Messrs. A. and C. Black had also proposed that Mr. Hamerton's articles for the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" should be revised and enlarged so as to make an interesting and valuable "Hand-book to Drawing and Engraving," and the author had agreed to undertake the work. They were so considerate as to send a copy of the "Encyclopaedia" to the writer, who had long desired to possess it, and who valued it as a treasure. He had a special bookcase made for it, with many divisions, to preserve the volumes from too much rubbing, and was pleased with their handsome appearance in his library.
A letter received in the autumn may offer some interest to the reader. It tells of a rather curious occurrence. The writer had been occasionally in correspondence with the author of "Wenderholme," and, living in Lancashire, had greatly appreciated the accuracy of the descriptions and characters in that locality. Two years before he had discovered "Thursday," and under his guidance had visited the site of the first camp at Widdup, and noted the changes; now he wrote again, giving an account of his experiences during a little visit to the Brontë country, and explaining at some length that he was "driven by bad weather to the 'house' (you will remember the sense in which the word is used in the district) occupied by the wrangling drunkard. The talk turning upon a hut which had been erected by a mon through Halifax for the grouse-shooting, evoked a reminiscence from the only (relatively) sober member of the party, of another mon—a hartist—who, aboon thirty year sin', built a hut at Widdup, and hed a gurt big dog, and young Helliwell, ower at Jerusalem, wor then a lad, and used to bring him (the mon) milk, and in the end gat ta'en on as sarvant, and went wi' him to Scotland and all ower—you may imagine my delight….
"I was sorry to hear that Thursday was not in very good health. He is, however, married, and the proud father of a little girl—Mary Alice. He seems very comfortable, and has promised me a photograph of himself by way of a frontispiece to my copy of the 'Painter's Camp.'
"I trust I am not boring you; but I thought that you might like to know that you and your encampment are still remembered in the district."
It always pleased Gilbert to have news of the people and places associated in his mind and affections with his youth, and his interest in them never grew cold with years.
Our new installation at Clématis was much simplified by the fact that everything from La Tuilerie had been sent in advance.
In order not to keep Gilbert too long from his work, the study was first arranged, and he was well pleased with it; indeed, he said he had never been so conveniently or comfortably established "for his work" before; but still I saw, with pain, that he looked depressed in spite of himself.
New Year's Day saw us established in the new house, and regular habits of work resumed.
Having two spare bedrooms, our children came to use them during the Christmas holidays, and we had some pleasant meetings with M. Pelletier and his family. It was by a sort of tacit understanding that almost every Sunday we lunched, in turn, at each other's houses,—once at Clématis, then at Madame Halliard's, and afterwards at M. Pelletier's. After lunch we had a long walk either in the Bois de Boulogne, Parc de St. Cloud, Jardin du Luxembourg, or Jardin des Plantes; but although Gilbert enjoyed these strolls, they did not make up for the loss of the country; neither did the Seine replace the Saône, and Mr. Seeley said: "I am sorry the Seine is not what it ought to be. You will miss your old amusement of sailing, for which steaming will be a poor substitute."
We all tried to find something that might take his fancy, and we went to see the Marne. He said it afforded refreshing and pretty scenes; but he was not enthusiastic about its character. I plainly saw that what I had feared had come to pass—namely, that this new way of life did not suit him so well as the old, and that, despite the greater facilities, he did not seem to work to his own satisfaction, and felt dull. This lasted for some time. Mr. Seeley humorously teased him about it, and suggested that he should write for an American magazine an article on "The Dulness of Paris." He went on: "If you could only run over here to roam about our Kentish hills, you would soon be all right again. They are covered with millions of wood anemones, violets, primroses, cuckoo flowers, and blue-bells; and the low ground is gay with marsh-marigolds." Alas! the Bois offered all this in profusion, but for flowers Gilbert never really cared; he merely appreciated their valeur in the harmony of a landscape. He thus explained his feelings, in answer to Mr. Seeley:—