's flowing, 
 there are parts of it nearly at rest, except their own 
 ceaseless circling in deep holes at the side. There 
 are great lumps of thick yellow yeast in these places, 
 whirling round and round. 
 
 The coloring of the water is full of fine browns and 
 yellows, good tawny rich coloring, with creamy white 
 at one end of the scale and something like fire-opal at 
 the other. 
 
 Anything like realization of water in such furious 
 
202 
 
 Highland Landscape. 
 
 action is perhaps impossible ; but I see no reason to 
 despair of a fair interpretation of its principal forms 
 and hues under a gloomy sky. The moment the sun 
 comes out on white water we are checkmated, of 
 course, because we have nothing in the color-box 
 bright enough to match it. 
 
 The enormous force of a stream like this, in full 
 action, may be best illustrated by an anecdote. 
 
 Not long ago I was rowing home from Port Sona- 
 chan at midnight, in a little open punt. The night 
 was intensely dark, and very wet. I kept near the 
 shore, and was very much astonished to find myself 
 suddenly in white water, for there was just light 
 enough to distinguish white foam from the black lake. 
 Once in this white water, I was caught, and tossed, 
 and driven about like a cork, but luckily escaped 
 being capsized, and rowed with all my might till I 
 got safely out of it. It was the River Cladich, which 
 happened to be in flood, and came out far into the 
 lake before its force was spent. 
 
 XX. 
 
 A STREAM AT REST. 
 
 Brown pools, very deep, very smooth, and very 
 quiet ; pale golden-yellow at the shallow side, where 
 not an inch of water covers the smooth pebbles ; then 
 darkening as the water deepens through all the shades 
 of gold and brown to something darker and more ter- 
 rible than mere blackness. Out of this, and all round 
 it, rise gray rocks, almost white now in the dazzling 
 weather. A thin trickling thread of water still creeps 
 
Highland Landscape, 
 
 203 
 
 on from pool to pool. Its low music is the only sound 
 I hear, except the hum of the wild bee's wings as he 
 flies down the summer stream between its banks of 
 flowers. 
 
 I had decided to <iimit myself to twenty sketches 
 when I began this chapter, and I will give no more, 
 as I know very well they are very tiresome to read. 
 But I stop short only out of consideration for the 
 reader. I could easily fill a volume as large as this 
 with such studies of Highland landscape, and a whole 
 volume of them would be needed to give any idea of 
 its immense range and variety. In this chapter I have 
 only just been able to touch upon the subject slightly. 
 I have not even analyzed the most ordinary effects of 
 rain ; but these have been often painted, and the public 
 is familiar with them. I have not mentioned a castle, 
 because descriptions of one or two of them occur in 
 other parts of the work, and for the same reason I 
 have said nothing about moonlight. 
 
 It would have been well to mention a fine chord of 
 color, found perhaps oftener in the Highlands than 
 anywhere else. 
 
 In the twilight, after sunset, before the greens of the 
 lower hills have lost any of their intensity, you will 
 constantly find, after rain, a picture arranged thus : — 
 
 Upper Sky — Filled with gray rain-clouds. 
 
 Lower Sky — A band of deep golden yellow near 
 the horizon. 
 
 Upper Hills — Intense purple (against gold in the 
 sky). 
 
 Lower Hills — Deep greens (against purple of 
 upper hills). 
 
 Water — All gray, with ripple. 
 
204 
 
 Highland Landscape, 
 
 This chord of gold, purple, and green, enclosed be- 
 tween two cold grays, is always magnificent, and the 
 lowness of the light makes it available for a painter's 
 use. 
 
 How far the Highlands may be generally useful to 
 our landscape-painters as a school of study, and what 
 effect the country is likely to have on them if they 
 study in it long, remain to be considered. 
 
 It is unfavorable to the severe study of form. The 
 forms are as beautiful as need be ; but it is difficult to 
 get a fair opportunity of drawing a mountain deli- 
 cately from head to foot, in such a cloudy climate 
 as this, unless one lives here, as I have done. 
 
 Then it needs such cumbrous defences against the 
 weather. It is unnecessary to explain this here, be- 
 cause it has been explained already in this volume. 
 
 I confess that I would not now, after five years' ex- 
 perience of the country, come here for the hard, 
 scientific study of mountain anatomy, though I hope 
 often to revisit the country to refresh my recollection 
 of it. 
 
 But for the discipline of steady work from nature 
 I shall henceforth keep to the drier climates of the 
 Continent. 
 
 This in common prudence. Hard drawing of moun- 
 tain-form is very difficult in continual mist and rain, 
 and a week of such work in a bad climate carries you 
 no farther than two days' work in a good one, whilst 
 it fatigues you more, and is incomparably more un- 
 pleasant. 
 
 This country is a wonderfully great and noble school 
 for landscape effect. Two or three years' residence in 
 it for the express purpose of studying effect would 
 
Highland Landscape. 
 
 205 
 
 be desirable for any landscape-painter with memory 
 enough to paint effects. He ought, during his resi- 
 dence here, to paint very rapidly, say about one small 
 picture a week, for the purpose of rendering as many 
 effects as possible in the time. I have lost a great deal 
 of valuable time here in trying too obstinately after 
 accuracy in for?n. A prudent artist would study form 
 thoroughly in France, and then come to the High- 
 lands to acquire a knowledge of effect, accepting such 
 form as he could easily come by, but taking no trouble 
 about it. 
 
 Local color is here less easily studied than in less 
 changeable climates, because it is nearly always al- 
 tered and interfered with by transient effects. 
 
 Transient color here is to be had in the utmost con- 
 ceivable splendor and power. 
 
 The scenery here is full of magnificent natural com- 
 position ; but that is not at all like the common com- 
 position patterns, and is so unconventional as to be 
 disliked by shallow artists. It is a good country 
 wherein to study nature's art of composition. 
 
 But I doubt whether it is prudent even for the 
 strongest men to work much from nature in this cli- 
 mate without the protection of a tent ; and even then 
 the dampness of the ground may bring on rheumatism. 
 
 All these considerations drive painters inevitably to 
 make hasty memoranda when they come here, rather 
 than careful studies. The swift and apparently rude 
 execution of Cox was, I have no doubt, brought about 
 by similar influences in Wales. Hence it is wiser in 
 pre-Raphaelite painters to select those continental cli- 
 mates where simple sunshine is the ordinary weather, 
 and the grand effects are rare. 
 
206 
 
 HigJiland Landscape. 
 
 For artists, on the other hand, who are strong 
 enough to work entirely on the Turnerian system, and 
 for whom a hasty sketch is all that is necessary, the 
 Highlands offer as noble a field as could possibly be 
 desired. It does not in the least matter to them that 
 the weather makes the accurate portraiture of moun- 
 tains difficult, because they do not attempt portraiture. 
 The form of a hill or a castle is to them of just the 
 same importance as the form of a cloud — no more ; 
 and as they walk or drive through the country, an oc- 
 casional rest for half an hour by the way is all they 
 need for sketching. 
 
20? 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A LONG DRIVE IN THE GLENS. 
 
 I THINK I understand now the philosophy of 
 carriage-keeping. 
 
 Suppose I have a precious little collection of pic- 
 tures and engravings, the interest on which represents 
 about two hundred pounds a year. 
 
 Suppose my neighbor has a handsome carriage, 
 costing him altogether about the same annual sum. 
 
 My pictures can be seen only by my friends and 
 servants. My friends, probably, think me a fool for 
 spending my money in paintings, and my servants 
 think the pictures, frames included, worth from five to 
 thirty shillings apiece, and respect me and them ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 But everybody sees my neighbor Thomson's car- 
 riage. Brilliant with silver and varnished leather, his 
 proud steeds clatter over the pavement, dazzling the 
 eyes of thousands. Every peasant knows that Thom- 
 son keeps his carriage ; every shopkeeper bows 
 Thomson's wife into that splendid vehicle. Robed in 
 state, she goeth forth like a queen to the festivals of 
 the rich, whither my wife, let us suppose, is conveyed 
 in a hired fly. All the world knows that carriages 
 are costly. Money spent in a carriage is like a beacon 
 set on a hill that all eyes behold. It is an advertise- 
 ment of wealth far more public in your own neighbor- 
 
208 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens, 
 
 hood than if you printed a daily advertisement in 
 the Tithes^ announcing your receipts, like a public 
 company. So, if you want to be respected, pinch as 
 much as you will in other things, but keep, O keep, a 
 carriage ! Let its lining be silken and soft ; let its 
 lamps be brighter than stars ; let your armorial bear- 
 ings (inherited or stolen, as the case may be) be 
 blazoned on its delicately-hung doors ! Let its han- 
 dles be of silver, and its ornaments of embossed silver. 
 Let its caparisoned steeds shake your shining crest on 
 every strap of their trappings. Then rush through 
 the sylvan lane and the crowded city, everywhere 
 shall the respect of multitudes await you ! Gentle- 
 men shall lift their hats and ladies bow and smile ; 
 rustics shall pull their unkempt locks, and tradesmen 
 bend low with reverence. 
 
 Now, my carriage commanded no man's respect. I 
 wonder why. I am sure it was a very tolerable sort 
 of carriage. And it really was very disappointing to 
 be despised after all, when I had bought Thursday a 
 pair of handsome boots, and made him sew a bit of 
 gold band round his cap (to say nothing of his green 
 jacket and beautiful brass buttons that all shone like 
 mirrors), for the express purpose of inspiring the 
 minds of the multitude with respectful awe and fear. 
 
 I am sure that it was a very capital carriage. It is 
 true that it grew like a tree, or Mr. Ru skin's great 
 book, or a Gothic cathedral, and was not designed 
 and executed all at once, like a wheelbarrow. And 
 if it could not command respect, it shall at least have 
 fame, like many a great soul whom the neighbors 
 scorned and the nations remember. 
 
 First of all it existed in the shape of a platform 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens, 209 
 
 with four wheels of equal size, like a Lancashire stone 
 wagon. The platform was intended to carry a boat. 
 It was, in fact, a boat carriage. 
 
 Then the two fore-wheels were replaced by smaller 
 ones for facility of turning. 
 
 So it remained for a long time. Then, when Thurs- 
 day's hut was taken to pieces, its walls were turned to 
 other uses. One of them became a kitchen table, and 
 the remaining three formed, with the already existing 
 platform of the wagon, a great box, measuring eight 
 feet long by three feet wide, and more than three feet 
 high — the very thing to carry camp materials in, but 
 more useful than elegant. 
 
 Then, after being jolted a few hundred miles, I 
 decided to add springs, being luxuriously desirous of 
 personal ease. It was also a question of safety. I 
 had been nearly jolted off my high seat several times, 
 and on a stony road had only one hand for whip and 
 reins, being obliged to stick to the wagon with the 
 other with all my might and main. 
 
 At the same time that I added the springs I got a 
 pole, so that I might drive a pair, and so get on faster, 
 for poor Meg went but slowly when the wagon was 
 full. 
 
 Now, the color of the carriage was peculiar. The 
 w T heels were a dark green — very respectable, indeed, 
 I am sure. But the body, being made up of Thurs- 
 day's hut, was a cool and delicate gray. Thursday's 
 hut had been originally lead color ; but as that turned 
 out too hot in the hot weather, Thursday, with his 
 own artist hand, had superposed a coat of white. For 
 facility of working he had put too much turpentine in 
 his white, and the rain had washed it partly off, show- 
 
 H 
 
2IO 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 ing the lead color underneath, as great artists often 
 leave visible the dead-coloring of a fine picture through 
 all the subsequent processes. I could compare this 
 effect on the wagon to very noble things indeed, if I 
 thought the reader would appreciate it. It looked 
 like a gray Highland mountain at twilight, on a 
 gloomy winter's evening, when the snow is scattered 
 thinly over it, and shows its lead-like substance 
 through. 
 
 But the public does not appreciate variety and 
 gradation in carriage-painting ; so I ordered the whole 
 wagon to be painted according to a tint I mixed my- 
 self, which the colorman praised extremely, and called 
 " a most beautiful wine color." 
 
 I intended to glaze it with crimson-lake when dry, 
 and rule pretty lines of vermilion all over it ; but I 
 thought it did very well as it was, and so left it the 
 plain unvarnished " wine color." It was a great error. 
 It should have been all glazed and varnished, and 
 ruled with red lines, and I ought to have had my 
 arms with all my quarterings delicately emblazoned 
 on each side ; but then, if I had had all these delight- 
 ful splendors, I should have required a new set of 
 double harness with shining scraps of electro-plate 
 upon it, and there was an expense I could not bring 
 myself to incur. So this piece of economy consigned 
 me to the condemnation of unrespectability. 
 
 For the harness was of the plainest. Plain black 
 leather, not varnished, with plain black metal-work 
 and common iron bits ; not one jot of electro-plate 
 about it. The cut of it was massive and strong, like 
 light cart harness, and in the same homely fashion ; 
 the whole turn-out looking something like a military 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 211 
 
 ambulance wagon, not in any wise like a gentleman's 
 carriage. To have transformed such an equipage into 
 a gentlemanly one would have been a costly and very 
 unsatisfactory folly. So, although the wagon was cer- 
 tainly not respectable, I determined to be contented 
 with it, such as it was, and abandoned the sw r eet 
 dream of neatly-ruled red lines, bright varnish, and 
 glittering electro-plate. 
 
 As to the horses, I still kept our old friend Meg, 
 and hired another called Kitty, from the inn at Dal- 
 mally. The first time they made their acquaintance 
 Meg and Kitty were put together into my stable. 
 Now, my stable was separated from the hen-house by 
 a thin wooden partition, and as both Meg and Kitty 
 did nothing but kick all night through, they entirely 
 demolished the partition, slew some old hens, broke 
 numberless eggs, and made a pretty job for the joiner. 
 Only imagine the state of the cock-and-hen com- 
 munity during that aw 7 ful night, with a ceaseless 
 battery of four armed heels beating their poor de- 
 fences down ! 
 
 Meg was safe in single harness, but in double she 
 had a fault or two. She would kick and dance all the 
 way down every steep hill — an accomplishment more 
 amusing to the bystander than to the driver, who, 
 perched on the dangerous pre-eminence of the box, 
 had to keep his horses well together on the narrow 
 roads, and prevent them, if possible, from throwing 
 him over dizzy precipices or into stony streams. 
 These tendencies of Meg's led me to be rather cau- 
 tious with her, and Thursday, I suspect, considered 
 me a coward ; but as Thursday could not drive a pair 
 at all, I never trusted the reins in his hands, and 
 
212 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 went on in my own cautious, safe way, letting Meg 
 kick elegantly down the hills, and bearing with 
 equal patience Mr. Thursday's murmurings of dis- 
 content. 
 
 Kitty had only two faults. She was extremely un- 
 certain, and shirked her collar whenever she could. 
 Poor Meg, on the contrary, threw herself into hers 
 with all her might, and so drew for two. The conse- 
 quence, of course, in such cases, as in rowing, is, that 
 when one side pulls and the other does not, the vehi- 
 cle or boat has a strong tendency to turn, which ten- 
 dency may on the water be counteracted by a rudder, 
 and on the land by letting the pulling horse pull out 
 to his own side if you cannot whip the other up to his 
 work. Such faults are of less importance on level 
 roads, where a good driver will force an ill-assorted 
 team to work together at least endurably well ; but on 
 such roads as that from Inveraray to Ballahulish, if 
 horses are to do their duty to each other and their 
 master, there must be some natural compatibility of 
 disposition between them. 
 
 In this particular journey that I record here I drove 
 through Glen Urchay to the Black Mount. Glen 
 Urchay is full of thoroughly Highland scenery, with 
 its broad salmon stream, and the rich low land that it 
 bounds with such beautiful great curves — land so 
 green and soft and level, so sweet a contrast to the 
 brown barrenness of the rugged hills — broad pleas- 
 ant pastures, where the picturesque cattle feed, and 
 whither the wild deer descend in the early morning, 
 going to the hills again like the mist when the sun 
 shines down in the glen. 
 
 And there is a fine rocky landscape at the falls, as 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 213 
 
 good as those our landscape-painters bring us from 
 Norway. The falls of the Urchay are not deep, but 
 they are grandly composed, and the brown water 
 turning to yellowish white, as it creams up into foam 
 from the deep pool, or dashes itself over the edge of 
 the rocky barrier, is well contrasted by rocks of a cold, 
 pure gray, like the gray of a heavy rain-cloud that the 
 sun has left at night. The water-sculpture on the 
 rock is also singularly fine at these falls, the eddy 
 holes so smoothly and delicately bored, and in such 
 numbers. Every true painter has an intense percep- 
 tion of some fragment of natural truth that nobody else 
 seems to care for ; but it is really astonishing that the 
 exquisite beauty of water-sculpture should have been 
 so little felt by the most celebrated men. Turner only 
 cared for it occasionally, and never enough to paint it 
 in full and perfect detail. Of all our living landscape- 
 painters there is only one seems really to enjoy the 
 kind of sculpture which such a stream as the Urchay 
 can accomplish in innumerable years. Mr. Pettitt 
 paints it faithfully. 
 
 There are, too, some grand Turnerian streams from 
 the hills in Glen Urchay, leaving when dry, as they 
 generally are in summer, immense areas entirely cov- 
 ered with nothing but gray stones, such as Turner 
 loved so dearly, and, as it seems to me, with such 
 good reason. 
 
 With good reason I mean in the artistic sense, not 
 the carriage-driving sense. For it so happened that 
 in driving precisely across the most delightful of those 
 stony streams, I broke one of my springs, and, there 
 being no blacksmith in those parts, had to content my- 
 self with a piece of wood fitted to the shape of the 
 
214 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 spring, and bound to it with a bit of rope. This ele- 
 gant and ingenious device did not add to the brilliance 
 of my appearance, nor tend to increase that popular 
 respect which, as I have already hinted, was with dif- 
 ficulty brought to attach itself to my equipage. 
 
 These repairs were executed at the Black Mount. 
 The inn had one guest, and I found him at tea, or din- 
 ner, or breakfast number two, or by whatever other 
 name you please to call that ever-recurring meal. He 
 had been living ten days in the inn, and had enjoyed 
 tea, and ham, and eggs exactly twenty times — that is, 
 every morning at nine o'clock, and every evening at 
 six, with no dinner between. Such a regime would 
 make an Englishman ill, and drive a Frenchman mad. 
 In the case of this unhappy gentleman it was tempered 
 by moderate toddy and immoderate tobacco, or else I 
 suppose he would have died of it. 
 
 The next day nothing was to be seen or done on ac- 
 count of the rain ; so I staid quietly in the inn, eating 
 ham and eggs, drinking tea, smoking tobacco, and 
 chatting pleasantly with my new friend. 
 
 At Bagdad, I suppose, in the golden days of good 
 Haroun Alraschid, the people talked about the Caliph ; 
 at Paris, in these days, I have observed that the Eng- 
 lish, who crowd the hotels under the mighty shadow 
 of the great palace, talk with most pleasure about the 
 Emperor ; at the Black Mount the travellers dwell with 
 delight on the greatness of Lord Breadalbane. Deny 
 it who pleases, great power has an intense fascination 
 for us all. The proprietorship of land on so vast a 
 scale as the Breadalbane estate has something in it of 
 imperial greatness, which awes and excites the imagi- 
 nation. The secret of the eager curiosity w 7 hich all 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 215 
 
 men feel concerning such personages is, that they 
 would like to be in their position, and wonder what it 
 feels like to be there. Every properly-constituted and 
 well-cultivated man has infinite desires. Ignorant 
 people when they get money are miserable, because 
 they do not know what to do with it, and so either 
 save it without an object or throw it away in mere 
 follies, the most ignorant of all sometimes actually 
 putting bank-notes between slices of bread and butter 
 and eating them, others eating them only metaphori- 
 cally, but with equally slight satisfaction. But to a 
 cultivated man the revenues of an empire would only 
 be a welcome power of realizing his views on a great 
 scale, and the income from a great estate no more than 
 a moderate and very limited power of expressing his 
 ideas in things rather than in mere words. The one 
 thing which would please me in great wealth would 
 be the possession of noble works of art. A poor man 
 only gets the art which cheap processes may repro- 
 duce. Architecture and painting are both hopelessly 
 beyond his means ; a little wood-carving, a plaster 
 cast or two, and a few engravings and photographs are 
 all he can give himself. With the profoundest feeling 
 for great architecture, he is forced to live in some 
 abominably ugly house that he rents, or buys, or in- 
 herits, because he cannot afford an artistic one ; with 
 a passionate love for exquisite color, he cannot pur- 
 chase the work of a single good colorist. It therefore 
 happens that the artistic instinct, though not usually 
 found in avaricious, nor even in quite prudent natures, 
 has a great need of vast wealth for its full satisfaction. 
 And as the Marquis of Breadalbane is an interesting 
 person to sportsmen, because he possesses an enor- 
 
2l6 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 mous deer-forest, so he is not less interesting to lovers 
 of art, because he is rich enough to buy fine Land- 
 seers. To so hearty a lover of Highland scenery as I 
 am he has another very unusual object of envy, — he 
 possesses thousands of most glorious natural land- 
 scapes. His estate, being so rich in scenery, has, to a 
 true painter, a magic far beyond the magic of mere 
 wealth. An estate of equal value at Manchester 
 would not magnetize a painter's imagination at all. 
 But this wonderful proprietor, who really owns such 
 mountains as Ben Lawers, such castles as Kilchurn, 
 such lakes as Loch Tay and Loch Tulla, is to our 
 minds associated with all their splendors, and it fool- 
 ishly seems to us that every free wreath of mist, and 
 every steadfast granite crest, must know, as we know, 
 that it has for its legal master the courtly chief of 
 Breadalbane. 
 
 What interests most Englishmen in the empire of 
 Breadalbane is not, however, the landscapes, but the 
 deer. Their number — a good deal exaggerated by 
 popular rumor — is, in reality, perhaps about seven 
 thousand, five thousand having been counted at the 
 last census. The deer census in the forest is taken, of 
 course, all in one day, like the census of the human 
 population. When the country is all covered over 
 with snow, a day is fixed, and the foresters go out, 
 each alone on his appointed route, bringing in their 
 returns at night. 
 
 A wonderful sight at the Black Mount is a grand 
 drive of the deer. One of the grandest took place a 
 little time ago for the pleasure of a foreign prince, 
 then staying at Balmoral, to whom the marquis 
 wished to show some lordly Highland sport. The 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 217 
 
 head-forester, Robinson, had only forty-eight hours 
 to gather the deer from all their wild fastnesses in 
 the mountains ; but himself fixed the hour when the 
 prince should see them pass. The time fixed was two 
 o'clock in the afternoon. The prince arrived at Loch 
 Tulla at two minutes after twelve. When the royal 
 carriages stopped at the lodge, Robinson took a white 
 pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and fluttered it 
 for a few seconds in the air. From far distant points 
 on the hills twelve invisible foresters were all levelling 
 their telescopes at the lodge, and all saw Peter's sig- 
 nal ; then they knew that the prince had come, and 
 the drive began. Peter was sure that the deer would 
 pass the point he had reserved for the prince at two 
 o'clock precisely ; so, conducting him to the pass, he 
 waited quietly, looking perfectly cool and satisfied. 
 
 At five minutes before two an officer in waiting on 
 the prince looked at his watch and said, " The deer 
 cannot be here in time," for not a horn was in sight. 
 Robinson answered quietly, " Please look there, sir," 
 pointing to the entrance to the pass. Something dark 
 was agitating itself in the distance : a forest of antlers 
 came tumultuously over the brow of the hill, mingling 
 their dark branches like the branches of a forest when 
 a hurricane tears over it ; and at two o'clock precisely, 
 nearly a thousand deer were bounding and rushing be- 
 fore the astonished count, every head of them coming 
 within range of his rifle. 
 
 The same Peter Robinson showed me a fine brood 
 of young peregrine falcons that he was keeping for the 
 use of a great Indian maharajah who passes some time 
 every year in the Highlands. These peregrines were 
 all fine young birds, with soft white down, and dark 
 
2l8 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 eyes, and a very ferocious expression, as if, with the 
 precocity of cruelty, they had all the desire to tear 
 one's eyes out; and only regretted that they had no 
 wings yet. 
 
 This Indian maharajah is passionately fond of fal- 
 conry ; and a very interesting sport it would be, I dare 
 say, only the hawks often fly away, and despise all the 
 allurements of the lure. A great foreign prince came 
 to witness the sport of falconry as practised by this 
 Indian magnate. This being a state occasion, gos- 
 hawks of a wonderful breed were to be exhibited. 
 The first goshawk, it is said, being launched at the 
 flying game, paid no attention to it, but sat down 
 quietly on a stone. 
 
 It is said that this prince gives such quantities of 
 physic to his hawks that he seriously inconvenienced 
 the unfortunate inhabitants of Killin by exhausting the 
 doctor's medicinal stores ; and the doctor found that, 
 instead of purging good Christians, he had to keep in 
 a state of healthy digestive activity the ferocious 
 stomachs of innumerable birds of prey. 
 
 And, if the birds wanted physic, the Arab falconers 
 wanted opium. By the by, apropos of Arab falconers, 
 a stranger coming to witness the sport spoke to one 
 of those mysterious and romantic Orientals, doubtful 
 whether his English would be understood, but was de- 
 lightfully disappointed when the Arab answered him 
 in a pleasant Irish brogue of the fullest flavor. Some 
 of these Arabs are of the genuine race, and eat opium 
 (so they say) as we eat bread and butter. Two of 
 them, ignorant of English, went to the doctor to buy a 
 bit of opium, and employed to that intent all the elo- 
 quence of signs. But the doctor, being an Orientalist, 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens, 
 
 219 
 
 and having travelled in .the East, spoke to them in 
 Arabic, and even gave them a big lump of opium, 
 on which they loaded him with expressions of bound- 
 less love and veneration. 
 
 Of course, the gamekeepers think this falconry 
 very unsportsman-like, and class all the finest pere- 
 grines, goshawks, or gerfalcons, together, as wretch- 
 ed vermin, fit only to be. shot and nailed up on a 
 rail. However, as the maharajah gives ten shillings 
 apiece for all young falcons, the keepers suppress 
 their feelings of contempt for the donor, and pocket 
 the ten shillings. It is curious to reflect on the dif- 
 ferent estimation in which a peregrine falcon is held 
 by a keeper of our day and a nobleman's forester in 
 the middle ages. In those days a man would as soon 
 have shot a good hunter as a peregrine. 
 
 The maharajah is said to be an excellent Christian, 
 and leads the life of a true English gentleman, sport- 
 ing on week-days and going regularly to church on 
 Sundays, on which occasions he appears in various 
 costumes, as fancy dictates. I have heard of an 
 amusing combination of brilliant Indian diamonds 
 with homely Scottish trews. 
 
 The consequence of his visits to the Highlands is, 
 that everybody is after peregrines. Since the young 
 birds are now worth ten shillings a head, a nest is a 
 great prize. Seeking the nests is, however, rather 
 a perilous employment; and the maharajah's own 
 falconer being on one occasion suspended over a 
 rocky abyss, it w r as found quite impossible to pull him 
 up again. So he climbed up the rope, hand over 
 hand, with his peregrines in .his pocket. 
 
 On quitting the inn at the Black Mount, an un- 
 
220 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 foreseen accident compelled me to return to its tea 
 and ham and eggs for twenty-four hours longer. 
 
 It occurred to me that, as the wagon was rather 
 heavily laden, I would leave one or two articles of 
 camp furniture behind me in charge of the innkeeper ; 
 and to that intent I turned the vehicle. Meg, how- 
 ever, being impatient of the stoppage, gave a sudden 
 twist, and damaged the connecting rod of the break, 
 so as to render it utterly unsafe. The frightful idea 
 of this connecting rod breaking as we were going 
 down Glen Coe, decided me to have it welded again. 
 On taking it off, I broke it easily at the damaged 
 place ; and Thursday rode off with it to Tyndrum, 
 a distance of ten miles, w T here he got it solidly welded. 
 Whilst Thursday was at the smith's I made a study 
 of Loch Tulla. 
 
 I began to hanker after a dinner, and thought of 
 opening my provision boxes ; but, remembering that 
 I had lonely glens to explore and illustrate, where no 
 dinners were to be found, I reserved these, and tried 
 what was to be done with the landlord. When you 
 ask the landlord of a Highland inn for a dinner, any 
 time out of the regular tourist season, he always 
 seems astonished at so extraordinary a proposition. 
 His senses do not readily receive it ; a painful vacuity 
 spreads over his otherwise intelligent countenance. 
 When, at last, the idea comes , home to him, that 
 the traveller really desires so exceptional a meal, a 
 melancholy sadness and embarrassment settle there ; 
 and you hear faint, inarticulate murmurs on his lips, 
 which invariably end in an ignominious and pre- 
 cipitate flight, whose poor pretext is to see what the 
 house contains. If you persecute the man no more, 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens, 
 
 221 
 
 he will certainly not reappear, only too delighted to 
 be rid of your importunities at so easy a cost of inven- 
 tion ; but if, on the contrary, you pursue him into his 
 own fastnesses, he puts a bold front on the matter, 
 stands his ground like a stag at bay, and tells you that 
 there is " mutton ham, and pork ham, and eggs, and 
 — and — cheese — and — and — and — 99 
 
 At last the traveller loses all patience, and, if a 
 man of experience and wisdom, says he won't have 
 any dinner ; but only some tea, with ham and eggs to 
 it, which is, in fact, the one meal the house contains. 
 On this announcement, the visage of the host shines 
 with sudden satisfaction and relief, and the simple 
 repast is prepared with alacrity. 
 
 The next morning we got away from Loch Tulla, . 
 and drove to the King's House Inn. The highest 
 point of the road from the Black Mount to the King's 
 House is said to be the highest public road in Great 
 Britain. The descent from that point to King's 
 House afforded Meg a delightful opportunity for he 
 display of her agility ; and she capered and kicked 
 from the top to the bottom, to the imminent danger 
 of our lives. On coming to one little bridge, she 
 started aside suddenly, and nearly upset us over the 
 little parapet, which the wheels grazed as we passed. 
 
 At King's House I got an uncommonly good dinner 
 for the time of the year, with real bread to it, and 
 fresh meat, and other dainties all unknown at the 
 Black Mount. As for Thursday, he got a wonderful 
 feed, and received such a degree of attention as fairly 
 overwhelmed him. He was altogether comble. He 
 could not do justice to all the good things set before 
 him. As for the horses, they fed abundantly on 
 
222 
 
 A Long Drive in tJie Glens. 
 
 corn and hay in the stable ; and the bill for all this 
 amounted to the moderate sum of four shillings and 
 sevenpence. 
 
 I pitched my tent in Glen Coe, and got a careful 
 study before night. The sunset in the glen was truly 
 magnificent, and the rocky hills opposite the sunset 
 glowed with crimson light. The scenery of Glen Coe 
 is very like that of the corrie of Ben Cruachan, and 
 nearly, I imagine, on a level with it. The truth is, 
 that the road here carries a stream of tourists through 
 the upper mountain scenery. At Loch Awe you 
 may climb up into such scenery ; but the roads do 
 not carry you there. The landscape in Glen Coe is 
 therefore good for the study of upper mountain-form, 
 seen quite near at hand ; especially good for granite 
 precipices, which exist here in perfection. For color, 
 the reddish rock, heightened to crimson by the sunset 
 light, and contrasted against a pure green sky, as I 
 saw it that evening, is as fine as anything in mountain 
 color can be. There is a striking grandeur of line in 
 the mountain forms at Glen Coe, and this quality, 
 together with the infinity of detail and the intense 
 clearness of the mountain air, kept John Lewis con- 
 tinually in my thoughts. 
 
 There are times in our lives which we look back 
 upon with infinite pleasure not unmingled with mel- 
 ancholy ; times, as it seems to us, of almost perfect 
 happiness, full of calm and peace, sweet halting- 
 places in the weary pilgrimage of life. These days 
 I passed in Glen Coe are, to me, one of those ever- 
 remembered times. I remember all I did and all I 
 thought so vividly that it seems to me as if I could 
 narrate the minutest details of every hour that passed. 
 
A Long Drive hi the Glens, 
 
 223 
 
 Splendid weather, long, hard days of happy and suc- 
 cessful labor, perfect peace all day and quiet rest in 
 the lonely tent at night ; all this, too, in the very finest 
 scenery in Great Britain : was it not glorious? Soli- 
 tary and laborious as my simple existence was, with 
 nothing to do but draw till eye and hand were weary, 
 and no one to talk to but one poor faithful servant, I 
 would not have exchanged it, day against day, for the 
 life of the wealthiest noble in Belgravia ! 
 
 Whilst I was busy with my work that evening, 
 Thursday set up my tent on a beautiful green natural 
 lawn, bounded by a little crystalline stream. There 
 the tethered horses fed, and Thursday prepared my 
 tea, and spread it luxuriously on a white table-cloth, 
 the table being my great box for studies. 
 
 After tea, of course it was necessary to smoke the 
 inevitable pipe. The seductions of tobacco, easily 
 resisted in a house, are absolutely irresistible in a 
 tent. I think it is the fresh air that gives me such 
 a mighty appetite for a pipe ; but the certain fact is, 
 that when in camp I cannot help smoking, nor do 
 I think anybody else could — unless it made him sick. 
 
 I find the following observations on the subject of 
 smoking in my note-book, and as they were really 
 written in my tent on this particular excursion, they 
 will not be out of place if I insert them here. 
 
 People who don't smoke — especially ladies — are 
 exceedingly unfair and unjust to those who do. The 
 reader has, I dare say, amongst his acquaintance, 
 ladies who, on hearing any habitual cigar-smoker 
 spoken of, are always ready to exclaim against the 
 enormity of such an expensive and useless indul- 
 gence, and the cost of tobacco-smoking is generally 
 
224 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 cited by its enemies as one of the strongest reasons 
 for its general discontinuance. One would imagine, 
 to hear these people talk, that smoking was the only 
 selfish indulgence in the world. When people argue 
 in this strain, I immediately assume the offensive. 
 I roll back the tide of war right into the enemy's 
 intrenched camp of comfortable customs ; I attack 
 the expensive and unnecessary indulgences of ladies 
 and gentlemen who do not smoke. I take cigar- 
 smoking as an expense of, say half-a-crown a day, 
 and pipe-smoking at threepence. I then compare 
 the cost of these indulgences with the cost of other 
 indulgences, not a whit more necessary, which no one 
 ever questions a man's right to if he can pay for them. 
 There is luxurious eating, for instance. A woman 
 who has got the habit of delicate eating will easily 
 consume dainties to the amount of half-a-crown a 
 day, which cannot possibly do her any good beyond 
 the mere gratification of the palate. And there is the 
 luxury of carriage-keeping, in many instances very 
 detrimental to the health of women, by entirely de- 
 priving them of the use of their legs. Now, you can- 
 not keep a carriage a-going quite as cheaply as a pipe. 
 Many a fine meerschaum keeps up its cheerful fire on 
 a shilling a week. I am not advocating a sumptuary 
 law to put down carriages and cookery ; I desire only 
 to say that people who indulge in these expensive 
 and wholly superfluous luxuries have no right to be 
 so very hard on smokers for their indulgence. Then 
 there is wine. Nearly every gentleman who drinks 
 good wine at all will drink the value of half-a-crown 
 a day. The ladies do not blame him for this. Half- 
 a-dozen glasses of good wine are not thought an 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 225 
 
 extravagance in any man of fair means ; but women 
 exclaim when a man spends the same amount in smok- 
 ing cigars. The French habit of coffee-drinking and 
 the English habit of tea-drinking are also cases in point. 
 They are quite as expensive as ordinary tobacco-smok- 
 ing, and, like it, defensible only on the ground of the 
 pleasurable sensation they communicate to the nervous 
 system. But these habits are so universal that no one 
 thinks of attacking them, unless now and then some 
 persecuted smoker in self-defence. Tea and tobacco 
 are alike seductive, delicious, and — deleterious. The 
 two indulgences will, perhaps, become equally neces- 
 sary to the English world. It is high treason to the 
 English national feeling to say a word against tea, 
 which is now so universally recognized as a national 
 beverage that people forget that it comes from China, 
 and is both alien and heathen. Still, I mean no 
 offence when I put tea in the same category with 
 tobacco. Now, who thinks of lecturing us on the 
 costliness of tea? And yet it is a mere superfluity. 
 The habit of taking it as we do is unknown across the 
 Channel, and was quite unknown amongst ourselves a 
 very little time ago, when English people were no less 
 proud of themselves and their customs than they are 
 now, and perhaps with equally good reason. 
 
 A friend of mine tells me that he smokes every day 
 at a cost of about sixpence a week. Now, I should 
 like to know in what other way so much enjoyment is 
 to be bought for sixpence. Fancy the satisfaction of 
 spending sixpence a week in wine ! It is well enough 
 to preach about the selfishness of this expenditure ; 
 but we all spend money selfishly, and we all love 
 pleasure ; and I should very much like to see that 
 IS 
 
226 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 cynic whose pleasures cost less than sixpence a 
 week.* 
 
 Besides, tobacco is good for the w T its, and makes 
 us moralize. All the above sagacious observations 
 came out of a single pipe of tobacco (Duncan's mix- 
 ture, Buchanan Street, Glasgow — famous tobacco to 
 smoke) ; and the cleverest parts of many clever books 
 and review articles are all tobacco. 
 
 Next morning I got up very early, and was hard at 
 work drawing before breakfast. When the sun be- 
 came warmer, I began to 64 feel more jolly," as Cam- 
 bridge men have it. Thursday served me a very 
 comfortable and even elegant breakfast outside the 
 tent. He has one great merit as a domestic — he 
 keeps his silver remarkably clean. Not a nobleman 
 in England has brighter spoons and forks than I had 
 out in the wilderness. I carmot say as much for 
 Thursday's management of horses : he hates the 
 trouble of them ; he is always muttering to himself 
 all manner of dreadful imprecations against the poor 
 brutes. When he is about them, he never ceases talk- 
 ing to them, telling them they are going to have a 
 hard day's work, and making other observations of an 
 equally pleasing character. Towards night, when in 
 camp, Thursday becomes very anxious about the 
 horses, foreseeing a good deal of trouble with them : 
 this anxiety escapes in murmurings, addressed alter- 
 nately to himself and to them. If we could have 
 conducted the expedition without the aid of horses, 
 
 * It is needless to allude to field sports and luxurious dress, 
 whose enormous cost bears no more proportion to the cost of 
 smoking than Chateau Margaux to small beer, or turtle soup 
 to Scotch broth. 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 227 
 
 Thursday would have been much happier, and in a 
 far better temper. 
 
 That day, when I had done my study, Thursday and 
 I led the horses all down the worst part of the glen, 
 and I resumed the reins only when Meg's ways were 
 not likely to be very dangerous. It would have been 
 perfect madness to drive her down Glen Coe without 
 a break of sufficient strength to stop the wagon alto- 
 gether, considering how heavily it was laden, and how 
 steep the road w r as. The weather continued splendid, 
 and extremely hot, and my impression of the central 
 scene in Glen Coe was so powerful, that as I drove 
 forward to Ballahulish, I did nothing but regret not 
 having staid there. 
 
 The truth is, that in noble scenery, five miles a day 
 is as much as any painter ought to travel. The right 
 thing for a painter is to go on foot in a good climate 
 (this, of course, excludes the Highlands altogether) ; 
 and if the country is lonely, let him take a tent and a 
 stock of provisions, in a strong, common cart, with 
 one strong horse to draw it. 
 
 I staid at the inn at Ballahulish. When I asked 
 for bedrooms there was no alacrity to receive me, 
 not the slightest attempt at politeness, not even com- 
 mon civility. It was all the wagon (Thursday said), 
 that unlucky, plain, wine-colored wagon. If it had 
 had varnish and red lines, and a bit of electro-plate 
 about the harness, the waiters would probably have 
 been civil ; if instead of the wagon I had brought a 
 pretty pony carriage with me, the waiters would have 
 fawned like little dogs, and the hostess welcomed me 
 with humble but warm-hearted hospitality. So that a 
 philosopher who despises frippery in itself may philo- 
 
228 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 sophically adopt it in order to command civility. No 
 one cares less for unmeaning finish in ugly things than 
 I do ; no one has less enjoyment in vulgar splendors ; 
 no one contents himself more easily with plain, rude 
 things for common service ; and yet the next turn-out I 
 set up shall have neat red lines and varnish, ay, and 
 electro-plate too ; for the respect of the people is con- 
 venient, though contemptible ; and it is, on the whole, 
 pleasanter to be treated with servility, though it be 
 base, than scorn, however groundless. 
 
 The next day rose so clear and splendid that I could 
 think of nothing but Glen Coe, and long to be back 
 again in the very heart of it. Loch Leven from Bal- 
 lahulish is lovely enough, very grand both up and 
 down, and the mountains rise nobly out of the sea. 
 Still, though the water was so blue and lovely, and the 
 hills covered with such rich greens, and such delicate 
 grays and purples, and in the far distance such a per- 
 fectly exquisite azure, and though the white sails of a 
 stately yacht shone out against the mountain that rose 
 out of the sea, suggesting pleasant possibilities of sail- 
 ing, in spite of all these attractions, and in spite of the 
 hope of getting a good study of Ben Nevis, I found 
 that all the time I was making my study of Loch 
 Leven I could think of Glen Coe only. I wished 
 especially to make two studies there, and would will- 
 ingly have paid five pounds an hour for fine weather 
 to do them in. I had been longing for those studies 
 for years, and now a fair chance of obtaining them 
 seemed to lie before me. So, after working all day at 
 Loch Leven, I trotted quietly back in the evening to 
 the banks of the black lake in Glen Coe, and there 
 under the shadow of its dark precipices my tent was 
 pitched at night. 
 
A Long Drive hi the Glens. 
 
 229 
 
 As the reader probably knows, there is a great slate 
 quarry at Ballahulish, and this slate quarry produced 
 phenomena so entirely new to my horses that they 
 were anything but pleasant to drive. Fortunately the 
 hours of blasting w r ere over for that day ; but Meg 
 and Kitty found much material for wonder and ex- 
 citement in passing through the quarry and its village, 
 and the only way of crossing the little tramway which 
 these foolish horses could discover was to leap over it. 
 If they had leaped both together it would not have 
 mattered ; but Kitty hesitated whilst Meg jumped, and 
 between them they nearly upset us. 
 
 Thursday's great anxiety being, as usual, to get rid 
 of the horses as soon as possible, he took them to a 
 lonely shepherd's house in the glen, and then devoted 
 his undisturbed attention to the preparation of my 
 supper. By the time I had finished it, the moon looked 
 down on the little tent across the stony summits of the 
 mountain, and a glorious night began, so grand, and 
 solemn, and lonely, that I could have staid out in it, 
 and sauntered by the shore of the gloomy lake till 
 dawn. As this pleasure, however, would probably 
 have cost me several hours of good daylight on the 
 following day, and consequently so much work, I re- 
 nounced it, and only staid out in the moonlight long 
 enough to let myself get thoroughly impressed by the 
 effect, and to ascertain such facts as were necessary 
 to its future realization on canvas. 
 
 I was at work early in the morning, and kept at it 
 till evening. About noon, as it seemed to me, the 
 subject reached its highest perfection as an effect of 
 serene summer weather. The sun was extremely hot, 
 and the day brilliant to the utmost possible degree. 
 
230 
 
 A Long Drive in the Gleits, 
 
 The subject is a very noble one, and I intend it for a 
 great picture. Here is a word-picture of it, accurate 
 as far as it goes, but necessarily very imperfect, as 
 word-pictures always are. 
 
 The lake is a small one, and probably very deep ; the 
 color of the water, stained by the moss-land, becomes 
 intensely gloomy in the lake. Contrasting vividly 
 with this dark color are the hues of the flat alluvial 
 land near the lake. These consist of perfectly white 
 sand, passing into grayish and pinkish sand in subtle 
 gradations. This sand lies broad on the river's banks. 
 Beyond the river, and immediately under the mountain, 
 is rich green meadow grass ; and nearer to the spec- 
 tator, on his own side of the stream, there are patches 
 of pale bright emerald grass ; nearer still, great fields 
 of small stones, chiefly of a pale purple color, and in 
 the immediate foreground dark green grass again, but 
 this time rough and poor. ' 
 
 Imagine all these colors infinitely heightened by the 
 intensest sunshine, and opposed to a lake that looked 
 about the color of Vandyke brown as it is squeezed 
 out of a tube, and you may have some vague idea of 
 the vivid splendors of the foreground. 
 
 Then immediately out of the lake, and out of the 
 alluvial land to the left of the spectator, land just as 
 flat as the lake itself, rose, almost perpendicularly, a 
 tremendous precipice ; and behind this precipice, look- 
 ing over it as a man looks over a low garden wall, 
 rose a great rough stony peak, all its rich rock detail 
 clearly visible, and its barren edges cutting out sharply 
 on the sky, with little fields of snow in its cool granite 
 hollows, dying away imperceptibly day by day in the 
 hot sun, and trickling down to their low grave in the 
 black lake by silent, invisible streamlets. 
 
A Long Drive i?i the Glens. 
 
 231 
 
 And the great precipice, how glorious in strength 
 of structural form, and painted delicacy of exquisite 
 color ! In structure like the side of a cathedral, alter- 
 nately vertical wall and steep sloping roof ; only that 
 here the alternation is repeated seven times instead of 
 twice. In color thus : — the steep slopes all delicate 
 green or pale purple as they are clothed with thin 
 grass or covered with purple debris of the cliff ; and 
 then the vertical walls, full of infinite variety of yel- 
 lowish, reddish, and bluish gray, shining here and 
 there with silvery mica, as if powdered with millions 
 of minute diamonds. 
 
 And the great broad shadows upon its mighty front, 
 how they veiled it with cool depth of solemn gloom, 
 last lingering fragments of the night clinging to the 
 sheltering cliffs ! For night lingers under their shad- 
 ow} 7 walls as winter in their fields of snow. 
 
 I drew it line for line, and fissure for fissure, till the 
 last red light of the sunset had faded from its clear 
 and silent heights. Then, in the twilight, we drove 
 on to the great central scene in Glen Coe, the noblest 
 and grandest of the whole glen. Never hunter was 
 more keenly eager after an antlered king of stags than 
 I for that glorious scene. The night became cloudy 
 and dull, and I passed it in almost sleepless anxiety. 
 I would have given a hundred pounds for three fine 
 days, and strength to labor every daylight hour. 
 
 Poor Thursday had gone on to King's House in the 
 dark with the horses, leading Kitty and riding Meg. 
 They took him off the road several times, and, I 
 imagine, played him some unpleasant tricks. How- 
 ever, he got back to the camp about one o'clock in the 
 morning, in a state of great weariness, but sound of 
 limb. 
 
232 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 The next morning at six o'clock, when I looked out 
 on my subject, it seemed probable that the day would 
 turn out well — probable, but by no means certain. At 
 eight, however, it was clearer, and at nine perfectly 
 cloudless, clear, and splendid ; and so it continued the 
 whole of that day and the day after. 
 
 When I am in camp in fine w r eather the morning 
 bath is the luxury I most enjoy. How different to 
 dabbling in one's shallow sponge-bath, in a chilly 
 dressing-room, is a plunge in the clear pale green 
 depths of a sunlighted granite pool ! Those morning 
 baths in Glen Coe I shall never forget whilst I live. 
 Water clearer than crystal, and pure as the mountain 
 air, contained in great natural basins of smooth granite 
 rock, rose-colored, or pale tender gray, and so lonely 
 that no living thing can see you, except the falcon that 
 flies in the blue air above, or the fishes that dart 
 through the transparent water. 
 
 And here is the central scene, the noblest picture in 
 Glen Coe. 
 
 A sharply curving road, with a bridge spanning a 
 torrent in the foreground, the road sustained by great 
 walls on the side of the precipice, but without parapet, 
 except a low one on the bridge itself. The curves of 
 the road are extremely beautiful and complex. In the 
 space of a hundred yards there is a sharp curve to the 
 right, then a slight one to the left, and after that an- 
 other gentler curve to the right again. In the same 
 space the road ascends and descends and ascends 
 again, the complication of the two sets of curves being 
 as beautiful as anything well can be in mere road cur- 
 vature. 
 
 The foreground is made very rich with the rocky 
 
A Long Drive iii the Glens. 
 
 2 33 
 
 ravine containing the stream which the bridge crosses. 
 A second stream of less importance runs side by side 
 with this, but still nearer to the spectator, and falls 
 into it soon after passing under the road. Several 
 hundred feet below, down in the valley, a third very 
 beautiful stream, with precipitous granite banks, joins 
 these, coming into the picture at the spectator's left 
 hand. A fourth stream, in a succession of waterfalls, 
 descends a great mountain exactly opposite the specta- 
 tor, and this fourth stream is richly bordered by beau- 
 ful trees. These four streams meet together in a spot 
 some hundred feet below the one where my tent was 
 pitched, and then run together down the glen in one 
 fine falling torrent, which afterwards becomes a wind- 
 ing river in the valley, feeds the black Lake Treachtan, 
 and then runs on to the sea. This river is the Cona 
 of Ossian. 
 
 The mountain-forms which fill the rest of the picture 
 are three buttresses belonging to the great mountain 
 on your left, as you descend the glen from King's 
 House to Ballahulish. In the openings between these 
 buttresses appears the upper structure of the moun- 
 tain, exactly as the spires and roof of a Gothic build- 
 ing appear above and between the projections of its 
 lower walls when the spectator is standing near. 
 
 In this case a curious and very impressive illusion 
 is produced by the perspective of the buttresses. They 
 seem to be towers of rock, and this is especially true 
 of the central one, which is one of the most astonish- 
 ing things in the Highlands. The truth is, that the 
 apparent summit of this tower is in reality a good deal 
 lower than a spot far down on its side — a fact I sus- 
 pected from the first, and subsequently ascertained. I 
 
2 34 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens* 
 
 intend to paint a large picture of this subject ; and I 
 know beforehand that most readers of this book, on 
 looking at the picture, will have great difficulty in be- 
 lieving that the summit of the central tower-like but- 
 tress is much lower than the lump on its side, and 
 hundreds of feet lower than the peak to the left of it 
 and the ragged edge of rock to the right. 
 
 The color of the mountains in this part of Glen Coe 
 is, in fine weather, so bright and delicate, that on my 
 own side of the glen their rocky summits told against 
 the blue sky as a vigorous light, every detail distinctly 
 visible in the clear air. The relief of the illuminated 
 rock, with its burning reds and purples, and dazzling 
 variety of silvery and golden grays against the intense 
 depth of the blue sky, can, it is true, only be attained 
 at all on a scale of light far lower than nature's, but to 
 sacrifice such color altogether is downright sacrilege ; 
 and strange as it looks to the uninformed spectator 
 wdien painted honestly and in earnest, this, which is 
 one of the most glorious as well as one of the most 
 frequent aspects of mountainous landscape, ought to 
 be frankly painted in color as true as may be, even at 
 the cost of some unpopularity. It is no digression to 
 speak here of this aspect of mountain scenery, for dur- 
 ing two whole days in the middle of Glen Coe I could 
 think of nothing else. I consider this simple fine- 
 weather aspect doomed beforehand to unpopularity, 
 because it is clear enough to let you see the minutest 
 details of mountain-form ; and a public which for cen- 
 turies has been content to admire Claude's way of 
 filling up a feeble and unmeaning outline with a uni- 
 form patch of bluish gray as the ideal of mountain- 
 painting is not likely to endure, and will not easily be 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 235 
 
 brought to tolerate, works full of most elaborate detail 
 and intense and various color, yet almost entirely de- 
 void of any appearance of aerial perspective. For the 
 harsh fact is, that the dimness of objects does not 
 express their measurable distance, but only the humid- 
 ity or impurity of the atmosphere ; and therefore the 
 common theory of aerial perspective is of no use as a 
 test of artistic truth. The houses on the opposite side 
 of any London street are, in a November fog, a good 
 deal less visible than the detail of a precipice seen in 
 clear weather across an Alpine valley several leagues 
 broad ; and the summits of mountains miles away 
 always seem so near to inexperienced climbers in clear 
 weather, that they invariably expect to get to the top 
 of them in a ludicrously impossible space of time. In 
 spite of these facts, however, people will have what 
 they call "aerial perspective" in pictures; and the 
 consequence is, that painters, if they have to live by 
 their art, must confine themselves to those conditions of 
 the atmosphere where there is haze enough to produce 
 it.* When the world knows a little more about na- 
 ture, and will tolerate artistic interpretations of other 
 natural phenomena than the three or four which it 
 understands at present, we may hope for full and faith- 
 ful renderings of mountain-form in cloudless light and 
 truth unveiled. 
 
 Having worked all day long at my study, I stretched 
 my legs by climbing the mountain on my own side of 
 the glen, with a view to ascertain the real structure 
 
 * Not too much haze, however. The ordinary public is as 
 intolerant of true mist-painting in Turner, as it is of true clear- 
 weather-painting in John Lewis. The happy and popular 
 medium is the quiet afternoon haziness of Claude and Cuyp. 
 
236 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 of the opposite buttresses. As I suspected, they turned 
 out to be mere spurs or projections of the mountain's 
 lower structure, not independent rock-towers. I also 
 ascertained, what astonished me more, something 
 about the actual position of the peak which had 
 seemed to overlook Loch Treachtan. The travelling 
 of great peaks is an astonishing result of perspective. 
 They seem to march along the horizon like moving 
 spectres. They are everywhere. A single crest is 
 the centre of interest for a thousand landscapes. 
 Travel as fast as you will, they travel with you, like 
 a haunting spirit ; like your own memory — your own 
 conscience — your own sins.* 
 
 It was a grand sight to see the great lonely glen 
 under the rising moon, with its silvery winding stream, 
 and its distant lake, and all the stony crests that 
 guard it. 
 
 After another very hard day's work at the same 
 study, I went to King's House in the evening. 
 
 I had broken my labors in the middle of the day by 
 a walk to a lonely, deserted village, a mile or two from 
 my tent. No one lives there now, but it is one of the 
 most exquisite dwellings, artistically considered, that 
 I have yet seen. It is curious to think how many 
 thousand pounds are continually spent by rich people 
 in the creation of houses so abominably ugly that no 
 true artist can look at them without pain ; and yet the 
 poor, deserted dwellings of a lonely Highland shepherd 
 contained interest enough and beauty enough to oc- 
 cupy and delight the most fastidious and cultivated 
 artist for a whole month at least. There are only two 
 
 * Very lofty cathedral towers do the same in lowland land- 
 scape. 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 237 
 
 kinds of architecture which a true artist can endure — 
 the one which, as in the case of the Highland cottage, 
 is full of natural beauty, which the builder, from sheer 
 poverty, has been forced to let alone, because to efface 
 it effectually costs money ; and the other, as in a Vene- 
 tian palace or Gothic cathedral, which is full of artis- 
 tic beauty, produced by splendid human invention, 
 based on the study of nature, and expressing itself by 
 the aid of boundless wealth. The intermediate kinds 
 of building produced by money without mind, and de- 
 void alike of natural and artistic beauty, are, to all 
 persons endowed with any true artistic feeling, utterly 
 repulsive and uninteresting. 
 
 The beauty of this Highland cottage was all of it 
 natural beauty, associated with, and no doubt height- 
 ened by, the melancholy human interest of the deserted 
 roof and desolate hearth. The spectator could not but 
 feel that this solitary house in the desert had been 
 some one's home, stricken with poverty it is true, and 
 lost in isolation, yet still a home, perhaps all the 
 dearer for its very loneliness. But beyond this inter- 
 est, man's work had little to do with the attractiveness 
 of the place. The arrangement of the color on the 
 stones was purely natural — as much so as that on the 
 surrounding rocks. The smooth, short, soft lawn in 
 front had been shaven by no gardener, the little stream 
 directed by no designer ; yet the lawn was fit for the 
 feet of a princess, and the little pools of the stream 
 that lay cool, and deep, and clear between tiny per- 
 pendicular cliffs of granite, were pure enough for the 
 bath of a water-nymph. By way of a bridge, the 
 trunk of a single tree was thrown across the narrow 
 gorge ; and under it slept a pool, long, narrow, and 
 
2 3 8 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 very deep. The gray thatched cottage, the soft nat- 
 ural lawn, and the little stream, so humble in them- 
 selves, but surrounded with so much magnificence, so 
 peaceful, so lonely, and so desolate, gave me far purer 
 pleasure than Versailles, with its soulless architecture, 
 its formal fountains, and its acres of preposterous 
 paintings. 
 
 Near King's House I examined a movable hut used 
 by the men who mend the road. It contains berths, 
 if I remember rightly, for about a dozen men ; but of 
 course they are narrowly lodged. A hut about the 
 same size would be a useful possession for a painter, 
 who, if a bachelor, might live in it permanently with 
 quite as much comfort as people ever get in a small 
 yacht. I was told that this one had been temporarily 
 occupied by a landscape-painter who wished to study 
 in Glen Coe during the winter season. I could pass 
 a winter in it very merrily myself, if I might cut a 
 hole for one of my plate-glass windows, so as to be 
 able to work from nature without going out of doors. 
 
 Having determined to go dow r n Glen Etive, I re- 
 mained at King's House only long enough to get a 
 good study of the head of Glen Etive as it is seen from 
 there. As this is certainly one of the grandest scenes 
 in the Highlands, I shall attempt a description of it in 
 this place. 
 
 A foreground of wild moorland, with a picturesque 
 cottage. A magnificent peaked mountain on the 
 right, like a dome ; on the left, a tall, steep mountain, 
 like a Gothic roof ; between the two another moun- 
 tain, low on the horizon and blue with distance. 
 
 Such is the rude sketch. Now let us fill it up with 
 a little color and detaiL 
 
A Long Drive in tJie Glens. 
 
 239 
 
 In the first place, the foreground is very rich in 
 color. As so frequently happens in Highland scenery, 
 there are patches of short grass of the most intense, 
 incredible emerald ; and this emerald is rendered in- 
 finitely more brilliant by dark purple peat. The 
 greater part of the more distant moorland is olive- 
 green ; here and there the bare earth shows itself, and 
 that is reddish, which intensifies the olive. Then the 
 whole is scattered very plentifully with gray stones, 
 very often bluish. 
 
 Close to the spectator the foreground is rich in dark 
 purple peat, and millions of golden flowers, and rushes 
 whose green blades are tipped with red. In the midst 
 stands the gray cottage, with the open end of its cart 
 shed turned to the spectator ; and this open end con- 
 tains such a depth of gloom as delighteth the soul of 
 an artist. 
 
 The mountain on the right is in local color most 
 delicately decorated. It is covered w T ith courses of 
 innumerable streams, many of them of quite a tender 
 rose color, and the grass between them has such a 
 delicate green, and there are such grays, and suck 
 purples, and all mingled in sweetest mystery, enough 
 to break one's heart. 
 
 Very beautiful, and in the same manner, are the 
 granite forms and hues in the mountain on the left. 
 The distant one in the middle, as I saw it, was merely 
 a blue film against the sky, tender as air. 
 
 As soon as I had driven a hundred yards on the 
 road down to Glen Etive, I knew what to expect : I 
 had fourteen miles of wild, rough, Highland bridle 
 track before me, along precipices and hills, and 
 through innumerable streams — not a pleasant pros- 
 
240 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 pect with horses that required incessant attention. 
 The first specimen of a bridge was not unfavorable. 
 It was of rough planks certainly, and hung over a 
 rocky torrent at a dizzy height ; but then there were 
 some pretensions to a rail ; and the bridge was broad 
 enough to enable me to drive over it without being 
 accurate to an inch. After this the road kept on the 
 side of a precipitous declivity on the right bank of the 
 River Etive ; but there was breadth enough for the 
 wheels, and the turns were not unusually dangerous, 
 the great fault of the road being that it inclined to the 
 side of the precipice instead of to the side of the hill. 
 Still, a careful driver may do very well for the first 
 eight miles in Glen Etive. 
 
 I encamped in the middle of the glen for two nights, 
 and afterwards continued my journey to the head of 
 the loch. 
 
 Though the road for the first eight miles was bad, it 
 became infinitely w T orse afterwards. I should think a 
 pair of horses were never driven over a more unlikely 
 track. I had exactly wheel breadth, with scarcely an 
 inch to spare ; and one or two wooden bridges over 
 rocky streams had no parapets whatever. I admired 
 Thursday's courage extremely, as he sat next me on 
 the box. I think it requires far less pluck to drive on 
 a dangerous road than to sit tranquilly beside the 
 coachman, knowing that your life hangs on the nerve 
 and skill of the man at your side. No doubt the 
 necessity for thought and care lulls the nerves ; but to 
 be in considerable danger, and do absolutely nothing, 
 is enough to try the strongest of us. Thursday's cool- 
 ness, however, was more apparent than real. He 
 told me afterwards that he never felt so uncomfortable 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens, 
 
 241 
 
 in his life, and that he always held himself in readi- 
 ness for a leap. 
 
 And now about the scenery of Glen Etive. 
 
 Immediately after visiting Glen Coe, the traveller 
 may not think it very astonishing ; but it is really 
 exceedingly fine, and, in my opinion, one of the very 
 grandest Highla?td glens I have ever seen. That 
 noble granite stream, the Etive, is to me full of inter- 
 est, for it abounds in admirable pictures. I have 
 never seen finer water sculpture anywhere than on the 
 rose-colored rocks of the Etive, nor more picturesque 
 Scotch firs than those which in some places shade it 
 with their dark foliage. There are terribly black 
 pools, too ; one especially, where the deep water 
 winds in a narrow channel that a stag would leap 
 over, between two precipitous banks of massive 
 granite. 
 
 The mountain scenery is throughout magnificent, 
 and grandly terminated, when you reach Loch Etive, 
 by a fine distant view of Ben Cruachan. There is a 
 noble domed tower of rock seven or eight miles from 
 King's House, which is a tower, and not a buttress ; 
 and a few miles nearer the sea, the outlines, as you 
 look up the glen, have a wonderful vigor and energy, 
 one great festooned line especially, as graceful as a 
 loose chain suspended unequally from its two ends.* 
 
 * If the reader really cares about fine Highland glens, I 
 counsel him by all means, if he can possibly spare the time, to 
 stay two nights at the King's House Inn, where Mrs. Christie 
 will make him as comfortable as any tourist ought to desire, 
 and whence he can conveniently make an excursion to Glen 
 Etive in one of Mrs. Christie's conveyances on the intervening 
 day. No tourist that I have ever met seemed to think of 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 We got to the head of Loch Etive without .having 
 capsized the wagon, and encamped on the river's 
 brink, where it mingles itself with the faintly saline 
 waters of the loch. There we remained during sixty 
 hours of incessant rain. By sitting in the door of the 
 tent I contrived, however, to obtain a careful study, 
 and I got one precious sketch of Ben Cruachan, with 
 all the blue evening shadows on him. After that I 
 saw him no more. The head of Loch Etive is a very 
 wild and lonely, but by no means uninteresting place. 
 There are one or two cottages there, strangely isolated. 
 A rowing boat comes up occasionally from Bunawe 
 with supplies, and this is the most frequent communi- 
 cation with the outer world. In such a place as that 
 a tent is indispensable to a painter. I could not have 
 got my study at all if I had been obliged to return to 
 King's House to sleep. 
 
 As the rain poured quite pitilessly on the third day 
 
 exploring Glen Etive, all their attention being concentrated on 
 Glen Coe ; but I think it a great pity that they should pass so 
 near to such a noble glen without giving a day to it at least. 
 Since it is desirable to vary the Highland routes as much as 
 possible, I beg to suggest to those interested in such matters, 
 that a magnificent and entirely new route might be opened 
 from Oban to King's House by having a steamer from Oban 
 to the head of Glen Etive in communication with a coach 
 running all through the glen from the shore of Loch Etive to 
 the King's House Inn, where it would meet the Glen Coe 
 coaches. Loch Etive and Glen Etive would thus be both of 
 them conveniently opened to tourists ; and they are as fine 
 in their way as anything in the whole range of Highland 
 scenery. The road in Glen Etive would, of course, have to 
 be improved, but it might be made fit for coach travel at a 
 moderate cost. 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 2 43 
 
 of my encampment at the head of Loch Etive, and as 
 there seemed to be no prospect whatever of an im- 
 provement in the weather ; considering, moreover, 
 that the hills were all hidden in the midst, and the 
 provision box nearly empty ; I drove back to King's 
 House, and thence the next day to Loch Awe, where 
 I and Thursday arrived, weary and hungry, and wet 
 to the skin. 
 
 I desire to add here a few observations closely con- 
 nected with the subject of the present chapter, on the 
 habit of travelling as conducive to progress in art. 
 
 The love of travel which characterizes modern 
 landscape-painters is a peculiarity worth consideration. 
 The reader will, perhaps, scarcely believe me when I 
 tell him that it is precisely my artistic tendencies 
 which make me dislike travelling more and more. 
 When I cared less for my art I had a strong turn for 
 travel, and planned explorations of all the most inter- 
 esting regions of the globe. None of these plans did 
 I ever put into execution, because, as I knew more of 
 art, I came to perceive that much wandering was not 
 good for it. I can scarcely understand how a painter 
 can ever be a tourist. Nothing torments me like a 
 tour. To pass so much admirable material and not 
 have time to make good studies of it, is to me the tor- 
 ture of Tantalus. My first impulse when I come to a 
 noble subject is to pitch my tent straight in front of it, 
 and stay there twelve months ; but since that cannot 
 always be, let me at least stay long enough to draw it 
 carefully, and watch it with the light of seven or eight 
 sunsets and sunrises upon it ; and, if possible, also 
 under the tender mystery of moonlight. To look at 
 Loch Awe day by day under all its aspects for four 
 
244 Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 years exactly suited me, and I could have staid 
 twenty years longer in great contentment, with no 
 other variety than the changes of the forms as my 
 boat moved, and the changes of effects as the weather 
 and the seasons altered. I was once dragged past 
 Loch Awe in a coach at ten miles an hour, in perfect 
 misery ; and when I had lately to go down the valley 
 of the Rhone in a railway-train, I did nothing but 
 wish that I could give several years to the journey. 
 But life is not long enough for such travelling as 
 would quite suit me, and so I made a compromise 
 with necessity ; and yet I know that, after all, at this 
 rate Death will certainly catch me before I have seen 
 the tenth part of what I want to see, and so put a stop 
 to my wanderings, in this world at least, forever. 
 But, let the tourist be in ever such a hurry, he will 
 see no more, probably even less, wasting his time in 
 travel. And if he saw a new scene every day of his 
 life, how near would he have come at the end of it to 
 exhausting the glories of one planet? I think my 
 appetite for natural beauty is, to say the least of it, as 
 vigorous as his — probably even keener, since it needs 
 far less the stimulus of change. And I think that I 
 do not enjoy a less quantity of beauty in the long run 
 than the most indefatigable of tourists. 
 
 But it is certain that the common practice of modern 
 landscape-painters is against me. The most of them 
 combine the occupation of the artist with the amuse- 
 ment of the tourist. Turner was a great tourist, 
 especially on foot, and much in the habit of slight 
 and rapid sketching, as is most convenient for travel- 
 ling artists. Now, for the tourist sketcher who travels 
 rapidly, a tent at all heavier than the colorman's 
 
A Long Drive in the Glens. 
 
 245 
 
 sketching tent is a useless encumbrance. A mere 
 sketcher can generally contrive to get to an inn at 
 night, and I should never recommend him to adopt 
 the tent as a habitation. What is best and pleasantest 
 for him is a light dog-cart, with a sketching tent and 
 a portmanteau inside it. And let him live at the inns. 
 Or, if he is a good walker, a knapsack, sketching- 
 block, and stout stick, with two good pairs of boots, 
 and a little money in his pocket, are all he needs. 
 
 In my opinion, a snail is the perfect type of what 
 an artist upon his travels ought to be. The snail 
 goes alone and slowly, at quite a rational pace ; stops 
 wherever he feels inclined, and carries his house with 
 him. Only I fear that the snail does not give that 
 active attention to the aspects of nature which ought 
 to be the constant habit of the artist. 
 
BOOK III. — IN FRANCE. 
 
 BURGUNDY AND THE MO R VAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FIRST HEAD QUARTERS. A LITTLE FRENCH CITY. 
 
 f^^N a narrow, flat ledge, near the top of a very steep 
 
 V^/ French coteau, stands my painting tent. Before 
 me, spread to an infinite distance, on my right hand, 
 Burgundy ; in front of me, Champagne. The River 
 Yonne comes winding down the broad valley, with 
 long reaches and sharp curves ; miles away a little 
 isolated gleam shines alone like a tarn. Below my 
 feet runs the river, at the foot of this steep bank of 
 chalk. A little farther down it passes by a city, whose 
 magnificent cathedral rises, a towering height of pale 
 golden gray, infinite with dimly perceived ornament, 
 out of green dense masses of the richest foliage. All 
 round the town, but especially on this side of it, are 
 stately groves of lofty poplars, standing like disciplined 
 troops in line and hollow square, curving also here and 
 there into crescents, and casting their dark shadows on 
 spaces of grass that springs greener for their friendly 
 shade. 
 
 Before we go down to the city, let us look around us 
 
 (247) 
 
248 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 here upon the hill. We are amongst the vineyards. 
 They are not celebrated vineyards ; for although we 
 are in Burgundy, the produce here is not to be com- 
 pared to the precious gift of the hills of gold. Yet the 
 innumerable proprietors of this little hill watch with 
 keen inteixst the gradual filling of its millions of green 
 clusters, and you or I may admire the grapes or eat of 
 them with pleasure when they shall be fully ripe, yet 
 not care to drink of the wine they yield. It is pleasant 
 to sit here in the sun, outside the tent, and watch the 
 laborers in the vineyards, for the mind of man always 
 experiences a certain satisfaction in being itself idle 
 and watching others work. The laborers are of both 
 sexes, men with brown arms and breasts, and broad 
 straw hats ; and women, the rich glow of whose sun- 
 burnt faces tells even at a distance, when they rise 
 occasionally out of the green sea of vine leaves where- 
 in they stoop and are hidden. 
 
 Between the foot of the hill and the river runs the 
 railway from Paris to Marseilles. We have been so 
 long accustomed to be told that railways are prosaic 
 things, that I count on little sympathy when I confess 
 that those four thin lines of iron have, for me, an irre- 
 sistible fascination, and excite reflections quite as ab- 
 sorbing as any which that towered town suggests. 
 On those tw r o rails nearest the river, there, just there, 
 borne on a thousand wheels, rolled the mighty hosts 
 of France that met the Austrians at Solferino. There 
 also passed their calm and terrible Captain swiftly, 
 like Fate, yet with nothing of military ostentation, in 
 whose ears still rang the acclamations, on that occa- 
 sion loud and genuine, of the warlike people of Paris. 
 All Italy awaited him then, thrilling with the hope of 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 liberty ; Italy believed in him, Austria feared him, all 
 Europe thought of him only. And perhaps the other 
 line nearer us is, to an Englishman, awful with still 
 more affecting associations. On many a dark night a 
 very few years ago a locomotive rushed furiously along 
 it, dragging two post-carriages at a wild and reckless 
 speed, fire glowing under its thundering wheels. It 
 came from the Mediterranean Sea, carrying our Indian 
 mail, carrying sorrow and mourning to many an Eng- 
 lish home ; cruel letters packed carefully together in 
 scaled bags, to be scattered abroad in England, every 
 one of them too sure to hit some tender, anxious breast. 
 Railways are as rivers, flowing, not with water, but 
 human life and intelligence, and all of them acquire a 
 kind of sublimity even in a very few years. But most 
 of all is this line sublime. It is the one great highway 
 of Europe. Sovereigns, princes, ambassadors, travel 
 by it continually, and scarcely a single express train 
 passes over it which does not carry some powerful or 
 famous personage. 
 
 In looking at a French landscape like this lovely one 
 before us, an Englishman is struck by the sense of 
 space gained by the absence of walls and hedges. 
 This is, artistically, a great advantage. The eye 
 ranges with a sense of liberty to which the presence 
 of any visible obstacle is an insuperable impediment. 
 A broad French plain has the sublimity of a great 
 lake or the sea. The mean ideas of property, and 
 farms, and petty quarrels about boundaries, never 
 suggest themselves in the presence of such a broad 
 expanse as this. The land seems infinite and im- 
 measurable, as if it belonged to God alone. The only 
 divisions are those of color ; it is like a vast floor of 
 many-colored mosaic. 
 
250 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 This little flat ledge where the tent stands is, geolo- 
 gically, unaccountable. It interrupts a strong natural 
 curve for no conceivable reason. It is artificial. It 
 was the beginning of an intended terrace, begun some 
 years ago by a gentleman now dead, who built him- 
 self a pleasure-house on the crest of the hill. This 
 pleasure-house remains a monument of the vanity of 
 human wishes. It seems that its owner enjoyed the 
 view so much that he must needs pass much of his 
 time here, and to that end erected a convenient sum- 
 mer-house, consisting of a pleasant well-finished octag- 
 onal room, with a kitchen and other offices behind it. 
 Above the room rises a belfry, where a man may stand 
 and enjoy the view, and toll the bell for his pleasure, 
 and to the bewilderment of the dwellers in the plain. 
 To the left of the house is a delightful bosquet or bower 
 of linden trees, forming regular and almost impervious 
 walls of greenery, which enclose a space as large as a 
 good dining-room. To the right is another bower, but 
 smaller, with sweet glimpses of the scenery through 
 the leaves ; and behind the house is an avenue of lin- 
 den trees and a vineyard, also a remnant of an old 
 rubble-built Gothic chapel, with tiny round arched win- 
 dows, and one bearded statue canopied by a luxuriant 
 mass of ivy. All this is highly delightful, but there 
 are things yet more marvellous to be seen here on the 
 hill. Near my tent there is a hole in the chalk leading 
 to the very bowels of the earth. A long passage, con- 
 necting cells far apart, winds till it arrives under the 
 house ; and it is said that the late owner intended to cut 
 other passages and cells, but wherefore, no man knows.* 
 
 * Perhaps as a refuge from the heat, which is often intense 
 here when there is no breeze. It is also likely that one of the 
 cells may have been simply intended for a wine cellar. 
 
A Little French City, 
 
 One thing is certain; he loved the place, and spent 
 money there for the love of it. Night and day he 
 came up here from the little city in the plain, and sat 
 in his pleasant octagon room, and mounted his belfry, 
 and descended into his winding subterranean passages, 
 and, hermit-like, visited his hollow cells. But at last 
 he fell ill, and gave his beloved little place, with its 
 bowers of linden trees and its fruitful vineyard, to the 
 holy Archbishop of Sens, that the archbishop might 
 say masses for his soul ; and he died, and whether the 
 archbishop said any masses or not I have never accu- 
 rately ascertained. But it is evident that the arch- 
 bishop cares not for the little summer-house, for the 
 hill is steep and high, and the good prelate loves bet- 
 ter his quiet garden under the shadow of the cathedral, 
 where the ripening apricots redden in the sun, and the 
 fattening pheasants cackle in their aviary. 
 
 We are often told how barbarous English people 
 are, so that nothing can be left accessible to them 
 which they will not savagely deface ; and many pleas- 
 ant places in England are now closed to the public 
 because, some disgraceful wretches have formerly done 
 mischief there. But even here, in civilized France, I 
 observe the same unaccountable tendencies. The little 
 summer-house had several windows daintily bordered 
 with narrow lines of stained glass, probably for the 
 amusement of those curiously-constituted minds which 
 experience a strange satisfaction in looking at a land- 
 scape through a discoloring medium. The walls of 
 the octagonal room were also daintily panelled, and 
 everything was finished with much care and some de- 
 gree of taste. But barbarians came hither from Sens, 
 and removed bricks that they might get at the bolts of 
 
First Head J^hiarters. 
 
 the door, and unbolted it, and entered in, and smashed 
 every pane of glass in the windows — stained or color- 
 less, they left not one remaining ; and they damaged 
 the delicate panelling, and scrawled inscriptions on 
 the walls, and left everywhere the marks of their stupid 
 destructiveness. 
 
 So much for the last hermitage of St. Bond. The 
 first was erected in consequence of a vow, as legends 
 tell. The saint who dwelt there descended every day 
 to the River Yonne with his water-jug, but every day 
 as he climbed the hill the devil came and broke the 
 jug, and spilled the water. This he did for seven 
 years, at the end of which time even the saint's pa- 
 tience began to be a little wearied, and he vowed that 
 if the devil might be kept from plaguing him he would 
 build a hermitage on the hill ; and thenceforth Satan, 
 who must have broken exactly two thousand five hun- 
 dred and fifty-five water-jugs — which Dr. Colenso, I 
 suppose, would consider an improbable number — de- 
 sisted from that somewhat monotonous amusement. 
 
 Sens is seated on the right bank of the River Yonne, 
 opposite a large island with many houses upon it. 
 There are two bridges going to the railway station, 
 and a picturesque straggling street. The city itself is 
 entirely belted by magnificent avenues, chiefly elms, 
 which here in France grow to a wonderful height, 
 with astonishing freedom and grace. I remember a 
 still finer avenue of old chestnut trees, now removed, 
 which never recovered the ill usage they got from the 
 Cossacks, who encamped here during the invasion, 
 and wore the bark away from the trees by the friction 
 of horse-tethers. An incautious mayor finished the 
 ailing trees by raising the level of the road, and so 
 
A Little Fre7ich City. 
 
 253 
 
 burying some portion of their trunks. These avenues 
 follow the course of the old walls, now nearly all re- 
 moved, but there are picturesque bits left here and 
 there. Instead of the grand old Gothic gateways, 
 they have put an absurd triumphal arch in one place, 
 and still more stupid columns in another. Still there 
 is a fine postern left, hidden behind the trees. The 
 avenues are double — I mean there are four lines of 
 trees, and in the middle large green lawns, one of 
 which is watered by a rivulet. In their love of public 
 walks the French give us a good example. Sens, 
 w T ith a population of ten thousand, has far better and 
 more extensive public walks than either Manchester 
 or Glasgow. I know that in England some watering- 
 places have walks to attract visitors, but Sens is not a 
 watering-place ; strangers seldom stay there more than 
 an hour or two, and the walks are simply for the 
 health and recreation of the inhabitants themselves. 
 
 Avenues which encircle % town, with large green 
 spaces in them for exercise, are much better than 
 some isolated spot inaccessible to half the population. 
 And if the town grows beyond the avenues, what 
 matter? Are they not accessible to the outsiders also? 
 Fancy what a boon it would be to the inhabitants of 
 a large English manufacturing town to have such 
 avenues and lawns as those of Sens circling it, and 
 held forever inviolable as municipal property sacred 
 to the public health ! The lawn in the middle, like 
 the tapis vert at Sens, ought to be wide enough all 
 along for cricket, and everybody should be allowed to 
 play there under certain slight restrictions necessary 
 for the preservation of order. Spaces might also be 
 set apart for gymnastic exercises, and furnished with 
 
254 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 such simple apparatus as common gymnastics require. 
 It may be said that the English people do not care 
 about trees, and lawns, and exercise, and " that sort 
 of thing " — that they prefer beer and gin. I wish 
 you would try them. I feel convinced that, if such 
 public walks belted our northern towns, the inhabit- 
 ants would all take to them as ducks take to water. 
 
 The avenues look best when some procession is 
 passing along them. The Senonese are rather fond 
 of getting up what they call a " cavalcade, " ostensibly 
 for some charitable purpose, but in reality because it 
 amuses them. The last cavalcade of this kind I hap- 
 pened to witness — a charming sight for a child, and 
 highly suggestive to a painter, but not perfect enough 
 to produce the degree of illusion necessary to keep 
 one quite serious. However, there is compensation 
 in everything, and if the spectacle had been quite un- 
 exceptionable, it would not have been half such good 
 fun. The subject represented was a return from hunt- 
 ing during the Regency, the charitable object was the 
 relief of the cotton operatives about Rouen, and the 
 date of the festival was the first Sunday after Easter in 
 the present year (1863). 
 
 I saw the procession first from the upper windows 
 of a house near the palace of justice, the next but one 
 from a sharp corner. In the same street, but a good 
 way round the corner, stands the sous-prefecture, 
 whence the procession started ; so we heard the 
 strains of martial music and the trampling of many 
 steeds some time before we saw anything. 
 
 Suddenly a number of boys and young men rushed 
 round the corner, and came under the windows where 
 we stood. They were dressed in loose scarlet tunics, 
 
A Little French City, 
 
 255 
 
 not unlike the tabards of heralds, embroidered with 
 green, yellow, and white flowers. They had white 
 sleeves, and blue knickerbockers, and red stockings. 
 Their caps were of. divers colors, bordered with fur. 
 They all carried long blue poles with trumpet mouths 
 at the tops, but these were not musical instruments. 
 The use of them we very soon learned. If we had 
 flattered ourselves that by being stationed at a good 
 height above the street we had cunningly escaped 
 contributing anything to the relief of the people at 
 Rouen, we had deceived ourselves. The long blue 
 trumpets were presented to us ; they touched our 
 very hands. On putting a piece of money into the 
 trumpet's mouth it entered with surprising facility, 
 . and slid down a tube of blue cotton, by means of 
 which it safely arrived in a box at the lower end of 
 the pole. In spite of their disguise I recognized one 
 or two of the lads who carried the poles ; and I, 
 not being disguised, was of course only too easily 
 recognized by them. But I was a fool for putting too 
 much money into the first trumpet, for others came 
 after, and then I was reduced to coppers, which looked 
 shabby ; whereas if I had wisely limited myself to a 
 franc at once from the beginning, I might have met 
 all demands respectably. 
 
 The blue trumpets, to our great relief, passed by at 
 last, and were presented to other windows. Then 
 four gendarmes came round the corner on well- 
 groomed horses, with their usual rather solid and 
 heavy aspect, terrible to all disturbers of the peace. 
 Then came the band of the 65th regiment of the 
 line, playing martial music. And now for the grand 
 cavalcade ! 
 
256 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 For my part I made up my mind to believe it all if I 
 could ; but it seemed more as if I were in a picture 
 gallery or a theatre than really witnessing a return 
 from hunting. Still it was well got up. The dresses, 
 made in Paris on purpose for such occasions, were 
 costly and good, and carefully studied from actual 
 costumes of the period ; and if the wearers of them 
 w 7 ere not exactly princes, they looked even yet more 
 princely than real princes do. 
 
 Three huntsmen on horseback. Their coats were 
 striped with narrow bands of blue and silver and gold. 
 They wore cocked hats and red breeches, and blue 
 saddle-cloths. 
 
 A company of foot guards, wearing black hats edged 
 w r ith red, blue coats with white stripes, and scarlet 
 breeches. They bore halberds. 
 
 Four trumpeters, with loose surcoats of blue, pow- 
 dered with golden fleurs-de-lis, black cocked hats 
 edged with gold, white breeches faced with yellow, 
 and high boots. They sounded their trumpets con- 
 tinually, two at a time. These trumpets were of the 
 old French hunting pattern, winding round the body 
 of the trumpeter, passing over his left shoulder and 
 under his right arm. 
 
 Rabatteurs, wearing long curls, gray felt hats, and 
 white plumes. Their coats red, with black velvet 
 cuirasses, each with a huge silver star in the mid- 
 dle of the breast. Breeches white, faced with red. 
 Boots high, with mighty gilded spurs. 
 
 As these stately personages were riding proudly 
 past with drawn swords, just under our windows, the 
 horse in the middle, a heavy gray beast, took it 
 into its head to make a violent attack on its right- 
 hand neighbor. 
 
A Little French City. 257 
 
 The first two kicks missed, but the third was only 
 too well planted, for it sent horse and man rolling 
 over in the gutter. This, however, was partly due 
 to the anxiety of the attacked horse to get out of the 
 way of the aggressor. The riders both kept their 
 seats, and did not look alarmed. I particularly ad- 
 mired the one whose horse came down. He had 
 received a kick on his left foot, hard enough to break 
 his great gilded spur, part of which was picked up 
 afterwards ; yet he held his drawn sword steadily in 
 the air, and resumed his place in the procession, just 
 as I have seen an English life-guardsman do under like 
 circumstances. A little delay was occasioned by this 
 accident ; and when the procession moved forward, 
 the gentlemen composing it kept at a respectful dis- 
 tance from the heavy gray horse in the middle. 
 
 The Grand Huntsman, all in crimson velvet and 
 gold, with a baton like a field-marshal's, and an air 
 of infinite importance. 
 
 Piqueurs de la Meute. I cannot remember how 
 these were dressed, but have a dim impression of 
 some absurd costume like that worn by the army in 
 Faust, as played at the Theatre Lyrique. 
 
 La Mente. At any rate I remember the doggies, 
 which were au natureL Little is to be said in their 
 favor. There had been a rumor that the emperor 
 would lend us a pack of hounds from Fontainebleau ; 
 but surely these sorry little dogs were not a deputa- 
 tion from the imperial kennels. They were decidedly 
 the worst part of the procession ; but they trotted 
 along contentedly, glad to be out for an airing, and 
 happily ignorant of the expressions of contempt that 
 hailed them on every side. 
 
 17 
 
258 First Head Quarters. 
 
 Mousquetaires a fied. Exactly like a regiment in 
 an opera. 
 
 Trumpeters on foot. Not much better than the 
 poor doggies. Wretched little fellows, totally desti- 
 tute of calves, and yet endowed with blue breeches 
 and red stockings. The tallest was put in the middle. 
 They wore black cocked hats with white edges, pow- 
 dered wigs with tails, and scarlet coats with silver 
 facings. They had a mournful look, as though in- 
 wardly conscious of being absurd. 
 
 The Wolf. An unlucky beast probably killed in 
 some neighboring w T ood,* and now borne triumphant- 
 ly, having his legs tied together, and a long pole thrust 
 between them, which pole rested on the shoulders of 
 two lads with blue coats and red breeches. The vic- 
 tim was painful to behold. His open mouth showed 
 savage teeth, and his tail hung inversely, beating time 
 with a regular cadence to the steps of the bearers. 
 
 To the wolf succeeded a stag between two foxes, 
 the three borne upon a litter. It was impossible to 
 believe that the little dogs we had just seen could have 
 had anything to do with the death of that stag. 
 
 Two youthful pages followed. They had a femi- 
 nine look, and were probably girls. They wore long 
 red coats, black velvet breeches, and white stockings. 
 They had long brown curls under black cocked hats. 
 
 The Regent. His Highness wore a black hat, a 
 coat of sky-blue moire, embroidered with silver and 
 gold, and sky-blue breeches. This august personage 
 had a most splendid appearance ; and I am credibly 
 
 * My next-door neighbor killed a very fine wolf in the 
 woods near Sens, and keeps his skin as a trophy. 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 259 
 
 informed by Monsieur le Maire that that sky-blue coat 
 and those sky-blue breeches had cost no less a sum 
 than twenty pounds sterling. 
 
 To the Regent succeeded two princes ; and here I 
 proudly record a personal incident. One of their High- 
 nesses deigned to speak to me. It is true that under 
 the royal wig I recognized the familiar features of a 
 baker of respectable standing in the town ; but he 
 looked a prince, every inch of him. 
 
 Indeed, all these personages bore themselves with a 
 regal air. It may have occurred to the reader to feel 
 some slight disappointment on seeing the faces of real 
 kings, for they do not always come up to one's lofty 
 ideal ; but these men did. That baker was just as good 
 a gentleman and prince (to look at) as any that ever I 
 saw ; and if he had been a real prince, he would have 
 won all hearts by the grace of his condescension. 
 Men would have said of him, " See how easy it is to 
 recognize princely blood ! " there being a strong ten- 
 dency in mankind to call qualities princely when they 
 belong to princes ; though, when precisely the same 
 graces adorn common folks, they excite nobody's ad- 
 miration. 
 
 And my bell-hanger, who passed as a great lord, 
 and deigned to give me a lordly smile and bow, what 
 peer of France ever bowed better? The next time my 
 bells won't ring, he will come with his tools in his 
 hand, in his plain workman's dress, and humbly toil 
 for me. But can I forget that he rode behind the 
 Regent with that noble air of pride ? 
 
 There w T ere many lords of the court, some on horse- 
 back in velvet coats of various colors, others in a huge 
 gilded chariot, drawn by four fat horses. 
 
260 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 At last the procession passed us. It traversed all the 
 quaint old streets. It circumnavigated the great square 
 in front of the cathedral. It emerged from the little 
 city, and wandered into the faubourgs beyond. It 
 passed gleaming and glittering under the green old 
 elms in the avenues. It crossed the bridge and pene- 
 trated into the faubourg on the island in the river. 
 After having dazzled the eyes of the islanders, it re- 
 turned to the avenues without the walls, and there 
 many good-natured householders, sitting on the ter- 
 races of their gardens, handed glasses of ale or wine 
 to the thirsty riders. 
 
 The proceeds of the collection, chiefly, I suspect, in 
 sous, quite filled a large box, which followed the pro- 
 cession in a carriage. I am afraid, after the expenses, 
 not much was left for the poor folks at Rouen ; and 
 one cannot help regretting that the charitable people 
 who poured money into the blue trumpets which were 
 applied to the windows, and into the tin boxes carried 
 by those who begged amongst the crowd, did not 
 rather give the same amount directly to some of the 
 many committees, which hand it over, without deduc- 
 tion, to those who really have need of it. 
 
 I saw no more of the procession. In the evening 
 there was a grand military concert on the public lawn. 
 A large circle was brilliantly illuminated with festoons 
 of lamps hanging from tall masts crowned with ban- 
 ners. The music was good, and about two thousand 
 people heard it. 
 
 In other parts of the promenades there were the 
 usual amusements of a fete day, and some little boys 
 of my acquaintance were rendered extremely happy 
 by a ride on the wooden horses ; and hard by other 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 equestrians in a circus rode on horses of real flesh and 
 blood, which galloped round and round. Spangled 
 ladies in short petticoats stood on the platform before 
 the circus, crying mightily, " Come and see ; " some were 
 fat and some were lean, but only one was pretty. Then 
 there were boxers boxing, powerful athletes with thick 
 muscular arms and dreadfully brutal looks. And whilst 
 the sunshine lasted, there was a balloon man, with a 
 cluster of red India-rubber balloons hanging like a 
 bunch of shining cherries high in the blue air ; and he 
 let one of them go to attract the attention of the crowd, 
 and it rose and rose till it passed far above the cathe- 
 dral towers, and gradually became a tiny speck up in 
 the blinding light about the sun, when the strongest 
 eyes lost it. 
 
 These Senonese cavalcades may be seen from two 
 points of view. Are they an indication of childishness 
 or of culture? I incline to the latter view. I like the 
 attempt to keep the past in our memories by these re- 
 minders. Here was a little lesson in history brought 
 home to ten thousand people. Who was the Regent? 
 Those who did not know, asked ; those who did, re- 
 plied. There was much conversation on historical 
 topics in Sens that day, much criticism of the cos- 
 tumes, some discussion as to the acts and character of 
 the Regent. The present writer, whose knowledge 
 of history is unfortunately somewhat general, and even 
 vague, learned several facts which he did not know be- 
 fore. But the strongest impression was made upon 
 the boys ; and a juvenile from the Lycee, who some- 
 times dines with me on a Sunday, talked of nothing 
 but history over his nuts and almonds, and asked me 
 many questions which, I am ashamed to say, I was 
 utterly unable to answer. 
 
262 First Head Quarters. 
 
 As a machinery for collecting money for charitable 
 purposes, a cavalcade is a cunning device. It passes 
 through every street and before every house. It ex- 
 cites so much curiosity that the people are all sure to 
 be at their windows ; then there are so many collect- 
 ors, that those w T ho refuse to the first, give to the 
 third, or sixth, or tenth. 
 
 The Senonese have a terrible custom of marching 
 about with drums. There is a tradition that, many 
 ages ago, the Saracens penetrated hitherto, and so dis- 
 mayed the inhabitants that they were on the point of 
 abandoning the city, when a virgin of Sens, whose 
 name history has failed to preserve, took a drum and 
 marched about the streets drumming. Then all the 
 other young women in the town took drums, and 
 drummed ; and the Saracens, hearing this tremendous 
 and universal drumming, concluded that there must be 
 a mighty force within the walls, and abandoned the 
 siege. And so, because the Saracens threatened Sens, 
 nobody knows how many hundreds of years ago, and 
 because a virgin, whose name nobody knows, excited 
 all the others to drum with drums, all modern citizens 
 of Sens who may happen to have a constitutional an- 
 tipathy to noise are to have their nervous system hor- 
 ribly tortured and put out of order by a mob of drum- 
 mers parading the streets by torchlight. It is incredible 
 what an uproar they make. It shakes the houses from 
 top to bottom ; the very stones in the paved streets 
 dance under the drums. There they go with their 
 infernal rattle, torches flaring, and a mob of children 
 after them, who love noise as much as I hate it. 
 
 To finish the festivities of the cavalcade, of course I 
 knew that the drummers would gather themselves to- 
 
A Little French City, 
 
 263 
 
 gether. And if any sick were lying in their beds that 
 night in anything like that state for which straw is laid 
 down before people's houses, depend upon it, those 
 drums were the death of them. 
 
 Of the usual festivities of the place it is not my lot 
 to see very much. I am not addicted to dancing in 
 the open air, as Mr. Pinchbold did when cruising on 
 wheels in this part of the world. Sometimes, as I 
 walk round the promenades on a Sunday evening, I 
 perceive gleaming through the thick foliage in front 
 of me festoons of colored lamps, on approaching which 
 I hear strains of music, and discover the postman who 
 brings me letters sitting on high, divested of his official 
 uniform, and playing energetically on the clarinet. 
 Around him are violinists, and performers on all kinds 
 of instruments ; before him, on a large wooden floor, 
 laid down for the occasion and defended by railing, 
 whirl a hundred couples in the mazes of a waltz. 
 Hard by the ball are stalls for refreshment, and in 
 the distance the inevitable rotatory machine with the 
 wooden horses, whereon tall young fellows gravely 
 sit, their feet touching the ground, their coat-tails 
 hiding the tail of the horse, as they calmly await 
 the motion which is to them so full of charm. 
 
 One of the first questions usually asked of an Eng- 
 lishman who lives in France is, whether he likes 
 French cookery. A prudent man, when the question 
 is put to him at an English dinner-table, tells a lie, 
 and says that English cookery is far superior. Taken 
 broadly, the difference between the two nations in this 
 matter is, that the French can cook, and the English 
 can't; but dishes which are so extremely simple as not 
 to require any scientific cooking at all are generally 
 better in England. 
 
264 First Head Quarters. 
 
 To borrow an illustration from my own craft. I 
 very often admire, with humble wonder, the astonish- 
 ing perfection with which carriages are painted. We 
 painters of pictures could not paint carriages so well 
 as men bred peculiarly to that trade. Very few of us 
 could lay the color quite evenly enough, or, if we did, 
 it would only be by great effort ; whereas a simple 
 carriage-painter, who has never troubled himself about 
 gradation and what we call texture, lays on his paint 
 with a masterly perfection of method. So a French 
 cook is too artistic to succeed where art is superflu- 
 ous ; and there we beat him. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you like frogs? " asks the 
 indignant reader. Yes, I do. And here allow me to 
 remark, that if you are ignorant of the taste of frogs, 
 you are, gastronomically speaking, sunk in the depths 
 of barbarism, and an object of pity, even as some 
 wretch who has never swallowed an oyster. Fancy 
 chickens from Lilliput, as much more delicate than 
 common chickens as they would be smaller, and you 
 have some notion of what frogs are like. One of the 
 most galling disappointments I ever had to bear was 
 to leave untouched a plate of frogs, because I had to 
 go off by the train. For the first forty miles my soul 
 was a prey to vain regrets ; and even now, though I 
 have eaten many a plate of frogs since then, I have not 
 quite got over it. 
 
 But the common English notion, that the French 
 are fed on frogs habitually, is a mistake. Frogs are 
 much too dear to be anything but a luxury ; and you 
 might as well say that the English population is 
 brought up on woodcocks. 
 
 The Burgundians are fond of their great big vine- 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 265 
 
 snails ; but, in my opinion, the principal merit of 
 snails is, that they are good, strong, nourishing food. 
 The way that snails are generally served in good 
 houses is this : Seven or eight of them are brought 
 on a little hot silver plate, with a tiny silver two- 
 pronged fork, made on purpose. The seven snails 
 are by no means unpleasant to look at, their shells 
 being beautifully white and clean. The entrance to 
 every shell is stopped with a sort of paste, pleasant 
 to the taste. You insert the fork and pull out the 
 inhabitant. He is a huge animal, and of a dark 
 brown color graduating to black. The black is the 
 best. The beast is not pleasant to look at ; so you 
 should transfer him rapidly from his shell to your 
 mouth, and, when there, you find him very like an 
 enormous morsel of tough beafsteak. Masticate him 
 if you can ! If you are successful, and go boldly on 
 till you have emptied the seventh shell, you must be a 
 hungry man indeed, if you have not sufficiently dined ; 
 — and this, not because you are made sick, but really 
 because these big snails are strong meat. 
 
 Next to good eating, the French love good wine, 
 and, better than either, witty and intellectual conver- 
 sation. The wines, as I said, grown at this particular 
 place are not to be recommended ; but all the best 
 produce of Upper Burgundy is to be got here. The 
 variety of wines grown in Burgundy is much greater 
 than Englishmen generally are aware of. White 
 burgundy with soda-water rivals Byron's hock and 
 soda-water. The sparkling burgundies of the better 
 sort are as good as the best champagne ; and the pre- 
 cious red wines which Englishmen used to appreciate 
 so highly in Esmond's time are sold here, and even at 
 Dijon, at the rate of ten francs a bottle. 
 
266 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 In saying that the French are fond of good conver- 
 sation, an exception must be made. French girls, 
 whom Mr. Ruskin, perhaps not unjustly, defined as 
 the sweetest-tempered living creatures in the world, 
 might also be characterized as the most silent. A 
 French maiden properly brought up is a miracle of 
 modesty ; her dress, her manners, are the extreme 
 of an ideal simplicity. Admirers crowd respectfully 
 about her ; and she never seems to suppose it possible 
 that she can excite any admiration : if utterly neg- 
 lected, she seems just as happy in her own quiet way ; 
 nobody can tell what she is thinking. Always calm, 
 contented, placid, and yet lifted so far above us by 
 never condescending to seek our homage, she wins it 
 as her natural right. Men talk to each other in her 
 tranquil presence with an uneasy feeling that she is 
 criticising them inwardly. She is that 
 
 Mystery of mysteries, 
 Faintly smiling Adeline. 
 
 She is clear, and yet inscrutable, like the blue depths 
 of a Swiss lake in a calm. This is the secret of her 
 inexhaustible interest. Who knows whether she is 
 shallow or deep? Sometimes one fancies there are 
 faint gleams of subdued sarcasm in her gentle eyes. 
 She seems a serene Intelligence dwelling apart from 
 the world. 
 
 Is she in thought as absolutely innocent as she 
 looks? Of course, charitable Englishwomen, calling 
 themselves Christians, say she is a sham, and that they 
 would not let their daughters be educated in her com- 
 pany. It is easy to gain credit for penetration by 
 slandering simple girls who are foreigners ; but every 
 
A Little French City, 
 
 267 
 
 one who knows respectable French society, knows 
 very well that there is no foundation whatever for slan- 
 der of that kind. The young French girl in the higher 
 classes is, unfortunately for her, only too innocent for 
 this w r orld, of which she is almost as ignorant as a 
 new-born baby. Some day her papa will say to her, 
 " My daughter, thou art going to be married," and 
 she, in simple filial obedience, will yield herself up to 
 the chosen son-in-law. There is something sad and 
 touching in that simple history, so often repeated. 
 Whether French parents will ever have a higher ideal 
 for their daughters than mere purity, and simplicity, 
 and ignorance, it is difficult to say ; but at present, 
 although some girls are bred as English ones, knowing 
 good and evil, it is always a great disadvantage to 
 them in France, though a rational Englishman would 
 probably like them all the better for it. 
 
 Conversation amongst men is more entertaining ; 
 and married women, especially when oldish, talk clev- 
 erly, and are often keen politicians. The French are 
 at their ease in the region of ideas, and so their con- 
 versation has the charm of speculative interest. Be- 
 sides, they cultivate conversation as an art. They 
 read less than we do, and talk more and better. They 
 become eager and excited in the elucidation of their 
 thoughts, which seems to produce a sort of electrical 
 flashing, seen in England only in rare instances. They 
 have the fault of interrupting each other very uncere- 
 moniously, and in that respect lack politeness ; but 
 this is an affair of temperament. They do not hesitate 
 in speaking, as our upper classes do. Probably in the 
 last century the English hesitated less ; at present we 
 hesitate most painfully, and, if we go on, perhaps the 
 
268 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 next generation will not be able to express itself ver- 
 bally at all, but will carry on conversation by writing. 
 
 After knowing the French intimately for a few 
 years, it is easy to see what ideas are dearest to their 
 mind. The leading ideas are the key to all national 
 character. The English national ideas are religion, 
 and wealth, and political liberty. The French national 
 ideas are religious liberty, political equality, and na- 
 tional strength. The difference between a love of 
 religion and a love of religious liberty is obvious ; the 
 bare conception of religious liberty only awakens in 
 nations which are internally divided on religious ques- 
 tions. If a powerful majority, say nine tenths of the 
 population of a country, heartily accepts a particular 
 form of faith, it will compel the remaining tenth to 
 conformity, and at the same time assert that there is 
 perfect religious liberty in the country, because there 
 is really no desire on the part of any one to disobey 
 the governing church. Thus it has been recently as- 
 serted in a Spanish newspaper that in Spain there is 
 perfect religious liberty, because every one has really 
 the liberty to do what he desires — that is, to be a good 
 Catholic, for no true Spaniard could desire anything 
 else. The English conception of religious liberty is, 
 on one or two points, of a like character, especially 
 with reference to the observance of Sunday, on which 
 day every Englishman has perfect liberty to do what 
 he desires — that is, to observe it in the Anglican 
 manner, for no true Englishman could desire anything 
 else. When a majority becomes sufficiently strong to 
 call itself universal unanimity, it soon loses the power 
 of intellectually apprehending the nature of individual 
 liberty. The French conception of religious liberty is, 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 269 
 
 therefore, unintelligible to many other nations. It 
 amounts to this, that on the grounds of religious dog- 
 ma no government has the right to impose any obser- 
 vance on the whole nation, because, whatever the 
 observance may be, there will be some persons in the 
 nation who do not mentally believe in the dogma on 
 which it is grounded ; and to compel these to con- 
 formity would be an act of religious tyranny. The 
 arguments advanced by Mr. John Stuart Mill in his 
 Essay on Liberty were already familiar in their es- 
 sence to the popular French mind ; and that exquisite- 
 ly-written treatise, though full of what to the English 
 may seem new and daring speculation, fell with the 
 effect of truism on our neighbors. 
 
 The French are not nearly so sensitive about politi- 
 cal liberty. Louis Napoleon has made himself a secu- 
 lar despot ; but he would never dare to enforce the 
 observance of the most sacred and essential ordinances 
 of the Romish Church as the English Parliament en- 
 forces the observance of Sunday. The utmost efforts 
 have been made by the clergy to induce him to make 
 a religious ceremony essential to marriage ; but, in 
 spite of his strong desire to conciliate the Church, he 
 cannot and dare not yield that point. And so much 
 do national feelings differ, that the French often assert 
 that, little as they love Louis Napoleon, they would 
 rather be governed by him seven days in the week 
 than by an English Act of Parliament on the first day 
 only. 
 
 The idea of political equality, in the French sense, 
 is perhaps even less intelligible to us than the French 
 conception of religious liberty. No Frenchman that 
 ever I have talked with has advocated the crude 
 
270 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 conception of equality which our writers amuse them- 
 selves by refuting. No Frenchman ever, in my hear- 
 ing, denied the natural inequalities inevitable amongst 
 men ; but between these natural inequalities and the 
 attempt to represent them politically, there is, they 
 argue, a step of such difficulty that it is wiser never to 
 attempt it. They say that our political inequalities 
 are purely artificial — are as far from representing the 
 natural inequalities as their own system of theoretical 
 equality. On the question of the suffrage, they freely 
 admit the inconveniences of giving every man a vote ; 
 but our system of boroughs, by which one small town 
 elects a member, and another larger one is unrepre- 
 sented, does not seem to the French in any way an 
 accurate imitation of the natural inequality. In all 
 discussion they are mercilessly logical ; and the Eng- 
 lishman's argument for many abuses, that they work 
 well practically, seems to the French mind an ignoble 
 concession to the basest sort of expediency. 
 
 There is also a moral root for the idea of equality 
 in the French mind which is entirely wanting to the 
 English. They have a kind of self-respect quite dif- 
 ferent from ours. The sort of rudeness from persons 
 of superior rank which Englishmen accept as quite 
 natural and right, the French resent as impertinence. 
 A friend of mine was taking a drive with a rich 
 French countess in a country where the rank and 
 position of the countess were known to every one. 
 She wanted to know where some peasant lived, and, 
 seeing a man working in a field by the road-side, 
 stopped the carriage and called out, " Good man, 
 where does such a one live?" The man replied sim- 
 ply, " Good woman, he lives at such a place;" he 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 271 
 
 being a Frenchman, with the idea of equality in his 
 head. Once, in Scotland, I heard an English visitor 
 call out to a laborer, " Man, whose boat is that on the 
 lake?" but the Scotchman replied with deference. It 
 seems intensely absurd to the English to have to be 
 polite to poor people ; yet every French peasant exacts 
 courtesy. A thoughtful Frenchman would tell you 
 that by this courtesy he has no idea of denying natural 
 inequality ; on the contrary, he thereby recognizes its 
 profoundly mysterious nature. An Englishman, meet- 
 ing a man evidently much poorer than himself, has 
 not the least hesitation about treating him as his in- 
 ferior ; but a Frenchman is courteous to his possible I 
 superiority on many points quite as important as 
 money. And, as we come to know mankind better, 
 does not the French view acquire graver claims to 
 consideration? You may be rich and famous, and 
 you may meet in the street some poor unknown oper- 
 ative, and that man in the street may be, for anything 
 you know, at that very time exercising a self-denial so 
 heroic, that no moral effort you ever made in all your 
 life is to be compared to it. Or he may be endowed 
 with natural faculties in comparison with which yours, 
 though everybody has heard of you, are commonplace. 
 Let us be courteous to his possible superiority ; and, 
 even if he were certainly our inferior in all things, 
 surely our superiority is not so godlike that we are / 
 entitled to be rude to him. 
 
 These ideas go so far in France that I could relate 
 many astonishing anecdotes in proof of them. A 
 French lady told me that she had never been presented 
 to the Queen of England, because she thought it possi- 
 ble that the Queen would not treat her on a footing 
 
272 
 
 First Head 'Quarters. 
 
 of equality. Now, to interpret this sentiment coarsely 
 as a pretension on the lady's part to equal position 
 with Her Majesty, would be merely to misunderstand 
 her. The Frenchwoman's next observation explained 
 her meaning. " A formal recognition of such wide 
 difference of rank is a complete bar to the interchange 
 of ideas ; so that conversations with people too exalted 
 to be contradicted have no intellectual interest." And 
 French princes, both of the House of Orleans and the 
 present dynasty, know this so well that they always 
 meet cultivated Frenchmen on intellectual grounds 
 common to all, recognizing a certain philosophical 
 equality in human beings beyond the distinctions of 
 rank. 
 
 The next idea — that of national strength — is more 
 powerful in France than with us, as is proved by the 
 willing consent of all Frenchmen to the conscription, 
 and their unfailing support of any ruler, no matter 
 how tyrannical at home, who will make the name of 
 France great and terrible abroad. The one unpar- 
 donable sin of Louis Philippe was, that France under 
 him ceased to hold that supreme position in European 
 politics which all Frenchmen look upon as her natural 
 right. The open secret of Louis Napoleon's success 
 is that, whatever may- be his crimes, he has undenia- 
 bly put France into the proud place of leader in the 
 councils of Europe. 
 
 A striking contrast between the French and the 
 English is the faith of the French in intellectual con- 
 clusions, and their readiness to carry them into prac- 
 tice ; whilst the English are sceptical, and, in secular 
 matters, believe in nothing which they have not seen 
 actually at work. The French take the keenest inter- 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 est in suggestions, possibilities, and theories of all 
 sorts ; but only a very few English minds are much 
 interested in mere speculation. But not only are the 
 French speculative, they are above all things ardent 
 to make speculations realities. In France there is but 
 one step between the reception of an idea and its 
 realization — a realization often so premature as to 
 justify British sneers at French mobility, but often 
 also in the highest degree valuable as an experiment. 
 
 The difference between the two nations in this 
 respect was never more curiously exemplified than 
 in the way they have dealt with one of the inevitable 
 questions of modern times — the adoption of a uniforn 
 decimal system of weights and measures and money. 
 Every intelligent Englishman has been well aware for 
 many years that the English confusion in these things 
 was irrational and absurd ; but, partly from hatred to 
 the French, and partly from his peculiar unwilling- 
 ness to put intellectual conclusions into practice, he 
 has gone on without making any reform, on the plea 
 
 — by no means complimentary to the intelligence of 
 his countrymen — that the people of England could 
 not learn a system so simple that any school-boy above 
 ten years old could master it in half an hour. 
 
 The Lycee deserves attention as a specimen of a 
 French public school. It is a very long, narrow, and 
 lofty building, on the site of the old wall of the town, 
 with great court-yards and a chapel. The side facing 
 the promenade still bears many marks of musket-balls 
 
 — a reminiscence of the invasion. As the stranger 
 walks along the promenades, under those lofty walls, 
 he might excusably infer that the principal occupation 
 of the students within was the production of horrible 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 discords on all kinds of instruments. This impres- 
 sion, though natural, would, however, be erroneous. 
 A system of education is carried on there, which, if 
 not in every respect exactly what one might desire, 
 has, nevertheless, the qualities of steadiness, regularity, 
 and discipline. 
 
 A striking difference between English and French 
 education is, that in England the education of the up- 
 per classes is almost entirely in the hands of the clergy, 
 whilst in France the national education is laic. How 
 far this may seem an advantage or not, depends upon 
 the point of view from which we look at it. If it is 
 good for a nation to be governed by its priesthood, the 
 English system is unquestionably the better of the two, 
 for it gives the priesthood absolute power over a very 
 important part of the nation. If, on the other hand, 
 clerical authority is, as some assert, a kind of power 
 naturally hostile to intellectual liberty, it need not sur- 
 prise us that many politicians should be anxious to 
 place national education in the hands of laymen. 
 
 The functionaries in a French Lycee are divisible 
 into three classes, — Administrators, Professors, and 
 Masters. 
 
 The Administration consists first of the Proviseur, 
 who is the head of the establishment, and directs 
 everything ; next, the Censeur, whose business it is to 
 attend to the discipline of the Lycee, and who, there- 
 fore, is also a powerful personage ; then the Treas- 
 urer and his clerk, who are called the Econome and 
 the Commis d' * Economat. The Econome is master 
 of all money matters, and is alone responsible for 
 them, not to the Proviseur, but directly to the Court 
 of Accounts. He has an office where he and his clerk 
 
A Little French City. 275 
 
 keep an open account between the Lycee and every 
 pupil in it, and between the Lycee and all the trades- 
 people who supply it. Even the Proviseur, master 
 absolute in everything else, cannot spend one centime, 
 nor receive one, except his own personal salary. 
 Lastly there is the chaplain (Aumdnter), whose office 
 is purely ecclesiastical, and who exercises little or no 
 power but that of persuasion. 
 
 The Professors, fifteen in number, hear and exam- 
 ine the pupils, but are not present when they prepare 
 their work. There are five professors of sciences and 
 ten of letters. Of the former, three are mathematical, 
 and two teach physics and chemistry. Amongst the 
 professors of letters there is one for English and 
 another for German literature. 
 
 The eight Masters are the most to be pitied. It is 
 their business to be with the pupils at all hours of the 
 day and night, except during class hours, which are 
 from eight A. M. to ten A. M., and from two P. M. to 
 four P. M. These unlucky masters have to help and 
 direct the pupils whilst they learn their lessons, on 
 which account they are called " maitres repetzteurs" 
 They sleep in the dormitories with the pupils ; they 
 walk out with them when they take exercise ; they 
 w r atch them even in the play-grounds. To my mind, 
 the existence of one of these masters seems absolutely 
 insupportable. Surely the calm and peace of the 
 grave must have a great attraction for men who are 
 hardly ever alone, whose days and nights are passed 
 amongst scores of school-boys ! I wonder whether 
 they envy the quiet folk in the cemetery. 
 
 High up in the Lycee there is an infirmary, and 
 near it dwell three Sisters of Charity, one of whom 
 
276 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 manages the infirmary, and the other two the linen- 
 room, where all the boys' linen is kept, nicely folded 
 and clean, on pretty oak shelves, which exhale a pleas- 
 ant perfume of lavender. These two Sisters have to 
 take care that every one of the thousands of things 
 under their charge is kept in good order and repair. 
 Sisters of Charity have no choice where they will go, 
 or what they will do. The Superior of this little sis- 
 terhood of three, she who attends to the infirmary, was 
 sent here quite suddenly, and, for anything she knows, 
 may be sent to some other place, and quite a different 
 sort of work, any day. As it generally happens to 
 these good women, she is regarded by everybody with 
 the utmost respect and affection. She is a very fat, 
 good-tempered person, extremely kind and obliging to 
 every one, and like a tender mother to the boys in the 
 infirmary. She is very sharp, nevertheless, and soon 
 finds out small patients who sham illness to escape 
 work. For these, as the good Superior revealed to 
 me in confidence, she has a simple treatment which 
 effects a rapid cure. She reduces their food to famine 
 allowance and administers a nauseous purgative. The 
 boys, of course, very soon become ravenously hungry, 
 and can stand it no longer, when they profess them- 
 selves quite recovered, that they may return to the 
 flesh-pots of the refectory.* 
 
 In a French city the Lycee is the embodiment of 
 modern tendencies and aspirations, and the cathedral 
 of mediaeval ones. The Lycee is prosaic, scientific, 
 ugly, a place of hard labor for young brains, preparing 
 them for the work of this world by stern discipline of 
 
 Since this was written, the good lady is dead. 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 277 
 
 actual acquisition, leaving no time for dreaming about 
 lofty ideas. The cathedral, on the other hand, is from 
 end to end, from base to pinnacle, a great world of 
 ideal aspirations ; a place to which, century after cen- 
 tury, men and women have gone purposely to get rid 
 of the wearisome pressure of the actual, in meditations 
 on the past histories of idealized personages, in sweet 
 brooding over, and eager longing for, the bliss of a far 
 Paradise. The temper of the Lycee is submission 
 to discipline for the sake of knowledge ; the temper 
 of the Church is obedience for the sake of heavenly 
 protection. In the first, men seek to correct their 
 weakness by getting to know, for they attribute it to 
 mere ignorance ; in the second, they seek strength by 
 prayer, and penance, and confession. The Lycee and 
 the cathedral are in more ways than one typical of the 
 modern and mediaeval ages. Modern education is 
 acquisitive and critical ; the legends of the Church of 
 Rome were endlessly inventive, full of deep feeling, 
 and passion, and power. The Lycee is as prosaic as 
 a Lancashire factory ; it is, indeed, a sort of factory for 
 turning raw boy-material into bachelors. The cathe- 
 dral is all poetry ; I mean that every part of it affects 
 our emotional nature either by its own grandeur or 
 beauty, or by its allusion to histories of bright virtue 
 or brave fortitude. And this emotional result is inde- 
 pendent of belief in the historical truth of these great 
 legends : it would be stronger, no doubt, if we be- 
 lieved them, but we are still capable of feeling their 
 solemn poetry and large significance as we feel the 
 poetry and significance of u Sir Galahad," or " The 
 Idylls of the King." 
 
 Some persons are so constituted that it is necessary 
 
278 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 to their happiness to live near some noble work of art 
 or nature. A mountain is satisfactory to them because 
 it is great and ever new, presenting itself every hour 
 under aspects so unforeseen that one can gaze at it for 
 years with unflagging interest. To some minds, to 
 mine amongst others, human life is scarcely supportable 
 far from some stately and magnificent object, worthy of 
 endless study and admiration. But what of life in the 
 plains? Truly, most plains are dreary enough ; but 
 still they may have fine trees, or a cathedral. And in 
 the cathedral here, I find no despicable compensation for 
 the loss of dear old Ben Cruachan. The effects of light 
 on Cruachan were far more wonderful and interesting ; 
 but still it is something to see the cathedral front dark 
 in the early morning when the sun has risen behind it, 
 and golden in the glow of the evening when he lights 
 all its carven imagery. Better than either when the 
 sun has set long ago, and the slenderly columned 
 arcades lift themselves story above story, pale in the 
 clear, calm air, and the white statues of the mitred old 
 archbishops stand ghostly in their lofty tower. And 
 then is the time to enter in, and feel the true power of 
 the place. Just before the Suisse locks all the doors, 
 go in, and yield to all the influences that await you. 
 Silent worshippers are lingering at twenty altars yet* 
 — women, all of them, gathering strength to bear their 
 sorrows. They are praying for dear friends, dead and 
 living ; they are praying to be sustained in their daily 
 trials. You find them in little groups of two or three, 
 quite silent and absorbed ; and here and there one 
 kneels alone in some dim old vaulted chapel, before 
 
 * There are twenty-five altars in the cathedral at Sens. 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 279 
 
 an altar decked with flowers, almost invisible now. 
 And above the altar a little lamp is burning, one little 
 speck of yellow fire shining faintly, yet forever. And 
 all the painted windows gleam with a strange intensity, 
 for their tracery is quite black now, and every scrap 
 of glass tells with tenfold power. Thousands of 
 figures are still mysteriously visible — angels and de- 
 mons, prelates and warriors, and all the saints and 
 heroes of the faith. The flames of hell are still visibly 
 crimson ; still visibly writhe in torture the companies 
 of the damned. But the Suisse gathers us all together 
 — us, lovers of fine art, who came on purpose to be 
 pleasantly thrilled by a poetic effect ; and those others, 
 the poor women, who came to pray at the altars of the 
 Blessed Saints. I wonder whether he does not miss 
 one now 7 and then, lost in a dream of Paradise, or pas- 
 sionate prayer for the dead, far in some lonely chapel 
 before her favored shrine. 
 
 A Gothic cathedral, being intended originally for the 
 great ceremonies of the Roman Church, can only be 
 properly seen and understood when one of these cere- 
 monies is going forward in it. The extreme discrep- 
 ancy between the splendor of our old English cathe- 
 drals, with their obvious adaptation to the Roman 
 ritual, and the simple costume and observances of the 
 English Church, strikes every artist irresistibly. The 
 natural completion of a Gothic cathedral is a. visible 
 bishop, with cope and mitre and crosier, surrounded 
 by a crowd of inferior priests, all glowing with gold 
 and embroidery. With those living and moving 
 figures, the painted windows and illuminated vault 
 have a natural and intelligible relationship ; but the 
 wig and lawn sleeves (though objects of ambition to 
 
280 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 the clergy, and of veneration to the laity) are in artis- 
 tic harmony with no English cathedral except St. 
 Paul's. Of course, I speak here only of the aesthetic 
 aspect of this question, and do not meddle with the 
 theological. No doubt, in separating herself from 
 Rome, England did wisely to display the outward and 
 visible sign of her separation by rejecting the sacerdo- 
 tal vestments. But thence came a discord between 
 the old temples and the new priests. 
 
 Let us see how the old cathedral here looks on a 
 great day, and let us try to understand what sort of 
 ceremonies these Gothic cathedrals were built for. 
 
 The choir is enclosed by railings, and the priests do 
 not seem to care very much whether we see them or 
 not. The bishops, in the middle ages, performed their 
 solemn offices in a kind of isolation from the crowd, 
 utterly regardless of its convenience in every way. 
 This makes us understand the purpose of the proces- 
 sions. Without processions, as a Gothic cathedral is 
 constructed, not one person in a hundred would ever 
 see the bishop at all ; so he and his priests walk round 
 the aisles, blessing the kneeling people. 
 
 This time it is the consecration of a bishop — a great 
 event. The archbishop has allowed carpenters to erect 
 seats in the aisles near the choir, to let us get a peep 
 at the ceremony. Of course, many spectators find 
 themselves precisely opposite a huge pillar, impervi- 
 ous to the sight ; and there they sit, seeing nothing, and 
 asking their neighbors what is going on. As for me, 
 I see tolerably well through the iron grating. There 
 are three prelates with stiff golden copes and tall 
 mitres. One is our archbishop, who is to consecrate 
 the new bishop. There are also two other bishops 
 seated, in their simple violet dress. 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 281 
 
 The archbishop is seated in an arm-chair, with his 
 back to the altar. The elected is seated in front of 
 him, with the assistant bishops. This lasts for some 
 time in perfect silence. One of the bishops then rises, 
 and begs the archbishop, in Latin, to raise the elected 
 to the o?zus Episcoftatits. The archbishop asks for the 
 Apostolic mandate. It is read by a secretary, and then 
 the archbishop administers the oath, which is long and 
 highly curious. After that comes a remarkable cate- 
 chism, to which the elected has to answer ; and every 
 time he answers he rises slightly from his seat. The 
 catechism over, the elected is conducted between the 
 bishops to the archbishop, whose hand he kisses, kneel- 
 ing. The archbishop turns to the altar with the bishops, 
 and confesses ; then kisses the altar and incenses it ; 
 after which he returns to his seat. 
 
 There is another altar, lower down, for the elected, 
 and there he says mass ; but before that he is invested 
 with some pontifical ornaments. Then all chant the 
 great Litany of the Saints, the archbishop on his knees 
 with all the bishops, and the elected, this time, pros- 
 trate on his face. It is strange to see that figure, hab- 
 ited so splendidly, stretched motionless on the ground 
 whilst the slow, monotonous chant goes forward, and 
 one wonders whether it will ever have an end. 
 
 It does end, however, at last ; and then the arch- 
 bishop stands erect before his chair, and the elected 
 falls on his knees before him. Then they open a 
 great copy of the Gospels, and put the open book on 
 the head and shoulders of the elected, clothing him 
 with it, as it were. A chaplain behind him keeps the 
 book from falling. 
 
 The archbishop and the assistant-bishops touch the 
 
282 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 head of the elected, saying, " Receive thou the Holy 
 Ghost. " And the archbishop, first taking the mitre 
 off, prays, standing. Towards the close of the long 
 prayer comes an allusion to the splendor of the He- 
 brew sacerdotal costume, which the Roman Church 
 loves to recall in justification of her own magnificence. 
 
 Then they tie a white napkin round the head of the 
 elected, who is now anointed by the archbishop. After 
 unction, the archbishop prays for the new prelate ; and 
 then come an anthem and psalm, both recalling the 
 anointing of Aaron. They tie a long white napkin 
 round the new bishop's neck, and his hands are next 
 anointed. Now that the hands are anointed, they are 
 fit to hold the crosier, which, being blessed, is given 
 to the elected ; then the consecrated ring is placed 
 upon his finger. All this time the elected has been 
 under the book of the Gospels, which is now removed. 
 Then the archbishop kisses the elected, and so do the 
 other bishops, and the new bishop returns to his own 
 altar, where his head is wiped with bread and linen, 
 and his hair combed with a curious antique comb, 
 which has served that purpose for ever so many 
 centuries. Then he washes his hands ; and the arch- 
 bishop, seated in his arm-chair, also washes his. The 
 archbishop takes the sacrament, and administers it to 
 the elected, at the high altar. Then he blesses the 
 new bishop's mitre, and then comes the great moment 
 when the mitre is finally placed by the three prelates 
 on the new prelate's head. Lastly, the Episcopal 
 gloves are blessed, and the ring is taken off, and the 
 gloves put on, and the ring put on again outside the 
 glove. And now a hymn is sung, and the new bishop 
 walks in procession all through the church, splendid 
 
A Little French City. 283 
 
 with jewelled mitre and silver crosier, blessing the 
 people as he goes. 
 
 Such is a bare and naked outline of the ceremony. 
 But how shall I paint it in words? — how tell of the 
 gleaming of the golden vestments, and the colored 
 light that fell upon them from the lofty windows of 
 the apse? A group of bishops in full pontificals, 
 close to the high altar in one of the noblest cathedrals 
 the Gothic ages have left us, is a rare and wonderful 
 sight — a sight never to be seen in England, and mar- 
 vellous to our eyes. Yet one thing still was wanting. 
 The splendid bishops and the Gothic architecture 
 agreed quite well together ; but what of the people ? 
 I longed for the costumes of the middle ages — for 
 the knights with silken robes over their armor, and 
 ladies dressed in rich embroideries, sitting gorgeous, 
 like illumined queens in missals, or like Esther on the 
 tapestry in the Treasury here, where she is innocently 
 represented as a magnificent Burgundian dame of the 
 thirteenth century. 
 
 So much for the artistic impressions ; philosophical 
 reflections the reader may not particularly care to 
 hear. But one thing struck me as curious. In the 
 middle of the choir sat Monsieur Leverrier, the astron- 
 omer — a person who holds, I believe, the heretical 
 doctrine of the revolution of the earth, and who has 
 presumed to add a planet to the discoveries of a 
 profane science. Leverrier and the bishops seemed 
 incongruous elements ; and I looked at his sharp, 
 intelligent face, to see whether it indicated a devout 
 or a critical spirit. It seemed lively and interested, 
 but not devout. Well for you, Monsieur Leverrier, 
 that you live now, rather than in the days of Galileo, 
 
284 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 or you might not only have beheld pontifical splendor, 
 but felt pontifical power ! There are dungeons under 
 the Synodal Hall here, good for heterodox teachers ! 
 
 Another spectator was more affected. There was a 
 woman at a little distance from me, and exactly oppo- 
 site a thick pillar, so that for most of what passed 
 she had to trust the accounts of her neighbors ; and, 
 indeed, except for the emotions excited by feeling 
 herself physically present at the ceremony, she, poor 
 thing, might just as well have been at home. She 
 kept up a perpetual stream of the most eager inquiries 
 as to what was going on, which she directed to every- 
 body who would pay any attention to her. " What is 
 he doing now? Is he really anointed? What is the 
 archbishop saying now — is he praying for him? Are 
 his hands anointed now? and have they given him the 
 crosier? Ah! to think — to think that he holds the 
 crosier ! Ah me ! I have confessed to him many and 
 many a time ! And what are they doing now? — the 
 ring — ah, yes, the ring ! — have they put it on ? and, — 
 what do you say? — have they taken the Gospels off 
 his back? Ah me! and the archbishop has kissed 
 him — and the other bishops, have they kissed him 
 too? Ah, to think that he is really a bishop now ! O 
 God, I thank Thee that I have lived to see this day ! 99 
 
 To this woman, you may be sure, the pageant was 
 anything but tedious or overdone. To an uneducated 
 Protestant it would seem absurd, if not sinful. To a 
 spectator who thinks, it is merely an anachronism. 
 We must remember that the Roman Church holds the 
 principle that splendid public worship is a sacrifice of 
 wealth highly acceptable to God — a principle which, 
 whether right or wrong, has been held by all religions 
 
A Little French City, 
 
 285 
 
 except the Protestant. Now, once admit this prin- 
 ciple, and where are you to stop? Even Protestants 
 dress well to go to church ; and, as Protestant ladies 
 consider handsome bonnets and fine shawls a fit ex- 
 pression of respect for the house of God, so, I imagine, 
 might a pure-minded prelate don his glittering mitre 
 and golden cope on entering the presence of his 
 Master. As for our archbishop, splendid as he is 
 when on duty before the altar, he is as simple as 
 Wellington at home. His income, to begin with, is 
 less than the tenth part of the income of an English 
 archbishop ; yet this income, moderate as it is, might 
 procure him luxuries which he denies himself. For 
 instance, he does not even keep a carriage, but (though 
 always ill and infirm), whenever he has to go into the 
 country, Monseigneur goes in a hired fly. One day I 
 called upon him, and found him at work, in the inter- 
 vals of suffering, in a room altogether destitute of 
 luxury, and with no comfort except a fire, a plain 
 arm-chair or two, and perfect cleanliness. The ser- 
 vant who opened the door was as simple as his master, 
 and quietly tucked his blue apron round his waist 
 before conducting me into the presence of Mon- 
 seigneur. It is true that the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury does not wear such gorgeous pontificals as his 
 brother of Sens, but in all the splendor of this world 
 he outshines him infinitely. 
 
 As to the effect of religious pageantry on the mind, 
 [ suppose our age has outlived it, and it is only artists 
 and poets, or very devout women, who feel it occa- 
 sionally still. Even royalty has all but abandoned its 
 costume, and kings make little use of their regalia, 
 preferring for public occasions some military uniform, 
 
286 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 and for private ones the ordinary dress of a gentleman. 
 But in the preceding ages the visible splendor of high 
 office was an effectual strengthening of the hands of 
 rulers, both civil and ecclesiastical, and therefore they 
 wisely paid great attention to it. 
 
 It was a fine sight when the procession left the 
 cathedral, and the great doors, eight hundred years 
 old, were opened before the new bishop. There were 
 real monks, with shaven heads and bare feet, such as 
 we see in pictures, and the four prelates, in full pon- 
 tificals, with all their attendant priests, followed by 
 hundreds of chanting seminarists. A good many 
 women were waiting about the door to have their 
 babies blessed by the new bishop ; but in one respect 
 the scene differed strangely from what it w r ould have 
 been in the middle ages. The men did not kneel. 
 The men are not Catholics. 
 
 Some modern writer has complained bitterly of the 
 separation of the sexes by their different systems of 
 thought and education. In France the separation is 
 very wide. The women, generally, are Catholics — 
 the men, generally, Deists.* I have often tried to get 
 accurately at the real state of opinion, but it is not 
 very easy. This much, however, is certain, that most 
 educated Frenchmen are Deists of a type not unfairly 
 represented by M. Renan, and that nearly all French- 
 women in good society observe the rites of the Church 
 of Rome. The boys are Catholics when in petticoats, 
 but turn Deists generally between fifteen and seven- 
 
 * Within a radius of one hundred miles round Paris. In 
 the mountainous and southern districts, and generally in 
 places not having much communication with Paris, Catholi- 
 cism is still a great power, even over men. 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 287 
 
 teen, and remain so all their lives. This difference is, 
 of course, a cause of much estrangement in families, 
 because a Catholic lady finds on certain subjects a 
 companionship in her confessor which she lacks in 
 her husband. 
 
 These facts may serve to account for what may seem 
 such strange contradictions in modern France. The 
 position of the Church, for instance, is both very weak 
 and very strong. The direct power of the Church of 
 Rome in France is infinitely smaller than that of the 
 English Church in England, because the men are 
 openly against it ; but its indirect power, through the 
 confessional, is still very considerable. For instance, 
 the English Church in England is strong enough to 
 repress the utterance of heterodox opinions in general 
 society, but in French society such opinions are dis- 
 cussed with perfect freedom. On the other hand, such 
 is the influence of the Roman Church in France over 
 the women, that fathers who hate the priests find 
 themselves nevertheless compelled to let their daugh- 
 ters confess themselves to priests, because a girl who 
 should omit the premiere communion would find her 
 position amongst women perfectly unendurable. And, 
 as Catholicism in women is co?nme il faut, many men 
 in France like girls for being Catholics, the more big- 
 oted the better, though it is difficult to see how any 
 union can be intellectually complete between persons 
 who differ so widely on such an important subject as 
 religion. 
 
 As to morality, I think there can be no doubt that 
 France, on the whole, is a more immoral country than 
 England ; but it is an interesting fact that French 
 mothers dread sending their boys to London, for fear 
 
288 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 of the dear innocent youths being contaminated by our 
 bad example. The more ignorant French, too, have 
 a horror of the shocking conduct of English girls, 
 whom they look upon as lost to all sense of decency 
 and propriety. Our institution of divorce, though 
 really intended to work in the interests of morality 
 itself, is looked upon by all well-bred Frenchwomen 
 as abominably wrong and immoral ; and they say it is 
 hypocritical to affect to consider marriage divine and 
 eternal, when, by our Divorce Court, we have virtual- 
 ly reduced it to a connection binding only during good 
 behavior. I think an unprejudiced observer would 
 come to the conclusion that between young English- 
 men and young Frenchmen there is really very little 
 difference, but that (in spite of our divorce scandals) 
 marriage is less generally respected by our neighbors 
 than by us. That is about a fair statement of the case. 
 
 Frenchwomen are generally very active in their 
 houses, giving the whole of the morning to busy 
 superintendence of their servants. French ladies, 
 even rich ones, are often excellent cooks. Their 
 kitchens are pretty laboratories, with tiny charcoal 
 fires sunk in tables of clean porcelain, and rows of 
 many-sized copper pans, shining like gold. The ques- 
 tion as to whether a lady can cook, and still be con- 
 ventionally a lady, is beyond my depth ; but that a 
 woman may be accomplished in all household duties, 
 and still be both cultivated in mind and noble in feel- 
 ing, is proved by many examples. Eugenie de Guerin 
 is a good instance ; but the French provinces abound 
 with such. Charles Dickens had a very telling bit 
 once about the De Quelquechoses, the great point of 
 which was, that Madame was to be seen in a morning 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 289 
 
 in a plain dress, hard at work with her servants, to the 
 astonishment of some English ladies, who visited her. 
 And quite right, too. Probably she was far too sensi- 
 ble a dame to run the risk of soiling a handsome dress ; 
 so she wore a plain print (often washed) when she 
 was busy in the house, and reserved her better things 
 for the drawing-room.* 
 
 The Church has survived the noblesse, and the 
 bishops are the only noblesse which still, in ordinary 
 conversation, receives the title of seigneur. This is 
 perhaps due to the fact that episcopal rank is official, 
 and not hereditary, the natural tendency of democracy 
 being to elevate official rank by making it the only dis- 
 tinction. It is difficult for an Englishman to realize 
 how exceedingly unimportant in France are even the 
 most ancient and authentic titles of nobility. Whether 
 you are Count de B. or Marquis de B., you are always 
 spoken of as Monsieur de B. Let the reader imagine 
 how much title would be cheapened in England if our 
 peers were always spoken of as Mister so-and-so, and 
 if the public knew and cared as little about their titles 
 of nobility as it does at present about their coats of 
 arms. 
 
 The Cafe, an institution so dear to Frenchmen, 
 flourishes even in this little city. One night I went 
 with a friend to a cafe here, and heard something new. 
 We had hardly been there five minutes when our talk 
 was interrupted by a shrill sound, so strange as to 
 startle us all, and break at once the varied threads of 
 
 * Ten to one, too, she wore a clean white cap, to keep the 
 dust from her hair ; which, to English eyes, completes the re- 
 semblance to a servant. 
 
 l 9 
 
290 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 at least twenty conversations. What could it be? It 
 continued, like the warbling of a nightingale, and then 
 burst into a wild, sad melody, softly and tenderly exe- 
 cuted, as if on a flute. Still we felt that it was not a 
 flute, nor yet a bird. It came, apparently, from a 
 youth seated at a little table by himself in the middle 
 of the cafe. He was playing upon his hands, using 
 no other instrument. He went on, and executed sev- 
 eral airs from well-known operas— at first with taste 
 and truth ; then, afterwards, when he got tired, he 
 began to play out of tune. Still it is very wonderful 
 to be able to make so efficient a musical instrument 
 out of one's two hands. The young man turned out 
 to be a Portuguese, called Ferreira.* 
 
 Besides a great many cafes, and a funny little thea- 
 tre, Sens supports two establishments of baths. At 
 any hour of the day or night you may have a bath 
 brought to your house, with water ready heated, and 
 carried up into your bedroom, for the moderate price 
 of sevenpence halfpenny before ten P. M., and a shil- 
 ling and a halfpenny after. The little old French 
 
 * He does not whistle at all ; it is pure flute-playing. The 
 notes are produced on the left hand, and he plays upon it with 
 his right. The four fingers of the left hand are opened like 
 the letter V; two fingers on each side. The mouth is inserted 
 in the opening, so that the tips of the fingers come near the 
 eyes. The thumb of the right hand is placed on the palm of 
 the left, and the fingers play freely, as it seems, in the air ; 
 but they affect every note. If the reader attempts to produce 
 a musical sound that way he will probably fail, but Ferreira 
 produces two octaves and a half. His fortissimo is tremen- 
 dously strong, and his pianissimo as faint as the distant war- 
 bling of a lark. His musical art is very unequal ; he soon tires 
 himself, and, when tired, loses precision. 
 
A Little French City, 
 
 291 
 
 wash-hand basins and cream jugs are of course detesta- 
 ble, but the big cheap warm bath is a capital cleanser. 
 
 The French are wonderfully fond of bathing. All 
 the ladies and gentlemen here meet early on the fine 
 summer mornings (between five and eight o'clock) to 
 bathe in the river — in full costumes, of course. The 
 ladies who happen to be well made, look graceful 
 enough in their pretty bathing dresses, but the meagre 
 ones and the corpulent ones do not appear to advan- 
 tage. The gentlemen teach their wives and sisters. to 
 swim, and there is an old sailor who gives regular 
 lessons all the summer through. They stay in the 
 water very long, and try to swim very energetically. 
 Their perseverance is often rewarded by considerable 
 proficiency in that accomplishment. 
 
 Enormous rafts of wood come down the river, and 
 it is curious to see how two men can manage them. 
 One stands at the bow and another at the stern. The 
 man in front has a thick pole that he puts into the 
 water, so that one end rests on the river's bed and the 
 other is caught under a ledge contrived for it in the 
 side of the raft. The end of the raft then takes a leap, 
 exactly as a man does with a leaping pole. It is raised 
 out of the water, and at the same time pushed aside. 
 By repeating this operation at the four corners of the 
 raft, whenever necessary, it is easily guided. These 
 rafts, sometimes several hundred feet long, are pictu- 
 resque objects, with their little huts and the smoke of 
 their fires rising from a vast flow of half-submerged 
 wood. At night the rafts are moored by the river 
 shore, and then their bright fires are highly desirable 
 as warnings to belated canotiers. One very dark 
 night, when I was rowing homewards down the 
 
292 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 stream at speed, my boat (a delicate one, by Picot of 
 Asnieres) came into collision with one of these rafts 
 whose fires were out. Luckily, the boat rose upon 
 the raft, and received no injury ; but I had a French- 
 man with me whose nervous system experienced such 
 a shock that he has never stepped into it since. 
 
 The great Pear boats are a wonderful sight. I have 
 seen as many pears at once, in the boats, and on the 
 quay, as would cover the floor of Westminster Hall 
 a foot deep ; and all these pears were gathered in a 
 little circle round Sens. Indeed, I never saw a place 
 with a market so abundantly supplied in proportion to 
 the population. M. Deligand, the maire, having been 
 struck by the same idea, took the trouble to get some 
 statistics, which he gave me. The population is now 
 about 1 1 ,000. On the Monday market twenty thou- 
 sand dozens of eggs are sold, and six thousand 
 strangers came into the town, bringing with them 
 fifteen hundred carts. Fancy a proportionate influx 
 of strangers into London once a week ! and imagine, 
 if you can, a proportionate quantity of eggs ! And 
 not only for its boundless abundance, but its delightful 
 variety, is this market astonishing to an Englishman. 
 You find so many good things that the wonder is, how 
 such a little town can eat them up. The secret is, 
 that Sens is one of the feeders of Paris, whose provis- 
 ion merchants and fruiterers buy largely. 
 
 The name of our maire, M. Deligand, reminds me 
 of one of his chief functions, that of marrying people ; 
 and this brings me to the marriage of the Rosiere. 
 The Rosiere is a girl who bears a rose awarded to her 
 by the authorities for her good character. Amongst 
 the blameless virgins of the place they try to choose 
 
A Little French City. 293 
 
 the most deserving. She gets a little dowry of twenty- 
 four pounds, left by will for the purpose, and is mar- 
 ried publicly with great eclat by the maire on the 
 feast of the Assumption. I was present at the last 
 marriage of the kind in the Hotel de Ville. The court- 
 yard was lined by a corps of Sapeurs Pompiers (the 
 Fire Brigade), in full military uniform, with a band. 
 The maire and sous-prefet came in splendid cere- 
 monial costume. All the municipal council and offi- 
 cial persons were present. We waited some time for 
 the fair bearer of the rose. At last she came, with 
 her betrothed — a quiet girl, not particularly good- 
 looking, and evidently rather bothered by the publicity 
 of the ceremony. It must indeed have been very try- 
 ing for her, the centre of all eyes, the subject of in- 
 numerable comments. I think she earned her little 
 dowry. Not every maiden would face that ordeal for 
 the sum of four-and-twenty pounds. 
 
 At the Hotel de Ville, where the marriage took 
 place, is a library and little museum, whose chief 
 treasures are some relics of Napoleon's life at St. 
 Helena. One is a copy of Beatson's map of St. He- 
 lena, on which Napoleon had traced some plan of 
 escape in red lines. He was hesitating, perhaps, be- 
 tween Europe and Brazil, for both words occur in his 
 handwriting. A still more interesting object is an 
 atlas, with a map of a part of Asia in it, on which 
 Napoleon's red line runs from Cairo to the Indus. 
 On the margin at the right hand are a good many 
 figures in his handwriting : — 
 
 30,000 
 
 22,000 infanterie. 
 4,700 caval. 
 3 artil. 
 
294 
 
 First Head Quarters. 
 
 On the left is a rough calculation of time required. 
 There is also Fleury de Chaboulon's book of Memoirs, 
 with Napoleon's critical notes. His writing, at first 
 sight apparently rather neat, is in reality very difficult 
 to read. Though well used to French scribblings of 
 all sorts, I never met with a more illegible hand. 
 
 I mentioned my painting-tent in the beginning of 
 this chapter. I have had a camp on the heights for 
 the autumnal months, guarded by a promising youth, 
 who had just come out of prison when I engaged 
 him, and enlisted for a soldier when I wanted him 
 no longer. One morning, on going to my work, it 
 struck me that Jacob looked unusually grave; and, 
 indeed, he had a long story ready about somebody who 
 had fired upon the painting-tent. Surely enough the 
 tent was riddled with shot ; but I felt inclined to 
 believe that Jacob himself, who had a gun for his pro- 
 tection, had been, by accident or carelessness, the real 
 author of the injury. A much more serious annoy- 
 ance was the number of spectators, who thonged from 
 all parts to see the tent ; and they all made exactly the 
 same remarks that the Lancashire peasants used to 
 make. The Lancastrians said, " He's makin' a map ; " 
 the Burgundians say, "II tire un plan" The Lan- 
 castrians said, " Isn't it cold of a neet?" the Bur- 
 gundians say, "II doit faire froid la nuit." The 
 Lancastrians said, "It's tinkers;" the Burgundians, 
 u Ce sont des chaudronniers" In the course of two 
 months and a half, thousands of people came to see 
 the tent, and, as they all said exactly the same things 
 and asked exactly the same questions, their visits were 
 less amusing to me than to them. One day came 
 
A Little French City. 
 
 295 
 
 mounted gendarmes, armed and terrible. Feeling 
 perfectly guiltless, I paid no attention to their cries ; 
 so one of them, forced to dismount, came heavily on 
 foot, ascending the steep against his will. When he 
 got to the tent at last, he was very much out of breath, 
 and out of temper too. It appeared that my Impru- 
 dent Jacob had been amusing himself with shooting 
 in the air, and that the shot had fallen on a gentleman 
 on horseback (riding leisurely on the public road be- 
 low), and that the horse, unaccustomed to that sort 
 of rain, had been unpleasantly restive in consequence. 
 So the gentleman had lodged a complaint, and Jacob 
 got severely reprimanded, which didn't seem to affect 
 his serenity. Indeed, I never saw a youth endowed 
 with such enviable serenity of mind. Scolding had 
 no effect upon him ; and he had a little, jaunty, self- 
 satisfied manner which never failed him under the 
 most trying circumstances. It was capital to hear 
 him tell the story of his imprisonment, and the fight 
 which led to it. He had been dancing at an open-air 
 ball, and some bourgeois in tailcoats had resented the 
 intrusion of Jacob and one or two other blouses. On 
 this the blouses maintained their rights ; and, when 
 the police came to see what was the matter, the 
 gallant blouses fought both the tailcoats and the 
 police. Who would not fight bravely in such a 
 position, inflamed with wine, and under the very 
 eyes of beauty? But the blouses were vanquished 
 and marched off to prison, and the hated bourgeois 
 danced in triumph. 
 
296 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SLOPES OF GOLD. 
 
 A SMALL piece of orchard and vineyard ground 
 on the heights of the Cote d'Or came into the 
 present writer's possession by events which it is not 
 necessary to recount here. The land in itself is of 
 little value, but the position of it is so fine that it is 
 the very place for an encampment. The reader is 
 requested to picture to himself the three tents in this 
 delightful situation. There is no use in describing 
 camp life in itself ; we have already had enough of 
 that, down to very minute details. Let us rather see 
 what can interest us in the country round about the 
 camp. 
 
 First, the great plain at our feet, stretching away to 
 the Jura. It seems infinitely vast ; and as the cloud 
 shadows fall on its remote villages, and creep from 
 farm to farm, from castle to castle, darkening a 
 thousand groves in turn, innumerable details come 
 forth and are brought into momentary prominence. 
 At the first glance it seems as if a flat plain like this 
 would soon have told its story ; but after gazing at it 
 for an hour, we begin to perceive that it has not one 
 story to reveal, but rather an infinite succession of 
 revelations. Day after day we may come to it, and 
 every day find a fresh reading. Like those magic 
 Eastern inscriptions which changed from hour to 
 
The Slopes of Gold* 
 
 hour, this prodigious sheet of land changes from 
 minute to minute. 
 
 We are on the stony height, a little above the best 
 vine land ; but just below us runs that wonderful line 
 of vineyards which extends, with little interruption, to 
 the banks of the Yonne in the north, and southwards 
 by those of the Rhone. And here we are in the 
 richest vineyards of them all. It is a land of wine ; 
 they say there is more wine in it than water ; the 
 people all drink wine, and talk wine, and think 
 wine. From the wealthy proprietor, or successful 
 wine merchant, down to the poorest working vine- 
 dresser, the whole soul of the population is steeped 
 in vintages. 
 
 An old friend of mine being a wine merchant in 
 these regions, I have seen all the principal cellars. 
 It was agreed between us that I should accompany 
 him for two or three days on a purchasing tour. We 
 started early one morning in a carriage, and set about 
 our business systematically. Wine merchants have 
 little shallow silver cups, with shining bosses at the 
 bottom to see the color and clearness of the wine. 
 One of these cups my friend gave me. 
 
 I foresee some difficulty if I am to go on calling this 
 w r ine merchant " my friend," " my companion/' and 
 so on, all through this chapter. Why not call him 
 by his name? — it can do him no possible harm; it 
 involves no breach of confidence. His name is 
 Charles Rasse.* 
 
 Rasse gave me one of those little shallow silver 
 
 * Of course, I have M. Rasse's permission to mention his 
 name. 
 
298 
 
 The Slopes of Gold, 
 
 cups, and it was my luck in the course of that tour 
 to see the bright little bosses colored by the ruby of all 
 the famous vineyards in Burgundy. Our days were 
 dedicated to business, and yet passed in an unremit- 
 ting sacrifice to Bacchus. We began tasting almost 
 as soon as the carriage started on its road, and we 
 continued, with short intervals employed in driving 
 rapidly from cellar to cellar, village to village, until 
 nearly noon, when we had dejeuner, prepared by a 
 cook of local celebrity. Now, for a cook to be at 
 all eminent in Burgundy is as difficult as it is for a 
 surgeon to make himself famous in Paris ; for Bur- 
 gundy is the land of good living, and all Burgundians 
 are professed gourmets. My impression about that 
 dejeuner was that, as I had to drink of all the wines 
 in the country, so I was doomed to eat of all its 
 dishes ; and the worst of it was, that the repast in 
 question, instead of being a relief from the wine- 
 tasting, was, if possible, an intensification of it. We 
 had now not merely to taste, but to drink. Rasse, 
 being experienced in such work, had always taken 
 the precaution, in the wine cellars, of expectorating 
 every drop that passed his lips ; but I had not yet 
 been able to bring myself to that sinful wastefulness, 
 and had honestly swallowed every sample. So we 
 did not start fair ; and then Rasse is a Burgundian 
 by birth, and good wine is just as natural to him as 
 w^ater to a Scotch Highlander. 
 
 After dejeuner arrived a neighboring gentleman 
 with bottles of white wine from his own cellar, of 
 whose extraordinary virtues we were to judge ex- 
 perimentally. So we drank these with him, and 
 then continued our tour. How many cellars we 
 
The Slopes of Gold. 299 
 
 visited I really cannot tell, but they cannot have 
 been fewer than fifty, and on the average we tasted 
 say eight casks in each cellar ; that would give four 
 hundred tastings, which is probably about the mark. 
 By the time the work was done, I was utterly weary 
 of Burgundy, and the more that we had it at every 
 meal. Of course, I soon got over my scruples against 
 spitting the wine out, and tried to imitate Rasse not 
 only in that, but also in the brook-like gurgling sound 
 that wine merchants make, and which they seem to 
 consider essential to a right appreciation of different 
 vintages. Hearing so much wine-talk too, I amused 
 myself occasionally by pretending to know something 
 about the subject, and by mere accident made remarks 
 which caused me to be looked upon as a judge. The 
 great point is to give yourself the requisite airs. If 
 you can do the gurgling neatly and melodiously, ex- 
 pectorate vigorously and far, and then look very grave 
 and wise for a few seconds without saying anything, 
 you are sure to be respected, and your opinion will 
 be listened to with deference. 
 
 The quantities of wine kept in those cellars in Bur- 
 gundy are prodigious. It is not my business to give 
 statistical information, as I only talk about what 
 strikes me ; but some of the larger wine-growers 
 have whole armies of casks, and cellars like railway 
 tunnels. The wealth of the peasant growers is often 
 very considerable. You may frequently meet a rough- 
 looking man in a blue blouse and wooden shoes who 
 has three or four thousand pounds' worth of wine in 
 casks, besides valuable landed property and buildings. 
 One such at Volnay, living in the simplest manner, 
 made us drink some bottled wine that he had kept 
 
3°° 
 
 The Slopes of Gold, 
 
 fourteen years ; but I prefer it seven years younger. 
 The union of easy fortune with the habits and educa- 
 tion of the poor is a social phenomenon which I have 
 never seen so frequently as in Burgundy, except in the 
 Lancashire cotton district, — especially the neighbor- 
 hood of Oldham. In one sense the rich peasant is the 
 richest of men, in the proportion of his large means to 
 his little wants ; but in another sense is he not just as 
 poor as the common laborer? His money opens for 
 him no new fields of intellectual advancement ; it does 
 not improve him as a human being. He has leisure 
 at command, but can make no use of it ; he might buy 
 books, but he could not read them ; he might travel, 
 but he does not know where to go, or what to go any- 
 where for. The benefit and enjoyment which he has 
 are the peace of security and the pride of possession. 
 These are no doubt sweet, and he sucks their sweet- 
 ness all day long. 
 
 The Clos Vougeot, as most readers will already 
 know, is a small property enclosed w T ith a wall, and 
 yielding the best wine in Burgundy. It is not so gen- 
 erally known that this enclosure contains a very fine 
 old building, like a chateau, where the business of the 
 wine making and that of its preservation have been 
 carried on for six hundred years. The exterior of this 
 structure is imposing, but plain ; the court-yard is 
 picturesque in the highest degree. The cellars are of 
 course immense, and exceedingly well kept. As to the 
 quality of the wine, it is, in my humble opinion, exactly 
 on the same level as two or three other of the very 
 best Burgundies, and does not deserve that isolated 
 pre-eminence which fame has given it. There is no 
 better wine in France, however. Drink of this quality 
 
The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 301 
 
 is lost on Englishmen (except exceptions), and it is a 
 sin to throw it away on them. Thinking I could take 
 no more acceptable present to some English friends 
 than a few bottles of Clos Vougeot, I found that the 
 gentlemen (sherry drinkers) considered it a variety of 
 " Gladstone," and the ladies (lovers of sugary cham- 
 pagne) compared it to red ink ; and that was Clos 
 Vougeot, perfectly authentic and pure. It is certain 
 that English palates are generally quite incapable of 
 tasting the taste on which the fame of such wine is 
 founded. We are not prepared for it, as the inhab- 
 itants of the country are, by drinking nothing but 
 inferior wines of the same species : they recognize the 
 superiority at once, and feel the value of the quality 
 which constitutes it. The consequence of this inca- 
 pacity to taste, is, that Englishmen dare not buy wine 
 on their own judgment, but must put confidence in 
 their wine merchant. I know a wine merchant in 
 Burgundy who does a large business in England, and 
 I know another who, with the very same wines, could 
 hardly get any customers at all, the difference being 
 entirely due to a difference of confidence. They say 
 in Burgundy that when the English believe in you 
 they buy blindly, whereas, until you get them to that 
 point, they are most difficult to deal with, because 
 they have no judgment of their own to which you 
 may appeal. The Belgians, on the contrary, are able 
 judges ; and a young merchant going amongst them 
 with good wine at a fair price is recognized at once. 
 The Swiss are sometimes good judges also, but the 
 Parisians are nearly as bad as the English. 
 
 The same laws which govern the trade in art gov- 
 ern that in wine. When there is little knowledge to 
 
302 
 
 The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 appeal to, the name is more than the thing. " This is 
 
 Clos Vougeot, and I got it of ," is equivalent to, 
 
 " This is a Claude ; it belonged to Tf judgment 
 
 were perfect, there would be no need of names, and 
 no advantage in them ; things would then be sold for 
 their qualities. 
 
 The landscape of the Cote d'Or may be very briefly 
 described as to its chief characteristics. It is the first 
 rising of the highlands of the Morvan out of the great 
 plain ; and as the plain is so vast that no shadow, 
 except that of a cloud, falls on this steep bank, and as 
 the soil is excellent for the vine, the slope is exactly 
 fitted by nature for the production of grapes. The 
 cote is occasionally interrupted by a rocky ravine, and 
 is itself often rugged. The buildings are not generally 
 picturesque, because the people are too well off ; but 
 the churches are often interesting, and the town of 
 Beaune, with its glorious Gothic hospital, and walls, 
 and towers, is a capital place for an etcher. How I 
 wish Meryon could be induced to spend a year there ! 
 The chateau of Savigny is very grand in its way, and 
 has a good staircase inside, which the owner kindly 
 showed me. I particularly admired the massiveness 
 of its round tourelles. 
 
 There was another chateau far up in the hills that 
 Rasse took me to see — a picturesque one also, but 
 incredibly rough, and bearing about the same relation 
 to an ordinary gentleman's house that the piece of 
 agate you pick up on the sea-shore does to a piece 
 which has passed through the hands' of the lapidary. 
 In the grand staircase the steps looked as if they had 
 been hewn with an axe. This chateau, however, was 
 probably only built for a hunting seat. 
 
The Slopes of Gold, 
 
 After leaving this wild place amongst the upper 
 forests, we followed a narrow country road which led 
 us into a remote valley — a valley which seemed to 
 me so exquisitely peaceful and beautiful that I wanted 
 veiy much to live there ; and as this desire was per- 
 fectly serious, Rasse took me to see a large mansion 
 which was for sale — a charming place, with pleasant 
 gardens and fountains, and a delightful view down all 
 the little valley. The only fault of this place was, that 
 it seemed likely to be beyond my purse — a consider- 
 ation which often arrests the inquirer after desirable 
 places of residence. I mention this hankering of 
 mine, because the reader is going to make the ac- 
 quaintance of the capitalist who did eventually pur- 
 chase that mansion. 
 
 We entered a straggling village, and Rasse asked if 
 I were hungry. I pleaded guilty to the soft impeach- 
 ment. The reader thinks it absurd to call an implied 
 accusation of hunger a u soft impeachment." He does 
 not know the story which the expression recalls to the 
 initiated, and so, whilst Rasse is going on with the 
 carriage, I will tell it him. 
 
 A country lad in Lancashire took to reading, and 
 became so fond of that deleterious occupation that he 
 got to be fit for nothing but a schoolmaster. So his 
 friends sent him to Liverpool to be taught that trade, 
 and as he had walked more than thirty miles, his 
 master's wife asked if he were not hungry. After 
 seeking a moment for a phrase of suitable elegance 
 fitted for urbane society, he replied that he " pleaded 
 guilty to the soft impeachment." 
 
 Being in the same condition as this polite youth, I 
 was not ill pleased when my friend said to me, " I 
 
The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 know a peasant here who will be glad to see us, and 
 give us dejeitner ;" and we stopped at the bottom of a 
 picturesque external stair, at the top of which appeared 
 a peasant with a red face, gold earrings, blue blouse, 
 and sabots — a jolly, friendly-looking man. 
 
 He took the horse to the stable, and in a minute 
 ascended the stair with us. It was a clean simple 
 room with beds in it, a stove, a table in the middle, 
 covered with a table-cloth so coarse that it seemed as 
 if one looked at it through a microscope, knives and 
 forks, and tumbler-glasses. On the stove were many 
 plates heating, and at two sides of the stove sat two 
 sable priests, warming themselves like the plates. 
 
 Now, as a priest, when not in the presence of his 
 bishop, or of some pious lady who has a lofty ideal of 
 the priestly character, is usually the jolliest of festive 
 companions, I was by no means sorry to make the 
 acquaintance of these two comfortable cures. It is 
 said by profound philosophers that, in order to enjoy 
 thoroughly a good thing that we possess, it is neces- 
 sary to have some still better and more desirable 
 enjoyment in prospect. That explains why these 
 priests looked so extremely happy by the stove ; the 
 heat of it was agreeable, but a still more agreeable 
 pleasure awaited them — the long delight of an elabo- 
 rate dejeuner. 
 
 Some readers may not have had the advantage of 
 taking breakfast with a rich Burgundian peasant the 
 day he entertains his spiritual pastors, and such can 
 have little idea of what a breakfast of that sort consists 
 of. It is not a simple meal of coffee and eggs, but 
 rather a dinner, or two dinners, three dinners, four 
 dinners, served in rapid succession. Rasse whispered 
 
The Slopes of Gold, 
 
 to me that we could not have been more fortunate ; 
 for where priests fed the pasture was sure to be good. 
 
 ''Approach yourselves then of the fire," said the 
 old gray-haired priest ; " it makes cold to-day. Come 
 you from far? " 
 
 In fiv^e minutes we were engaged in a conversation 
 on the one wearisome Burgundian topic — the vintage. 
 This lasted till the mistress of the house entered from 
 the inner regions, followed by her daughter and heir- 
 ess, a fresh-looking girl of fifteen. She welcomed us 
 cordially, and shortly announced that we might sit 
 down to table. 
 
 On this the master and the priests sat down, and 
 Rasse and I sat down ; but the mistress and her 
 daughter sat not down neither then nor during all the 
 hours that the repast lasted. They served us, and we 
 ate and ate. 
 
 Knowing well what to expect, I reserved myself as 
 much as possible. We had soup, of course ; a peasant 
 begins his dejemter w T ith soup, which, in the upper 
 classes, no one would dare to serve or venture to like 
 before five in the evening. After the soup came, as 
 usual, beef boiled to rags, and divested of every parti- 
 cle of nutriment. This it is wisest to leave to French- 
 men, who can digest anything. But I knew that bet- 
 ter food would come, according to the Emperor's 
 sagacious maxim, " Tout vient a celui qui salt atten- 
 dre" and I adopted the policy of a masterly inactivity. 
 
 We had countless dishes of meat and poultry and 
 game, and at last an elaborate dessert. By the time 
 we had done we had been sitting four hours, and the 
 table was covered with emptied or half-emptied bot- 
 tles. And during all those hours our host neve? 
 20 
 
306 
 
 The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 uttered two consecutive sentences, but only asked us 
 briefly to eat and drink, for the two priests talked so 
 fast and so loudly, and so energetically, that nobody 
 could get a word in. The more they drank the 
 louder they talked ; and at last came a moment when 
 they could no longer continue their controversy on 
 their chairs, but rose up to their feet and argued 
 standing for more than an hour, with fierce and vio- 
 lent gesticulation. 
 
 And what was all this fiery controversy about? It 
 was about a pinch of snufY. Here it is, epitomized : — 
 
 First, how it began. — When we had well drunk, 
 the gray priest offered a pinch of snuff to the com- 
 pany : our host accepted, Rasse accepted, I accepted, 
 and sneezed for five minutes without intermission, but 
 the young black-haired priest stoutly refused. He 
 never took snuff, he said. It was just one of those 
 opportunities which any one who has the spirit of 
 persecution, the instinct which compels others to con- 
 formity, will not allow to pass unimproved. The 
 moment had arrived for the assertion and mainte- 
 nance of a great principle. " I take snuff, the ma- 
 jority take snuff ; you, a contemptible minority, dare 
 to assume the right not to take snuff; then I say you 
 shall take snuff." " I will not." " But you ought." 
 "No, I oughtn't." "But you ought, and you shall." 
 " There is no moral obligation on me to put any 
 snuff up my nose." " But I say there is, under the 
 circumstances." * 
 
 * As the reader is sure to think that all this is pure fiction, I 
 give him my word of honor that the whole scene, from begin- 
 ning to end, is as near literal truth as I can possibly get it. 
 It loses a great deal by translation and abridgment; but if I 
 
The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 307 
 
 When this had gone on for a minute or two, the 
 gray priest got exasperated and stood up, giving a 
 sweep with his arm which knocked over a bottle and 
 broke our hostess's handsomest glass water-jug — an 
 accident that threw a cloud over her face for the rest 
 of that day, and I have no doubt to this hour embitters 
 her recollection of it. 
 
 Old Priest (with the greatest gravity and in full 
 oratorical style). — You have violated the rules of 
 courtesy. I offered you my box : that box contained 
 a powder which, for the moment, represented my 
 friendly feelings towards all to whom I offered it. 
 Are you aware, sir, that it was not a simple material 
 powder that I tendered you, and that you scornfully 
 refused, but the feelings which produce good compan- 
 ionship? No, no, interrupt me not. It is in vain for 
 you to deny the fact ; you have been guilty of a gross 
 breach of good manners. Have you never, w 7 hen a 
 child, read a small treatise from which you still, in 
 mature years, might learn much that would be profit- 
 able to you — " Of Civility, Puerile and Polite " ? 
 Therein you would have found a principle laid down 
 which might have guided you in your present difficul- 
 ty, and saved you from a solecism which, I venture to 
 assert, has lowered you in the opinion of all present. 
 Gentlemen, your generosity prompts you to intervene 
 to shield this offender from my just indignation, but 
 
 had written it in French, as I thought of doing at first, many 
 readers would have skipped it; and if I had not abridged it, 
 the dialogue would have occupied a hundred pages of this im- 
 pression. Of course, I do not give the name of the place 
 where it occurred, for fear of injuring the younger priest ; the 
 elder is since dead. 
 
3 o8 
 
 The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 you well know that his conduct is utterly indefensible. 
 Every boy knows that when anything is offered him 
 out of good fellowship, he cannot refuse it without 
 hurting and injuring the person who offers it. I feel 
 hurt — I have a right to complain ; I have been 
 
 wounded in my feelings ; I 
 
 During the last dozen lines the young priest had 
 been on his legs too, and talking just as loudly as the 
 other. 
 
 Young Priest. — I never intended to hurt your 
 feelings — I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings; 
 but I have a right to my own nose. You like snuff ; 
 well, then, take it. If these gentlemen like snuff, they 
 do right to take it ; but I don't like it at all — it is 
 positively disagreeable to me ; so I decline it. I 
 don't decline your fellowship ; I eat with you, I drink 
 with you 
 
 The Author {thinking that probably the old 
 priest could not smoke and the young one could). — 
 And most likely you would smoke with him — would 
 you not? 
 
 Young Priest. — My dear, good, kind gentleman, 
 nothing would please me better just now than to smoke 
 with you, and him too, if he will. 
 
 The Author {handing his cigar-case to the old 
 priest Jirst). — Will you accept a cigar? {then to the 
 younger) — And you ? 
 
 Young priest accepts with avidity, and seizes the 
 author's hand, which he holds long and presses 
 warmly ; old priest declines firmly. 
 
 The Author to Old Priest. — Sir, you are now 
 guilty of the offence you impute to your brother across 
 the table, and that to its fullest extent. I offer you a 
 
The Slopes of Gold, , 309 
 
 cigar : that cigar is not a miserable roll of dried tobac- 
 co leaves ; it is a portion of my heart — an expression 
 of good will and kindly convivial feeling. You refuse 
 me, you reject me, you scorn my friendly advances ; I 
 consider myself aggrieved, I am hurt, I am wounded. 
 
 Old Priest. — But I can't smoke, and I can't bear 
 to be where people smoke ; and if you smoke here, I 
 protest against it — it is most offensive to me. 
 
 The Author. — Is a miserable consideration for 
 your own ease to make you forget the rules of cour- 
 tesy ? Is it not all the more your duty to smoke, that 
 it makes you ill? Is not this precisely one of those 
 cases where a man is called upon to sacrifice his own 
 ease to the happiness of others ? It is necessary that 
 you should smoke, merely to conform to the custom of 
 the people you are with. We all smoke ; you must 
 and shall consume this cigar. 
 
 Old Priest. — The two cases are entirely different. 
 
 Young Priest. — I have as much right to my nose 
 as you have to the tranquillity of your stomach. 
 
 Old Priest. — 'What would you do if your bishop 
 offered you a pinch of snuff? would you refuse it? I 
 say you wouldn't. 
 
 Young Priest. — Well, if I didn't, I should only 
 pretend to value it, but really dribble it away quietly 
 on the floor. 
 
 Old Priest. — That was precisely your duty in the 
 present instance. If you could not take the snuff, you 
 should have accepted it nevertheless, and then allowed 
 the powder to fall gently upon your clothes in imitat- 
 ing the action of taking a pinch. 
 
 Young Priest. — I believe you are a Jesuit. 
 
 Old Priest. — And you're another. 
 
The Slopes &f Gold. 
 
 Young Priest. — I want to smoke. Our host per- 
 mits ; these gentlemen are waiting your leave to light 
 their cigars. Can you selfishly refuse it? 
 
 Old Priest. — I decidedly object to smoking. 
 
 Our Host. — If you will let us smoke, I will bring 
 you some more wine. 
 
 Exit host. Re-enter host with six bottles of white 
 Burgundy of different growths- — two under each 
 arm, one in each hand. General murmurs of ap- 
 plause. Old priest relents. We are all reconciled. 
 Young priest gets very polite to our hosfs pretty 
 daughter, who now enters the room. 
 
 Our hospitable entertainer in the blouse bought the 
 mansion, with its gardens, and fountains, and woods ; 
 and he left the little cottage where we feasted that day, 
 and went to live in the great house. He was one of 
 that numerous class of steady savers which exists in 
 France. They save quietly every year, and nobody 
 notices them ; but at last they suddenly astonish us by 
 making some wonderful purchase. When we left the 
 two priests at the top of the little stair, they returned 
 to table to finish the white wine, and after that they 
 had dinner, and after that more wine, till it was quite 
 late, and then they got home somehow to bed. 
 
 The elder of them told us that he had lately knocked 
 down the doctor under the following circumstances : 
 The doctor was very deaf, and came one night late to 
 see the priest. " Who goes there?" No answer; so 
 he knocked him down. This reminded me of what 
 had very nearly been a tragic incident. A relation 
 of mine heard one night a noise down stairs ; so he 
 jumped out of bed, took his loaded fowling-piece, and 
 made his way in the dark to the place the noise seemed 
 
The Slopes of Gold. 
 
 3 11 
 
 to come from. He distinctly heard stealthy footsteps 
 on the carpet. "Who are you?" No answer. "An- 
 swer me, or I will fire upon you ! " No answer. He 
 lifted the gun to his shoulder, and had the finger on 
 the trigger, when the intruder coughed. He knew 
 the cough at once : it was a deaf old lady who lived 
 with him, and had come down stairs to seek for some- 
 thing. 
 
 It is probable that my ecclesiastical companions 
 would have been rather better on their guard if they 
 had suspected me of being an Englishman ; but they 
 took me for a Frenchman all the time, and it seemed 
 better not to undeceive them. Peculiar circumstances 
 in my life have made me what is called a bilingual, 
 and I enjoy easy access to all country people in France, 
 because they never take me for a foreigner. In Paris 
 it is different. The English abound there, and my 
 English face betrays me ; besides, when people see 
 you are an Englishman, they hear your English ac- 
 cent, when it would else be imperceptible. A very 
 amusing instance of this occurred to a lady I know 
 intimately. She came to settle in a country town, 
 where, for some reason, a rumor went abroad that 
 she was an American. Several ladies went to call 
 upon her, and complimented her on speaking French 
 so w r ell for an American, though of course, they always 
 added, the foreign accent was still very perceptible. 
 Now, the fact is, that the lady in question not only was 
 not an American, but was a genuine Frenchwoman, 
 born of French parents, bred in France, and never out 
 of it in her life except once for a month at Brussels. 
 Her husband, too, was a Frenchman ; and neither he 
 nor she had any foreign accent whatever, nor any 
 
312 
 
 The Slopes of Gold, 
 
 peculiarity of accent, except a slight Burgundian 
 twang, which, as the little town in question was 
 situated in Burgundy, ought not to have sounded 
 American. Moral: If people can hear an accent 
 which does not exist, when they wrongly believe the 
 person to be a foreigner, by so much the more will 
 they hear it when it does exist, if they know the person 
 to be avowedly a foreigner. To escape suspicion alto- 
 gether, an Englishman perfectly master of French 
 may say that he comes from another part of France, 
 or that he is a Frenchman who has lived a year or two 
 in England. 
 
 In parting with these two jolly priests, let me cite 
 an anecdote which is narrated of one of them. Being 
 one day at the table of his bishop, monseigneur deigned 
 to ask his opinion of the wine. " Bonus vinum," said 
 the priest. The bishop was rather surprised at such 
 an exhibition of weak Latinity, but kindly said noth- 
 ing. Later in the evening he again asked the priest's 
 opinion on wine, but this time of far superior quality. 
 " Bonum vinum," answered the priest. " May I ask," 
 said the bishop, " why, when I last referred to your 
 judgment, you made vinum masculine, whereas now 
 you conform to the common practice, and make it 
 neuter ? " 
 
 " A petit vin, petit Latin" said the cure. 
 
3*3 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SECOND HEAD QUARTERS. A FARM IN THE AUTUNOIS. 
 
 IT being understood that there is no further necessity 
 for dwelling on the details of camp life, I still con- 
 tinue the policy adopted throughout this third book ; 
 and, looking round me attentively, but never purposely 
 seeking literary material, briefly note down anything 
 that seems likely to amuse or interest the reader. 
 
 On leaving the " little French city" I found a coun- 
 try house which suited me, in the basin of Autun. It 
 has a good deal of land attached to it, which is not in 
 my occupation. The farmer lives near me, and the 
 only land I am troubled with is a large garden and a 
 little wood, both bounded by a clear and rapid stream. 
 
 As to the camp, I have it yet in good working 
 condition, and use it occasionally still ; but in this 
 beautiful climate a painting tent is scarcely necessary, 
 except for winter studies. And the summers are so 
 long and splendid that it is possible to accumulate, in 
 the fine weather, abundant materials for studio work 
 when it rains. It is nevertheless the fact that the tents 
 are still pitched from time to time in these regions, 
 which gives me a fair excuse for including these chap- 
 ters in the narrative of the Camp. 
 
 The natural configuration of the country is curious 
 and interesting. As the traveller passes from Dijon to 
 Lyons by the railway, he sees upon his left hand the 
 
314 Second. Head Quarters. 
 
 heights of the Cote d'Or. That is the beginning of an 
 elevated tract of country which culminates in the 
 Beuvray, a hill of rather fine form, but not a moun- 
 tain, and then descends to the Nivernais and the 
 Loire. Round about the Beuvray lies a region of 
 hilly land, densely covered with wood. This is the 
 Morvan. French people generally have a most exag- 
 gerated idea of these Morvan highlands ; they tell you 
 it is Switzerland over again, which is nonsense. The 
 plain truth is, that the Morvan is a highly picturesque 
 and salubrious region, enjoying a climate as fine as 
 that of the Burgundy wine country, but cooler, and 
 with hills just high enough to give very varied and 
 agreeable distances whichever way you look. Though 
 not so grand as Switzerland, it is, as a place of resi- 
 dence, preferable to it. It seemed more prudent, too, 
 in my own case, to study landscape of a comparatively 
 humble kind, and I found here the two. conditions of 
 good climate and available material united in perfec- 
 tion. I was anxious to be in a neighborhood where 
 the work of agriculture was done by oxen, and here 
 they universally employ them. The oxen used here 
 are of a very fine race, the Charolaise: there is also 
 an inferior, but still picturesque, native race, the Mor- 
 vandelle. The Charolais ox is usually large, and of a 
 cream white or tawny ; the Morvandeau is small, and 
 often quite black, or black and white. Another great 
 point with me was, that there should be picturesque 
 buildings within an easy drive of my house ; and these 
 I have in great abundance, for Autun is full of them, 
 and most of the farms and villages round are good 
 subjects for an artist. In water we are tolerably well 
 off also, having a good many tarns, or large fish-ponds, 
 
A Far i?i i7t the Autunois. 315 
 
 several beautiful streams, and a river. There are 
 plenty of magnificent trees, especially some very an- 
 cient chestnuts, and the whole series of plants from the 
 land of the vine to the land of heather and furze. 
 
 The people who inhabit these highlands differ in 
 race, language, and manners from those in the plain. 
 This country has always been a poorer country than 
 the Cote d'Or, and consequently the people are more 
 frugal. No contrast could be greater than the ways 
 of living on the hills and in the lowlands. The Mor- 
 vandeau is as sober as the true Burgundian is given 
 to good eating and drinking. It is only quite recently 
 that the Morvandeau has begun to drink wine at all ; 
 a generation back, many of them did not know the 
 taste of it, and nobody but the rich drank it habitually. 
 Beer, too, was unknown, and coffee and tea never so 
 much as thought of, the only drinks being water, 
 milk, and a kind of mead. To this day much of this 
 extreme sobriety is retained in ordinary life, and only 
 laid aside from time to time at festivals and fairs. The 
 peasants drink little else than water ; the rude labors 
 of the harvest are carried through without other re- 
 freshment than the contents of a water-jug ; and the 
 only animal food commonly used is what can be got 
 out of the wearers of silken attire, by which elegant 
 periphrase they are accustomed to designate their pigs. 
 
 The Morvandeaux being an isolated and peculiar 
 people, they are, of course, disliked by the inhabitants 
 of the lowlands, who impute to them many odious 
 faults, especially ferocity and ill-nature. No doubt, 
 if you come amongst the Morvandeaux, or amongst 
 any race of men whatever, with the preconceived no- 
 tion that they are not to be trusted, and then treat 
 
316 
 
 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 them in such manner as to let them clearly see that 
 you despise and suspect them, — no doubt, if you act 
 so, you act in the very best manner to bring about 
 such usage of yourself as will justify your strongest 
 prejudice. But if, on the other hand, you treat the 
 people with kindness and confidence, you are likely 
 to see quite a different aspect of their character. The 
 Morvandeau may be, if you use him ill, all that his 
 enemies say to his disadvantage ; but I have always 
 found him exceedingly civil and disposed to render 
 service. I may mention one little trait of character 
 here, which seems to me to speak in the people's 
 favor. If they have a vacant seat in a conveyance, 
 and pass a traveller on foot, they very seldom omit to 
 offer it to him. This has occurred to me certainly 
 scores of times, and I believe I might truly say hun- 
 dreds of times. And it is done by people of all ranks, 
 and so habitually as to be thought quite simple and 
 natural. It is the custom of the country, and a custom, 
 in my opinion, which goes far to disprove any general 
 accusation of sullenness against its inhabitants. 
 
 Of course, the poor hill-peasant is considered avari- 
 cious, as all people are, who, having small means, 
 attempt to save for their children ; but this is really 
 only what, when practised by richer people in exactly 
 the same proportion to their means, we are accustomed 
 to praise as a wise foresight. The peasant of the 
 Morvan has a fixed notion about his duty to his chil- 
 dren which is exceedingly onerous to him. He does 
 not say, " I got a thousand pounds from my father, 
 therefore my five children must have two hundred 
 pounds apiece ; " but he says, " I got a thousand 
 pounds from my father, therefore my five children 
 
A Farm in tJie Autunois. 317 
 
 must have a thousand pounds apiece." Imagine the 
 consequences of such a theory in the excesses of fru- 
 gality to which it leads. The theory cannot always 
 be put into practice to its full extent, but it is the ac- 
 cepted idea of what is right, and an attempt — often a 
 very long and arduous effort — is made to realize it. 
 Again, I find that the peasants here have all the capi- 
 talist's way of thinking, rather than the way current 
 amongst those classes whose earnings are large and 
 capital small. These peasants do not estimate each 
 other's importance by the way they live, but by the 
 amount they are able to give to their children in mar- 
 riage. Imagine consideration wholly detached from 
 current expenditure, and fixed exclusively on capital, 
 and think what an effect that would have on the 
 society of great cities ! It is not too much to say that 
 if such a revolution in opinion were to occur in Paris, 
 half the expenditure there would cease at once. And 
 the peasant of the Morvan is just as independent of 
 outlay for the improvement of his mind as he is of out- 
 lay for the sake of appearance. His idea of duty to 
 his children is severe and onerous, as v/e have seen, 
 but it does not include the most elementary conception 
 of any necessity for educating them. He does not 
 buy newspapers or books, and of course he never 
 travels to amuse himself. His recreation, when he is 
 young, is to dance at marriage feasts and on minor 
 occasions, and, when old, to get tipsy now and then 
 with old fellows like himself when they meet at the 
 market town. 
 
 It would be easy to sketch characters from the life 
 in classes superior to the peasantry, but several reasons 
 forbid it. I have a few intimate friends in the neigh- 
 
318 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 borhood, but scarcely any acquaintances ; and the 
 idea of serving up one's friends, even though they be 
 Frenchmen, in order that their little peculiarities may 
 afford amusement to the public, and help to sell one's 
 book, is not to be entertained for a moment. Besides, 
 I am far too well acquainted with the French people 
 to write those dashing sketches which require, for 
 their success, the raw foreigner's point of view, his 
 sense of novelty in everything, and his rooted belief 
 that everything which is not exactly what he is accus- 
 tomed to at home is an infringement, either ridiculous 
 or sinful, of the fundamental laws of the universe. To 
 illustrate this by a real example, I may mention a 
 Frenchman who travelled the whole length of Eng- 
 land, and returned to France with one predominant 
 idea about us, which idea was this — "What huge 
 pieces of cheese are served on English tables ! " It 
 had happened that at the very first hotel he staid at 
 there was a gigantic wedge of Cheshire, not yet much 
 cut into ; and this so astonished the Frenchman, whose 
 first thought had been, " I can never eat all that ! " 
 that he never got over it, and to this day tells me of it 
 every time I see him. Now, that is exactly the state 
 of mind in which the amusing traveller lives and 
 writes ; and Englishmen who publish books about the 
 French do so for the most part whilst yet in that early 
 stage of amazement at trifles of no consequence. On 
 the one hand they see luxuries they are not accustomed 
 to, and then they cry out how extravagant the French 
 are ; then they are shocked by the absence of other 
 luxuries which habit has rendered indispensable to 
 themselves, and they exclaim against French parsi- 
 mony. But suppose that my friend of the big cheese 
 
A Farm in the Autunois. 319 
 
 had lived in England a few years, — is it not probable 
 that he would have become accustomed to the sight 
 of a few pounds of Cheshire, and in time even indiffer- 
 ent to it, whilst gradually ideas about us might have 
 formed themselves in his mind above and beyond this 
 first conception of us as eaters of big cheeses? 
 
 The French are exceedingly fond of a country life 
 in fine summer weather, but they prefer to winter in 
 towns ; and every land-owner of any consequence has 
 a town house, or at least a few rooms in some provin- 
 cial centre, where he meets his own set. What al- 
 ways surprises me in these arrangements is the con- 
 tentment with which the inhabitants of some spacious 
 chateau migrate to narrow lodgings, just at the very 
 time of the year when people stay most in doors, and 
 consequently when space is most valuable. It seems, 
 however, a convenient plan to make the nearest town 
 the capital of its own district, as the people all know 
 each other, and the annual removals cause little ex- 
 pense or trouble. There is not a single country gen- 
 tleman in this neighborhood who has not a town house 
 either in Autun, or Chalon, or Dijon, sometimes very 
 dismal ones in comparison with their pleasant sum- 
 mer residences. I know an old bachelor who, being 
 uncommonly good-natured, makes his annual migra- 
 tion to Autun for no other reason than because, if he 
 gave it up, his servants, who enjoy the sociability of 
 the little city, w T ould be too much disappointed. Mar- 
 ried men often go to please their wives ; and I know 
 an instance where the lady, who likes the country all 
 the year round, goes to the town to please her hus- 
 band. It may generally be observed that whoever in 
 a household has the common custom on his side, will 
 
320 Second Head ^htarters. 
 
 easily carry his point, even against the tastes of a 
 majority. 
 
 A practical objection to this system is, that the coun- 
 try houses, not being inhabited at the season of the 
 year when they most want it, are liable to deteriora- 
 tion by damp. Anywhere north of Lyons the French 
 winter is just as bad as the English, and as the French 
 are not in the habit of keeping good fires in rooms 
 they do not actually use, they often find their country 
 houses unpleasantly damp when they come back to 
 them in April. The woodwork decays, the papers 
 fall off, the bedding is unfit for immediate use, and 
 you hear of bad colds and attacks of rheumatism. 
 Where there are libraries and collections of prints, the 
 owners, of course, learn that constant fires are indis- 
 pensable ; but small proprietors keep their few books 
 in their town dwelling, which is in every way the 
 more luxurious of the two ; and the maison de cani- 
 £agne is so simple that it would be dreary and 
 wretched without the glory of sunshine, which is 
 indeed so great and splendid a luxury that it supplies 
 the want of all others. 
 
 Perhaps a brief description of three chateaux, of 
 very different degrees of pretension, may not be with- 
 out interest. The most splendid of the three, Sully, 
 is the principal seat of the MacMahons. An Irish 
 surgeon, towards the end of the last century, settled in 
 this part of the world with a view to professional 
 occupation, and married a very great heiress of noble 
 family, to whom Sully and other estates belonged. 
 From this marriage descends the present famous 
 Field-Marshal the Duke of Magenta. The chateau is 
 a magnificent quadrangle with corner towers outside, 
 
A Farm in the Autunois. 
 
 321 
 
 the court of quite palatial architecture, as good as the 
 best bits of the Tuileries. There are some noble 
 rooms, one great hall especially, with stately chimney- 
 pieces and baronial furniture. One or two of the old 
 bedrooms, with tapestry and quaint beds, are very 
 tempting subjects for an artist. Some modern " im- 
 provements " have much injured the building as seen 
 from the outside, though happily the noble court is 
 quite well preserved. It is especially regretable that 
 the new chapel should be of bad Gothic, entirely out 
 of harmony with the rest of the building, which is 
 Renaissance. 
 
 Another very good specimen of the true French 
 chateau, though not nearly so magnificent as Sully, is 
 Monjeu. It is situated on the crown of the hills above 
 Au tun, and buried in great woods of fine timber, with 
 an opening in front through which the eye ranges, 
 first over a great garden, by Lenotre, between ter- 
 raced avenues, and then from crest to crest of far- 
 waving hills to a remote horizon. The place is all 
 but abandoned by its owner, and the stiff courtly gar- 
 den, so perfect a background for scenes of high life in 
 the time of Louis Qiiinze, has gained from neglect a 
 melancholy in the highest degree poetical. Vast were 
 the labors that filled the ravine with earth, and held it 
 there with a gigantic wall of masonry fit for a modern 
 fortress ; and delicate the art and care with which the 
 costly level had been laid out with walks and beds, 
 with fountain and with lawn. Broad flights of stairs, 
 whose stones were separated by slow forces of vegeta- 
 tion, mighty as levers of iron ; statues lichen-spotted, 
 ivy-garlanded ; vase and baluster tottering together 
 over the silent terraces ; — all these have expression, 
 21 
 
322 
 
 Second Head ®hcarters. 
 
 and expression of the kind to which every true artist 
 is most sensitive. And in the chateau itself are a 
 score of high tapestried chambers all deserted, and a 
 great hall with carved and painted wainscoting fading 
 in the suns of summer after summer. 
 
 In a very retired situation amongst the hills on the 
 other side of the valley stands a little chateau of the 
 most humble pretensions. As it is to let, and I once 
 had some notion of becoming its inhabitant, I took 
 care to visit every nook and corner in the place. It 
 has the essentials of a real chateau — round corner 
 towers, a chapel, and a spacious garden ; but the 
 roughness of it is such that it would take ten years' 
 rent to make it comfortable. There is, however, 
 something very delightful in the quaint arrangement 
 of these houses ; the numerous round towers give 
 many little cell-like closets — tiny rooms, often of great 
 use to an inhabitant with various occupations ; and it 
 seems as if one would get strongly attached to a house 
 with so marked a character of its own ; whereas the 
 usual London house, or middle-class country villa, has 
 scarcely more individuality than a cab or an omnibus. 
 Of all the faults of a house, the most hateful is that 
 total want of interest which results from uninventive- 
 ness in the planning of it. When you pass a manu- 
 facturer's box with five windows in the front and a 
 door in the middle, you know the distribution of the 
 interior as well as if the outer walls were of plate- 
 glass. The habitation which the mind itself may 
 dwell in with contentment must have some variety to 
 interest and amuse the mind. This variety the quaint 
 little chateau possessed, and therefore, rough as it is, 
 I would more willingly live in it than in many a 
 better-built and more convenient mansion. 
 
A JFarm in the Antunois. 
 
 3 2 3 
 
 Close to this chateau is a hill which is the scene of 
 fairy legends. People lived on the top of the hill, and 
 lamented the hardness of their lot in having to fetch 
 water from the little river in the valley. So two 
 fairies came to their aid, and carried the water up the 
 hill-side. But before they had reached the top, one of 
 them said to the other, " With the help of God, we 
 shall get there at last ; " and the other impiously 
 answered, " With or without the help of God ! " on 
 which the water immediately spilled itself, and now 
 flows from that very spot in a perpetual spring. 
 
 When the fairies died out of the land, one of them 
 was transformed into a serpent, and set to guard an 
 immense treasure in a cave in the hill. Before the 
 mouth of this cave was rolled a great stone ; but on 
 Sundays, during divine service, the stone rolled back, 
 and left the cave open. Now, a village woman who 
 had heard of the treasure went to the cave the day of 
 the Fete Dieu. And, behold, the cave was open, 
 and its floor was all covered with scattered gold and 
 gems. And the woman took her little child with her 
 into the cave, and set it on a table in the middle, and 
 gave it an apple to amuse it whilst she gathered the 
 fairy treasure. And she filled her pockets, and her 
 apron, and the folds of her skirts with gold. Then, 
 suddenly remembering that the service would shortly 
 end, she rushed out of the cave with her booty. A 
 minute afterwards she thought about the child, and 
 looked back, but, lo, the cave was shut, and the child 
 shut up in it. Then she flung the gold and the gems 
 away, scattering them like rain in the mountain grass, 
 and she ran down to the village and told all to the 
 priest. The priest came, and all the villagers with 
 
3 2 4 
 
 Second Head §htarte7's. 
 
 him, to the spot where the woman had scattered the 
 treasure ; and they picked it all up, every piece of gold 
 and every precious jewel. Then the priest kept the 
 treasure carefully for one year, and on the next Fete 
 Dieu he sent the woman with it to the fairy's cave. 
 And she found the cave open as before, and saw her 
 little child still sitting on the table, still playing with 
 the apple she had given him ; but the serpent lay 
 coiled round the foot of the table. Then the woman 
 restored all that she had taken, and took away her 
 child, and returned to the village glad at heart. 
 
 The Morvan is a region where superstitions have a 
 surprising vitality. Miracles are of quite frequent 
 occurrence, and testified by a thousand witnesses. 
 The incumbent of a village called Ars, a man of 
 saintly character and great benevolence, proved his 
 divine mission by repeating in the present generation 
 many of the miracles of Jesus. It is only a few years 
 since he died, yet the popular faith has magnified him 
 into a mythic personage. Critics who feel any em- 
 barrassment about the origin of legends should live a 
 year or two in a country like this, learn its patois, 
 and make acquaintances amongst the devout peasantry. 
 They would see legends grow vigorously from little 
 seeds, and would familiarize themselves with a very 
 curious and interesting fact in human nature, which it 
 is absolutely necessary to take into account if we would 
 rightly understand the past. 
 
 When any one is ill, they take his shirt and dip it 
 in St. Michael's spring ; if that fails, and the patient 
 can bear travel, he may go on pilgrimage to a saint's 
 shrine on the mountain. Every year a great crowd 
 passes the whole night there, and beholds a miracle. 
 
A Farm in the Autunois* 325 
 
 This saint is quite modern, of the present century, 
 and consequently not yet even canonized. She was 
 married to a soldier of Napoleon, who, the very day 
 of the wedding, was called away to the wars. For 
 seven years she waited (in legends, absences are 
 always of seven years), when another lover persuaded 
 her to marry him. But the day of the second mar- 
 riage the first husband returned. Both claimed her ; 
 so she announced her resolution to live with neither, 
 but devote herself to religious meditation. With this 
 view she ascended the hills behind Autun, and, being 
 very weary, needed refreshment, when, lo ! a spring 
 gushed for her from the dry rock. She fixed her her- 
 mitage near the spot, and, after living a holy life, died 
 there. The spring became a resort of pilgrims from 
 villages far and near. They came with bottles, and 
 filled them with the miraculous water, and carried it 
 home to sick friends, who found health in the blessed 
 draught. Then the priests, who in Catholic countries 
 willingly consecrate all popular superstitions not abso- 
 lutely incompatible with Christian dogma, saw vitality 
 enough in this to induce them to take it under their 
 patronage. So they built a chapel by the well, and 
 placed an image of the saint therein ; and now the 
 image, which is usually highly colored, grows pale 
 and perspires hot sweat on the saint's night ; and then 
 the gift of miracle belongs to it, and they who touch 
 it are made whole. 
 
 There' is a wild legend about a carriage, with four 
 galloping phantom horses, coal black, and a phantom 
 lady in it, dressed in bridal white, and pale as a corpse, 
 seated by the side of a grim ghost-husband. This ap- 
 parition is seen at a place where four roads meet, and 
 
326 
 
 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 is attributed to the fact that this gentleman, when in 
 life and driving out with his bride, at that spot blas- 
 phemously invoked the Evil One. 
 
 Passing from fiction to fact, here is a curious little 
 story. Twenty or thirty years ago (my informant did 
 not remember the precise date), there came to Autun 
 a holy bishop from the far east. He had been cruelly 
 tortured in some perilous mission among the heathen, 
 and his face bore fearful evidence of the sufferings he 
 had endured. His credentials were pronounced per- 
 fectly satisfactory, and the then bishop of Autun, with 
 his clergy, lent him support and assistance towards the 
 object of his visit to France, which was the collecting 
 of money in aid of the mission of which he was the 
 chief. The interest excited by the disfigured visage 
 of the good prelate helped him powerfully with the 
 female inhabitants, who contributed liberally. When- 
 ever he walked the streets a crowd attended him. At 
 length he took leave of the faithful city, and proceeded 
 on his way. As he passed through the picturesque 
 village of Couches, a laboring man endeavored to 
 catch a glimpse of the scarred and wounded face of 
 which everybody talked, and which had so deeply 
 moved the whole population. The laborer w T as a 
 convict on leave, and he recognized in the bishop a 
 brother convict, who had escaped from prison a little 
 time before, and was now turning his wounds to 
 good account in the edification of the devout, and his 
 own private enrichment. This discovery, which the 
 bishop's old friend did not feel bound to keep secret, 
 brought the episcopal mission to a sudden termina- 
 tion. 
 
 This reminds me of an event which occurred at 
 
A Farm in the Autunois. 327 
 
 vSens during my own residence there. Two sisters of 
 charity made the tour of the town to collect money, in 
 order to bring up poor Catholic children in the bosom 
 of heretical England. Amongst other houses they 
 visited mine, and Mrs. Hamerton, in my absence, re- 
 ceived them, and had the benefit of listening to a full 
 explanation of their plans. The taller of the two sis- 
 ters was a stranger, travelling for the above-mentioned 
 laudable purpose ; the other was merely a sister then 
 resident at Sens, who accompanied and presented the 
 stranger. Now, this tall sister was a man, and he 
 might have left the town undetected in his disguise, 
 had not an unfeminine gesture, at a moment when he 
 believed himself alone, betrayed him. He must have 
 acted his part, on the whole, very cleverly ; and it 
 needed immense audacity, for he ate at the same table 
 with the genuine sisters, and slept, it is said, in the 
 same dormitory. The discovery and apprehension of 
 this swindler created some sensation in the little town, 
 and every one, after the event, remembered some 
 masculine peculiarity. As I have said, I was out at 
 the time he came to my house, and so missed him. 
 Mrs. Hamerton observed nothing unusual except the 
 extreme smallness and beauty of his hands, which 
 were very white and well kept, and which he held 
 before him with a certain ostentation. As the beauty 
 of the hands struck Mrs. Hamerton, even when she 
 supposed their owner to be a woman, it is not un- 
 likely that the possession of them may have suggested 
 the disguise. 
 
 One day, a young peasant, whom I knew very well, 
 came to me with a look of evident embarrassment, — 
 a particularly sheepish look, as we say in England. 
 
328 
 
 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 It came out that he was going to be married ; and, 
 finally, that he had a great desire that I should officiate 
 as a witness. I have a distaste for ceremonies in gen- 
 eral, and have managed on the whole to keep well out 
 of them ; but this time no excuse would serve me, 
 since any pretext would be set down to pride, and my 
 peasant friend would feel hurt. So, one cold winter's 
 morning, I got up long before light, and set off to the 
 bride's house, in a distant village. Peasants have no 
 notion about time in anything, and their arrangements 
 are usually such as to leave here and there an hiatus 
 of an hour or two. There was not the least necessity 
 for making me undertake a chilly journey before the 
 dawn ; for, on our arrival, we waited three hours in a 
 state of total inaction, during which I had nothing 
 better to do than watch the opening and shutting of 
 the gigantic, cavernous brick oven, as the countless 
 dishes were introduced, examined whilst in progress, 
 or withdrawn. So far as I could guess its dimensions, 
 the oven seemed to be three yards deep, or rather 
 more, a yard and a half wide, and a yard high. To 
 heat an oven of this kind, wood is burned in it, not 
 under it, till the bricks all round are thoroughly 
 heated ; they retain their heat long after the fire is re- 
 moved, and cook a prodigious quantity of meat. 
 
 Gradually the company arrived, all of them farmers 
 and their families, the older generation in clean blue 
 blouses, their sons, for the most part, in broadcloth. 
 The feminine costumes were generally very hand- 
 some and good, and I have no doubt costly, but do 
 not pretend to be a judge in such matters. Peasant 
 women in this part of France live lives of extreme 
 simplicity, and even roughness ; but on great occa- 
 
A Farm in the Autunois. 
 
 3 2 9 
 
 sions they dress expensively, without abandoning 
 the costume of their class. A little anecdote will 
 prove to what an extent this goes. Mrs. Hamerton 
 happened to be in a shop in Autun, one day last win- 
 ter, when a peasant and his daughter came to buy a 
 shawl for her wedding. The old man was very 
 poorly dressed, and the girl seemed as if she had 
 never been in a shop in her life before. So the shop- 
 man offered a shawl of moderate value, about ten 
 pounds. The father rather admired this till he heard 
 the price, when he utterly scorned it ; and the same 
 process was repeated till a sixty pound shawl was 
 produced, on which the father declared himself sat- 
 isfied, as the price seemed sufficiently high. A gold 
 chain is also necessary, and peasant girls choose the 
 best they can get. 
 
 At length, tl>£ procession was formed. First marched 
 the father of the bride, with the bride on his arm ; 
 then the bridegroom and myself, arm in arm ; then a 
 great number of couples, duly marshalled. Before us 
 marched a fiddler. We had not gone ten yards before 
 we had to stop and give money to a man by the way- 
 side, with a thing like a chandelier of many branches, 
 all covered with flaunting scraps of colored paper, 
 and studded with paper flowers. These things oc- 
 curred at every twenty or thirty yards, and every time 
 I noticed that the bride's father gave two francs. We 
 all had to give according to our means, and the paper 
 chandeliers, so dearly purchased, were all carried in 
 the procession, which thus assumed an appearance of 
 ever-increasing gayety. Many guns were fired, and 
 we reached the mairie under an almost royal yet irreg- 
 ular salute. The maire's deputy did all the work, the 
 
33° 
 
 Second Head Quarters, 
 
 functionary himself being perfectly at sea, or wool- 
 gathering, or whatever else may best express that 
 condition of the mind in which it is totally unfit for 
 the work lying immediately before it. At last he tied 
 the official scarf round his waist, and somehow got 
 through the little bit of business that the adjoint could 
 not possibly do for him. Having signed the papers as 
 witness, I had to give the bridegroom to his bride, 
 and made her a small speech on the occasion, of a 
 very simple character, but which, as it turned out, 
 gave great pleasure to the parents, who spoke of it 
 often afterwards. The procession, being now re- 
 formed, continued its march to the church — a de- 
 lightfully picturesque church, very venerable, and 
 wholly guiltless of restoration. The wedding party 
 almost filled the seats ; but some disorder was occa- 
 sioned at first by a peremptory command from the 
 priest that all the paper chandeliers, which had cost 
 so much money, should be carried outside, or else he 
 would not begin the service. They distracted atten- 
 tion, he thought. 
 
 The priest went through the usual Catholic mar- 
 riage service, and I felt rather nervous from the idea 
 that a part of my duty would be to hold a piece of 
 embroidered silk over the heads of the kneeling 
 couple ; but it seems that previous young men in my 
 situation had misbehaved when doing this ; so the 
 priest had resolved to confide the trust henceforth 
 always to the devouter sex. The bride's sister held 
 my end with the utmost self-possession, as if quite 
 accustomed to it, and the bride herself was happy 
 under the shadow of it ; for we were late at church, 
 and there had been a threat that this ceremony should 
 
A Farm in tJie Autunois. 
 
 33i 
 
 be omitted, which threat had cost her great anxiety 
 and many tears. A marriage is always a solemn 
 affair, and a church is not the right place to laugh in ; 
 but the sense of the ludicrous is active wherever any- 
 thing occurs to stimulate it, and I could not help feel- 
 ing rather tickled by the clerk in blouse and sabots, 
 clumsily going through the prescribed ceremonial, and 
 producing, by the side of the splendid vestments of 
 the priest, an effect as incongruous as a Somersetshire 
 laborer in working dress, if he could be presented at 
 court. After the ceremony the priest turned his back 
 to the altar, and made a long address on the subject of 
 marriage. He did not put the matter in any new 
 light, but his manner and style were very carefully 
 suited to the understanding of his audience ; and as 
 he had known the parish long, and been acquainted 
 with the bridegroom's family for generations, he took 
 the opportunity of recalling at great length the virtues 
 of his deceased grandfather, with an exhortation to 
 imitate them. All this is no doubt strictly within the 
 province of the priest, and yet there seems to be 
 something inconsistent in the idea that a gentleman 
 who, by the necessity of his position, is an old bache- 
 lor, should be called upon, also by the same necessity 
 of position, to talk about a state of life of which he 
 had had no experience. No talking about marriage is 
 of much value, however, for every marriage is an en- 
 tirely new experiment ; and when an old married man 
 advises a young one about his dealings with his wife, 
 the counsel in very many cases is not less inapplicable 
 than the empty generalities of an old bachelor. 
 
 We all adjourned to the priest's house for the signa- 
 ture of his marriage registers. ' It was comfortable 
 
332 
 
 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 enough ; but most houses of the middle class in Bur- 
 gundy have a repellent aspect, on account of the gen- 
 eral notion that paper and paint need not be renewed 
 more than once in forty years. The people are not a 
 dirty people ; the quantities of linen they possess are 
 quite fabulous ; they are cleanly in their cookery ; they 
 take frequent warm baths in winter and river baths in 
 summer ; they rub and polish their oaken floors, and 
 apply as much friction to their furniture as if they 
 hoped to cure it of some rheumatic complaint ; but 
 an Englishman entering their houses is immediate- 
 ly struck by an overpowering impression of ancient 
 dirt and long neglect, which impression, if he tries 
 to account for it, will be found to be wholly due to 
 the want of paper, paint, and whitewash. Perhaps 
 this may result from a feeling of despair. The flies 
 are very numerous here, and after two summers a 
 room looks dirty. To look like a well-kept house in 
 a northern climate, a Burgundian habitation would 
 have to be painted and papered every spring, or else 
 decorated with something that would bear frequent 
 washing. 
 
 Signing anything is always a nervous business for 
 the unlettered, and not every one present had the 
 courage or the power to attempt it. The bride pro- 
 fessed herself entirely ignorant of the art of writing, on 
 which her father informed us all, that in her youth he 
 had provided instruction for her, but that she had 
 never been willing to learn. Ornaments of the body 
 she possessed, chains of gold, shawl of many colors, 
 robe of stiff and glistening silk, head-dress of delicate 
 lace ; but the ornaments of the mind, nay, even its 
 most plain and ordinary furniture, had been absolutely 
 
A Farm in the Autunois. 333 
 
 omitted. How much more learned was her venerable 
 parent, who, when asked to sign, came forward with 
 a confident air, and wrote his name quite steadily, 
 with some attempt at a flourish ! The spectators 
 were evidently impressed by this contrast, by the de- 
 cline in scholarship apparent in the family, when, 
 unfortunately, the priest said, " Very well ; now you 
 must put a ft) for ftere" The father was now obliged 
 to confess that he did not know how to make a^; on 
 which everybody laughed outright, to his confusion. 
 He was a member of that numerous class between 
 writers and non-writers who have acquired, by diligent 
 practice, the art of signing their own names, but do not 
 consider it necessary to push their education farther. 
 
 From the priest's house the procession went to the 
 village inn, the fiddler fiddling very diligently in front. 
 Here we found tables spread with clean cloths, but 
 nothing on them except a number of white soup 
 tureens full of Burgundy wine, and plates piled high 
 with little sweet biscuits. The wine was liberally 
 sugared, — peasants on great occasions always sugar 
 their wine. After drinking a few goblets of this, we 
 formed the procession once more, and marched through 
 the village to the sound of the fiddle, interrupted by 
 frequent discharges of fowling-pieces. On our return 
 to the house of the bride's father a singular custom 
 was observed. An air of total stillness and aban- 
 donment reigned over the whole place. There was 
 nobody to welcome us, nobody to say a kind word to 
 the new bride. The door was shut and bolted, and 
 not even a cat looked at us from the window. The 
 leaders of the procession knocked at the door, — no 
 one answered ; again and again they knocked, the 
 
334 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 whole procession standing in patient expectation. As 
 there was no answer from the inside, the fiddler was 
 placed before the door, and he fiddled for admittance, 
 — still no answer. Then the uncle of the bridegroom 
 took the fiddle and performed. At length a grumbling 
 voice was heard. 
 "Who are ye?" 
 
 "We are your daughter and her husband and their 
 friends." 
 
 " I know ye not." 
 " Open unto us." 
 
 " I will not open ; I know ye not." 
 The bride — " I am thy daughter." 
 A long pause. 
 
 The door opens ; suddenly a violent hail-storm of 
 wheat flies in the faces of all near it. It is called the 
 sowing, and it means, " Be fruitful." 
 
 Then a huge loaf is held out in the doorway, and 
 the bride and the bridegroom must bite of it, without 
 cutting it. This accomplished, (it means, u May you 
 have plenty ! ") the pair stand in the doorway, and all 
 the procession kiss both of them, offering congratula- 
 tions. 
 
 Dancing now began, and as everybody present, ex- 
 cept myself, was very skilful and active in that exercise, 
 it went on very vigorously. A quadrille, as danced by 
 the peasantry, does not resemble the cold performance 
 which bears the same name in polite society. They 
 add many graces and flourishes, often quite indescriba- 
 ble. They bend and lean on air ; they dance as much 
 with their arms as with their legs ; they leap and bound 
 like lambs or kids ; they are very amiable to their part- 
 ners, and keep their arms round their waists quite 
 
A Farm in the Autunois. 
 
 335 
 
 affectionately for hours together ; and what is more, 
 from the air of happiness visible on the faces of the 
 girls, there can be no manner of doubt that they like it. 
 
 Before our departure for the mairie, we had most 
 of us taken a little light refreshment, consisting of four 
 or five dishes of meat and a few tumblers of wine ; 
 but in spite of that and the subsequent draughts and 
 sweet biscuits at the inn, we had not danced above two 
 hours before we began to think about dinner. How 
 shall I describe the magnitude of that feast ? 
 
 The daily life of the peasant is one of the very strict- 
 est sobriety. He very seldom tastes meat, and only 
 occasionally drinks wine ; sugar is a rarity almost 
 unknown. A festival, to him, is the saturnalia of 
 long-repressed desires. A rich gentleman does not eat 
 much more at a banquet than at his ordinary dinner ; 
 animal food is not in itself an exciting delight ; sugar 
 has no charms for him ; but put the rich gentleman on 
 the peasant's diet for twelve months, and then give 
 him for one day the full range of all his appetites, and 
 he would understand the rare excesses of the peasantry. 
 I regret not to have made a list of the dishes of meat 
 presented to me at table ; but I counted eighteen, and 
 missed several. No kind of flesh known to be in season 
 was omitted, and the cooks of the village had exhausted 
 all their science. The dinner was really excellent in 
 its way, but I longed for something else than perpetual 
 meat. Vegetables there were none. There was^ some 
 dessert, however, because our host was of rather a 
 superior class ; but the ordinary peasant's great feast 
 consists of nothing but between twenty and thirty dif- 
 ferent dishes of meat succeeding each other, during 
 long hours of laborious mastication. 
 
33^ 
 
 Second Head Quarters. 
 
 I should have been glad to give some idea of the 
 conversation and characters at table, for both were 
 amusing in their way ; but I despair of doing them 
 any justice in any language except their own patois, 
 which I do not write for two reasons ; first, though I 
 understand it when spoken, I can neither speak nor 
 spell it ; secondly, if I could, no English reader would 
 appreciate it. In a general way, I may say, however, 
 that my peasant friends were very shrewd and humor- 
 ous, but always perfectly polite. 
 
 As I was a good way from home I left very early, 
 but the wedding guests danced late out of doors by the 
 light of the moon. The next day there was a great 
 flesh feast at the house of the bridegroom, and many 
 minor repasts at intervals. The bridegroom's younger 
 brother calculated that in the two days he had eaten 
 fifteen meals and danced fifteen hours. 
 
337 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A RIVER VOYAGE IN A BASKET. 
 
 I HAVE said that the boundary of my garden is a 
 stream. Beyond this is a broad meadow, and on 
 the other side of the meadow a larger stream, called the 
 Ternin, from which mine has been artificially detached. 
 The Ternin is a great happiness to me, because full of 
 picturesque subjects along its whole course, and also 
 because there are some deep pools where I take a daily 
 swim in summer. These two pleasures, swimming 
 and the study of nature, were both very great ; but the 
 question suggested itself whether it would not be also 
 possible to make the little river yield a third delight. 
 How if I could navigate it? Of course all my neigh- 
 bors said that was totally impossible ; that there were 
 shallows, and snags, and turns, and tree trunks, and 
 branches, and all manner of obstacles. My boat 
 would be caught and ingulfed in whirlpools ; my 
 head would be smashed against tree boughs ; my feet, 
 after I was upset, would be caught in roots and weeds ; 
 and I should be both killed and drowned, as the Irish- 
 man said. 
 
 The Ternin runs about four miles from my house to 
 Autun, where it discharges itself into the Arroux. 
 The Arroux descends in its turn to the Loire, which 
 it meets at Digoin. The idea of connecting myself 
 with the great system of river navigation, of having 
 
 22 
 
338 ^4 River Voyage in a Basket. 
 
 access by water to the Loire, the Rhone, the Seine, 
 was something inspiriting and magnificent. 
 
 I have a good boat, but, after trying her on the 
 Ternin, found that she was too long for such intricate 
 navigation, and also that the usual process of rowing 
 was not possible on a rapid little stream where it was 
 always necessary to see well in advance. So I devised 
 a small flat-bottomed coracle, short and buoyant, made 
 of wickerwork, covered with canvas. This cost me 
 altogether about twelve shillings. It has one wooden 
 seat, three narrow wooden keels, and a double-bladed 
 paddle for propulsion. Seated with my face in the 
 direction of the stream's course, I can detect at some 
 distance anything likely to offer an impediment, and 
 take measures to avoid it. The loose paddle is infi- 
 nitely better than a pair of sculls for such rough work 
 as this. A paddle is equal to two things, and yet it is 
 only one thing ; it does not get embarrassed in row- 
 locks, as oars will, in a very narrow place ; you can 
 push with it on either side in a moment, and it occu- 
 pies no breadth of water ; above all, you can sit with 
 your face to your work. 
 
 With this little coracle I found that I could easily 
 perform the whole voyage on the river, and anything 
 more amusing and exciting it is not possible to imagine. 
 The water rushes over the shallows with great swiftness, 
 and swirls heavily in the deep pools ; there are hun- 
 dreds of roots, and sometimes massive trunks lie half 
 athwart the stream ; the turns are extremely sharp, 
 and there are violent eddies and counter currents on 
 which the coracle bobs about like a cork. Such boat- 
 ing as this needs incessant attention, but that is the 
 very charm of it. An amusement ought to occupy 
 
A River Voyage in a Basket, 
 
 339 
 
 the mind as well as the body, and not leave it free to 
 continue its labors or recur to its anxieties. Simple 
 rowing on smooth water is, I have always thought, 
 one of the most mechanical of all diversions. Sailing 
 is good, because it occupies one, and needs constant 
 watchfulness. Descending a wild stream in a coracle 
 is quite as good as even sailing in rough weather. 
 You see before you, a hundred yards off, five or six 
 awkward snags all across the stream ; you select what 
 seems the best passage, and with a few strong strokes 
 of the paddle get your coracle into such a position 
 that it will rush straight through the narrow channel. 
 In an instant the obstacles are behind you, and you 
 are borne along swiftly, perhaps over rippling rapids, 
 or tossed on leaping waves, or on a deep calm pool a 
 moment's respite is allowed you, and you may light 
 your pipe and meditate on the delightfulness of your 
 position. When you descend in this manner some 
 rapid trout stream like the Ternin, nothing is more 
 amusing than to watch the astonished anglers on the 
 bank. You appear to them as unexpectedly as if you 
 were a porpoise — they open their mouths in amaze- 
 ment — you glide past them in a moment, and are 
 gone. 
 
 Work of this kind, I warn the sympathetic reader, 
 is, when you first attempt it, in a high degree alarming. 
 It seems absolutely impossible that you should get out 
 of such an endless succession of difficulties. The first 
 snags, with water rushing between them like a mill- 
 race, have something of horror in their aspect — gaunt 
 arms rising from the swift stream to catch you and 
 rend you. With a little experience these alarms give 
 place to a feeling of perfect self-possession. You learn 
 
34° 
 
 A River Voyage in a Basket. 
 
 the art of discovering in time where the best passage 
 lies, and of so placing your coracle that it will be 
 driven through it by the current. You become aware 
 of certain laws or customs of rapid streams, by which 
 you know beforehand how and where they have hol- 
 lowed water enough to carry your light craft. You 
 acquire such mastery over your paddle, that, with a 
 powerful stroke or two, you avert easily what seems 
 certain destruction. 
 
 People who live near streams usually pronounced 
 not navigable do not know what they miss. To any 
 such I say, Get a coracle or a little canoe, and try to 
 navigate your stream. A little wading now and then 
 does no harm, though in the winter and spring I do 
 my voyage to Autun without once quitting the coracle. 
 It might be possible in a sharp little canoe to ascend 
 the stream also, but this seems very doubtful ; my plan 
 is to walk home, and send the coracle back in a cart. 
 I have not yet read the history of the " Rob Roy 
 Canoe," but can well believe that a boat so carefully 
 built would have advantages over a coracle. I think, 
 however, that for rough work of this kind it is well 
 not to be afraid for your boat ; so it is better to have it 
 very cheap and easily repaired. I intend to build one 
 this summer of paper, which seems to be the best of 
 all materials. I shall begin by making a solid mound 
 on the earth the exact shape and size of the canoe, 
 bottom upwards. On this I shall place slips of paper 
 in every direction, dipped in Jeffrey's Marine Glue, till 
 they reach a thickness sufficient to resist hard usage, 
 yet not enough to be heavy. The elasticity of such a 
 boat would be great, and it would be absolutely imper- 
 meable ; besides, it is quite easy to give it a most 
 
A River Voyage in a Basket. 341 
 
 beautiful form, favorable to speed. Again, a paper 
 boat would be repaired at once, and the voyager might 
 take a little marine glue as part of his stores. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to observe that nobody ought 
 to have playthings of this kind who is not a good 
 swimmer. 
 
 These general observations relieve me from the ne- 
 cessity of describing the voyage to Autun. It is very 
 beautiful. We pass an old chateau with a picturesque 
 wooden bridge ; but the great charm is in the wind- 
 ings of the river, and the glimpses of the towers of 
 the lofty city looking grander and grander, nearer and 
 nearer, as we glide rapidly towards it. At length we 
 pass on the right a great massive Roman ruin, like 
 two sides of a strong tower or keep, which the people 
 call the Temple of Janus. On the left is a picturesque 
 group of houses, a bridge, and a fine Roman gateway, 
 with its arches still entire. Then the coracle passes 
 into the Arroux, and floats, slowly and soberly now, 
 down to the other bridge, under the shadow of the 
 massive Roman walls, whose good masonry has been 
 so pillaged for house building that only a few square 
 yards of the facing remain, yet these fragments perfect 
 as if built yesterday. There is another Roman gate- 
 way at Autun, and other walls with many towers built 
 in the middle ages. All these are crowned by the 
 spire of the cathedral, and better subjects for etching 
 it is not possible to imagine. The way the towers 
 group on the side towards the hills is quite glorious, 
 and the more I draw and etch about Autun the richer 
 it seems. The court-yards too, into which no casual 
 tourist penetrates, are full of interest, from the noble 
 one of the Hotel de Beauchamp, once the residence 
 
34 2 
 
 Epilogue, 
 
 of a Chancellor of Burgundy, down to little neglected 
 places inhabited by quite poor people, and which one 
 only finds out by the most impudent prying. To 
 describe such things as these the etching needle is a 
 better instrument than the pen ; and since I have begun 
 to use it, I am no longer tempted to elaborate written 
 descriptions till they become tedious. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Nine years have elapsed since the first experiment 
 in hut life in the Lancashire moors. Looking back 
 across these nine years, the author believes that he 
 can judge of what he then did with as much impar- 
 tiality as another critic, and with far more intimate 
 knowledge of the circumstances to be taken into 
 consideration. 
 
 Ten years ago, when P. G. H. planned his encamp- 
 ment, the direction of English landscape study was 
 almost entirely towards accuracy and detail. P. G. H. 
 never called himself, or desired to be called, a Pre- 
 Raphaelite ; but he had warm sympathy with the 
 earnestness in study of which that school set the 
 worthy example. Art may be attained by two op- 
 posite methods, either by trying always, from the very 
 beginning, for power and unity of effect, gradually 
 acquiring better knowledge of detail by observation 
 and practice ; or detail itself may be made the first 
 object, and unity and power of effect looked to as the 
 crown of the edifice. These two methods are simply 
 
Epilogue. 
 
 343 
 
 those of synthesis and analysis : both are necessary in 
 all study, but one or the other is usually the chief aim 
 of the student, and the intellectual habits of the age 
 may determine which of the two shall for the moment 
 enjoy the advantages of being fashionable. P. G. H. 
 would not have been human, he would certainly not 
 have been artistic, if he had not felt the influences and 
 shared the enthusiasms of his age and generation. 
 His idea of study was, therefore, almost entirely 
 analytic : to render the true form and color of the 
 plants and rocks, the true structure of the mountain 
 and the cloud, seemed to him an aim worthy of all 
 labor, and for the achievement of which any amount 
 of trouble or inconvenience might be cheerfully gone 
 through and endured. This was the state of his mind 
 during his hut life in Lancashire. An old project for 
 the rich illustration of the Loire, from its source to 
 the sea, was abandoned, perhaps unfortunately, for a 
 residence on a well-beloved lake in Scotland. An 
 artist whose training and ideas were almost exclusive- 
 ly analytical might have pursued his studies, in the 
 climate of Central France, in life-long unconsciousness 
 of the insufficiency of his method. Happily industri- 
 ous, producing always work of undeniable interest 
 and value as a record, he might have escaped the 
 reflections on the nature of art which lead to dis- 
 satisfaction with mere detail, however accurate. It 
 seems probable that if P. G. H. had gone to the Loire 
 instead of to Argyllshire, he would have done far 
 more work with the brush, and so acquired far 
 greater manual skill, but that the purely analytic 
 habit would have remained with him. 
 
 The Highlands taught another lesson, and a very 
 
344 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 severe lesson it was. The great characteristic of the 
 Highlands is their magnificent unity of effect, and it 
 became evident that the analytic method was here 
 incompetent. After a year of constant observation 
 and many practical failures, P. G. H., who could 
 not abandon his desire for analysis, determined to try 
 for a kind of art which should be at the same time 
 minutely analytic, and yet a true painting of effect. 
 It is obvious that such an ambition involved pro- 
 digious technical difficulties. The artist who frankly 
 abandons effect, as many English painters seem to 
 have done, may, by patience and hard work, carry 
 analysis very far. The artist who is content to sacrifice 
 detail altogether, as many French painters do, may 
 reach great power and unity. But to combine on one 
 canvas the detail of Brett and the effect of Troyon, 
 is so immensely difficult that it may safely be pro- 
 nounced to be impossible. And it is impossible for 
 the profoundest reasons — reasons deduced from the 
 eternal laws of the human mind. We are so con- 
 stituted that art only affects us in so far as it is the 
 expression of some predominant idea, some over- 
 powering emotion. The power of the painter is in 
 his originality of selection, by which he emphatically 
 calls our attention to some especial quality or aspect 
 of nature. When P. G. H. aimed at the union of 
 the whole of visible detail with as much as possible 
 of visible effect, he erred in ignoring altogether the 
 artistic right — we may even go farther, and. call it 
 the artistic duty — of selection. Art in this is an 
 epitome of life. The man who cannot choose be- 
 tween one thing and another is the helpless victim of 
 the situation in which he finds himself: his friends, 
 
Epilogue, 
 
 345 
 
 his books, his profession, his wife, all tumble upon 
 him, because he happens to be in that place ; but 
 men who succeed greatly take their own everywhere, 
 and leave the rest. Unless an artist finds in nature 
 something with which he himself has a peculiar af- 
 finity, something belonging to him, he will never do 
 any good ; but if, having found this, he is too timid 
 to claim his rights and cultivate his own property, 
 failure equally attends him. 
 
 If P. G. H. had had the courage to set aside, once 
 for all, the idea that mere fidelity to the outward form 
 was a sort of duty to the public, he would probably 
 have done much more and much better. Every young 
 man lives under the influence of some one whose 
 authority he respects ; and P. G. H. lived under the 
 influence of Mr. Ruskin, which accounts for his ten- 
 dencies to pure topography. That influence might 
 have lasted longer if Mr. Ruskin himself had not 
 weakened and finally destroyed it by publications 
 whose startling unreason was enough to shake the 
 faith of all but the most devoted disciples. In 1856 it 
 seemed to P. G. H. that Mr. Ruskin was the writer 
 on art, as Mahomet, to a son of Islam, is the Prophet. 
 In 1866 it seems rather that Mr. Ruskin is one of the 
 most distinguished critics, as Mahomet, to a philos- 
 opher, is one of the greatest religious leaders. The 
 transition from the position of a believer to that of an 
 observant but not hostile onlooker, is in this instance 
 fully accomplished ; and whatever critics may still 
 say of me, they cannot any longer accuse me of 
 Ruskinism. 
 
 All these remarks about analysis and selection are 
 quite pertinent to the subject of this book, the Camp. 
 
34 6 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 Much analysis and little selection lead naturally to 
 tent-work, which offers great conveniences for close 
 analytic study. Artists who work from memory 
 mainly, have no occasion for painting-tents, as I 
 have always said. Hence it happened that when 
 P. G. H. gave up the habit of analysis, and painted 
 large pictures from sketches and studies, he almost 
 abandoned for a time the use of the camp. Now, 
 however, he uses the tents again, but with different 
 aims. 
 
 First, he did slow analytic work from nature with 
 the camp. 
 
 Next he tried work from memoranda in the studio. 
 
 Thirdly, he returned to the camp, but with a view 
 to rapid work, whose chief aim was synthetic. 
 
 In the future there seems every probability that the 
 tents will be of frequent service. When these pages 
 appear, the writer will be voyaging in his boat, pitch- 
 ing his camp every night. These voyages, as they 
 oecur, may be recorded in some magazine or review, 
 and illustrated in a separate issue of etchings, or the 
 etchings may be accompanied with a brief account 
 of the journey. An artist's excursions ought not to 
 be elaborated into heavy books of travel, but told 
 briefly, without too much effort, and, above all, very 
 liberally illustrated. In these respects the " Painter's 
 Camp" has not yet quite fulfilled my notion of an 
 artist's book of travel ; but as the present edition 
 brings it into briefer compass, so some future arrange- 
 ment may supply the illustrations which, to my re- 
 gret, are still wanting to its completion. 
 
 In conclusion, I take the opportunity of saying a 
 few words on a subject which occupied in the first 
 
Epilogue. 
 
 347 
 
 edition more space than it deserved. Many critics, re- 
 flecting, no doubt, quite faithfully the general opinion, 
 were rather angry with me for opening what seemed 
 an unprofitable discussion about the position of art 
 and artists in the world. They saw in it simply 
 an expression of personal irritation or professional 
 soreness ; but this view, I venture to observe, was not 
 entirely just to me. Of all questions in social philos- 
 ophy, not one interested me so much, or on grounds 
 so broadly general, as that of the social estimation of 
 the various occupations of men ; and I may add that, 
 to this day, no social subject has for me an interest so 
 deep and inexhaustible. The current estimation of 
 occupations is the key to the state of civilization. 
 Accident led me to direct, for the time, my attention 
 more especially to the rank assigned to my own 
 pursuit ; but that of the pursuits of others was not 
 less suggestive, nor less interesting or valuable, in my 
 view, as evidence of our social condition. The solu- 
 tion which I then proposed, that the social rank of 
 an occupation is the accurate measure of its govern- 
 mental power, seems to me still the only possible 
 explanation. If this is, as I do believe, a fundamental 
 law of human nature, it is both foolish and useless to 
 quarrel with it ; but though it may be useless to quar- 
 rel with it, it is not useless to state it. The benefit to 
 be derived from such discussions is the clear separa- 
 tion of the two ideas of nobleness and power. Paint- 
 ing is, if rightly followed, one of the very noblest of 
 human pursuits, but it is not a powerful one ; hence 
 its social rank is dubious. The social rank of a per- 
 fectly unscrupulous prime minister (e. g., Bismark) is 
 very high ; the social rank of a perfectly upright 
 
343 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 domestic servant is very humble. The real difference 
 is a difference of power, which society must recognize. 
 Nor does it seem difficult to understand why this in- 
 stinct of deference to the powerful has been implanted 
 in the human mind. Men were intended to be govei'n- 
 able creatures, and deference is a predisposition to 
 obedience.. There is, however, a compensation which 
 some years ago I had not known by experience, and 
 so valued less than I do now. That compensation is 
 human sympathy. Authors and artists may possess 
 this to an extent which is really wonderful. Our 
 social rank may not be quite so firm as that of lawyers 
 and statesmen ; but honest work may win for us a 
 kindly personal interest in the hearts of thousands, 
 and the respect of intelligent and cultivated men in 
 the remotest parts of the earth. Only the other day a 
 letter came to me from a stranger beyond the Mis- 
 sissippi, full of the warmest encouragement. The 
 knowledge that there are many who care for us, and 
 desire our success, may fortify us against the insolence 
 of snobs.