I heard with satisfaction that Mr. Freeman had been very cordial, and had shown no trace of resentment at what had passed at a former meeting at Mr. Macmillan's house. The conversation had then turned on Ireland, and Mr. Macmillan was, like my husband, for granting autonomy. This set Mr. Freeman growling at the use of a Greek word, and he exclaimed, "Why can't you speak English and say Home Rule, instead of using Greek, which you don't know!" My husband flushed with anger, and recalled the irritable historian—not without severity—to a proper sense of the respect due to their host, at the same time paying a tribute to Mr. Macmillan's remarkable abilities. Later in the evening the word "gout" was mentioned. "There again," Mr. Freeman exclaimed, "why can't we call it toe-woe!" But this was said in a joke, and accompanied with a laugh.
Wherever we went, we heard praises of the "Portfolio." Throughout his life Mr. Hamerton remained, not only on good terms, but on friendly terms with every one of his publishers; and whenever he went to London he looked forward with great pleasure to meeting them in succession. There were, of course, different degrees of intimacy, but the intercourse was never other than agreeable.
For many years he had wished to know Mr. Samuel Palmer personally, and the wish was reciprocated. Now an opportunity presented itself, and one afternoon saw us climbing Redhill in pleasant anticipation; but when after admiring the view we rang the bell of the artist's secluded abode, we were told that Mr. Palmer had been very ill lately, was still keeping his bed, and could see no one. It was a great disappointment, and some words to this effect were written on a card and sent up to the invalid. Soon after Mrs. Palmer came down and feelingly expressed her husband's sincere regrets; she told us of his illness, which had left him very weak and liable to relapses, and of the pleasure he would have derived from a long talk with Mr. Hamerton on artistic topics. We had been shown into the dining-room, which evidently, for the present, was not used, though it was warmed by a good fire, but darkened by the blinds being down and the curtains drawn. The rays of a golden sunset diffused through the apertures a strange and mysterious glow, which suddenly seemed to surround and envelope an apparition, standing half visible on the threshold of the noiselessly opened door. A remarkably expressive head emerged from a bundle of shawls, which moved forward with feeble and tottering steps—it was Mr. Palmer. His wife could not trust her eyes, but as soon as she became convinced of the reality of his presence, she hastened to make him comfortable in an arm-chair by the fire, and to arrange the shawls over his head and knees with the most touching solicitude. "I could not resist it," he pleaded; "I have looked forward to this meeting with so much longing." His eyes sparkled, his countenance became animated, and regardless of his wraps, he accompanied his fluent talk with eloquent gestures—to the despair of his wife, who had enough to do in replacing cap and rugs. He put all his soul and energy (and now there was no lack of it) into his speech. The art-talk kindled all the fire of enthusiasm within him, and he told us anecdotes of Turner and Blake, and held us for a long time fascinated with the charm of his conversation. He could listen too, and with so vivid an interest and sympathy that his mere looks were an encouragement. My husband was afraid of detaining him, but he declared he felt quite well and strong—"the visiting angels had put to flight the lurking enemy;" he had even an appetite, which he would satisfy in our company. Nothing loath, we sat down to an excellent tea with delicious butter and new-laid eggs, with the impression of sharing the life of elves, and of being entertained by a genie at the head of the table and served by a kind fairy. This feeling originated no doubt in the small stature of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer; in the strange effect of light under which our host first appeared to us, and lastly in the noiseless promptitude with which the repast was spread on the table, whilst the darkness of the room gave way to brightness, just as happens in fairytales.
It is curious that my husband and myself should have received exactly the same impression, and a lasting one.
The journey to Paris was resumed by slow night-trains without disturbance to his health, and the day after his arrival he had a long talk about etching with M. Leopold Flameng, who encouraged my husband's attempts, and even offered to correct his defective plates rather than see them destroyed; but this was declined, though the valuable advice was gratefully accepted. M. Flameng looked very happy; he was in full success, very industrious, and fond of his art; married to a devoted wife of simple tastes, and already able to discern and foster in his son the artistic tendencies which have made him celebrated since. They were a very cheerful and united family. Two days after we had déjeuner with M. Rajon. Of all the French etchers who, from time to time, went to London for the "Portfolio," I believe M. Rajon was the one best known in English society, where his liveliness and amiability, as well as his great talent, found appreciators.
Like almost every other artist, he did not attach so much importance to what he could do well, as to what he could never master. His ambition was to become a celebrated painter, but his pictures gave little hope of it; they were heavy and dull in color, and entirely devoid of the charm he lent to his etchings. He showed himself very grateful for what Mr. Hamerton had done for his reputation. Accidentally, as he was admiring the design of some very simple earrings I wore, I said that I did not care so much for jewels as for lace, on which he answered he was extremely fond of both—on women—and invited me to go and see a collection of old laces he was forming. I was obliged to decline, for our time was running short; but he made us promise to pay a long visit to his studio during our next sojourn in Paris.
We reached home safely, and found my mother and the children all well.
There had been a great step made in the possibility of travelling this year, though it had been attended by many returns of anxiety and nervousness; still, it was a not inconsiderable gain to know that in case a journey became absolutely necessary it might be achieved, and our stay in London and Paris had been of importance in allowing my husband to study seriously in the public galleries.
Mr. Powers had been delighted to receive his long-delayed pictures, and wrote his thanks in terms of enthusiasm; he said that many people had been admiring them, and that a well-known painter had exclaimed, "Now I swear by Hamerton." About the growing popularity he wrote: "As I said before, you win the hearts of men, and your name is now a household word in many quarters of this country." It was exactly, in almost identical words, what Roberts Brothers had already written. And this was true not only in America, for many English letters echoed it.
"Round my House" was very well received. There was an important and favorable review in the "Times," and one in the "Débats" by Taine.