A ROBINSON CRUSOE PAINTER.Is
Mn. HAMERTON has in these volumes made a very interesting contribution to the somewhat slender stock of artist literature. The narration of his adventures in search of the beautiful, and the means by which he was enabled to paint from nature on the wildest moors of Lancashire and the Scottish Highlands, in all weathers and at all seasons of the year, may be read with amusement, not unaccompanied with profit, by those who care to know anything of the manner and spirit in which some of our modern landscape painters "go to nature." It was in the autumn of 1856 that the author determined "to put in execution plans of study whose full development would require several years." As a pre- paratory exercise, he resolves to encamp on the Boulsworth moors "to study heather." For this purpose he contrives a portable wooden hut, composed of panels, capable of being carried
A Painter's Camp in the Highlands, and Thoughts about Art. By Philip Gilbert Ramerton, Author M "The Isles of Loch Awe." 2 vols. Macmillan and Co. 1802.
separately and united by iron bolts. On each of the four sides of this hut there is a windrw of plate-glass. The wooden floor, raised some inches from the ground, is carpeted, and the arched roof is covered with waterproof canvass. What cooking the author has to do is performed by means of two spirit lamps, and a hammock, which can be easily rolled up and, suspended against one of the walls of the hut by day, furnishes the sleeping accommodation. Matters being finally arranged, the painter camps on a vast moor, on the frontier line of Lancashire and Yorkshire. "On the second night there comes a violent storm of wind and rain, but the hut, beyond leaking a little, answers admir- ably, and in a very brief time the author becomes perfectly settled down in his new mode of life, though lie occasionally be- wails his inexperience in cooking, and deplores the fatal neces- sity of "washing up" the utensils after a meal. Of course, an individual leading this species of life, and having no occupa- tion that the provincial mind can comprehend, must expect to hear some strange rumours concerning himself. Mr. Hamerton was looked on by suspicious gamekeepers as a poacher—the farmers ask him "what lie hawks ?" Drovers visit his hut in the vain hope that it may turn out to be a novel species of dram- shop, the women suppose him to be a teller of fortunes, and the children fancy him the proprietor of a travelling menagerie. The humour of this position does not seem to strike Mr. Hamerton so much as the fact that he loses caste in the popular estimate, that the rough peasantry treat him with insolence, and consider that, as he is independent of assistance and cooks for himself, he is therefore no gentleman ! This is doubtless a sad state of things; but matters become worse when the country people give their opinions on art subjects. It is currently believed that the painter is land-surveying, or, as they express it in the north, " mappin ;" but he is considered a very slow hand. He has been wasting a month over a few square yards of a mountain which could have been surveyed in its entirety in a week by men in the adjacent towns ; and as for painting, there are plenty of painters who could paint all the wood-work of a farmhouse in a fourth of the time that this one has spent on a yard of canvass ! In his solitude, Mr. Hamerton did not lack for visitors, and occasionally these were by no means welcome. One night he was awakened by a loud yell close to the door of his hut, followed by a great deal of strong language. The author sat up in his hammock, and grasping his revolver, waited in silent expectation of an attack. But none followed, the gentleman, whoever he might be, contented himself with cursing in a hearty and vigorous manner until he was tired, and then went grumbling away, leaving the purport and object of his midnight call for ever a matter of mystery. The occupant of the hut was apprehensive of a visit from the poachers or "night hunters," as they are there called, a set of determined reckless blackguards, who go in gangs, well armed, and disguised, and commit with impunity all sorts of lawless outrages. But fortunately the idea of molesting the painter never entered their beads. By daytime visitors were so numerous as to cause the wish that the place was yet more lonely. The hut was the centre of attraction for miles round— an old woman made a pilgrimage of seven miles to get a glimpse of the hermit painter. Lovers made assignations by the hut, and on Sundays it was surrounded by crowds of fifty and sixty, who peeped through the windows, and thought themselves well rewarded if they could catch sight of any part of the author's dress or person. Tired at length of these uninvited guests, and having to answer the same questions twenty times a day, the author hit upon a plan of always answering in French—a course which he found attended by the happiest results, and which must have proved a new source of wonderment to the benighted of those regions. Having finished the picture lie intended to paint, and being generally satisfied with this experimental trial of camp life, Mr. Hamerton resolves to start for the Highlands. Previously, however, he has two "lifeboats" made on a plan of his own, a_ hint borrowed from models of the South Sea canoes in the Louvre. The arrange- ment consist, in elongated tubes of galvanized iron, with water-tight compartments. Each tube has its rudder—the two rudders being connected with a rod—on the tubes is laid the deck, roomy and steady, so as to allow of a table, easel, or chair being placed on it. The larger of these double boats carries a lateen sail. All things being ready, and having engaged a shepherd lad, who used to "bring the milk" to the but on the moor, as servant, and packed the boats, the hut, and two additional tents, the author arrives at Loch Awe, and establishes his en- campment on a large uninhabited island in the midst of the most picturesque part of the loch, from which can be seen
Kilchurn Castle, Ben Cruachan, Ben Anea, and the Pass of Awe. This island, Inishail by name, was formerly occupied by a convent of Cistercian nuns. The ruins of the chapel are yet to be seen, and the people of the neighbourhood still bring their dead to be interred here. In this green and quiet isle the painter and his man "Thursday" take up their abode. There is the hut for the master, a square tent with a cooking stove in it for the man, and an old Crimean bell tent to serve as a kitchen and storehouse. In the bay the "Britannia" rides at anchor, and the "Conway "is drawn up on the sandy shore of the island. But we cannot follow further in detail the fortunes of our author, but must pass rapidly over his account of how lie endeavoured, by the aid of numerous thrashings, to teach " Thursday" English, instead of the horrible patois of mingled Lancashire and Yorkshire dialects which that inestimable servant (who always took his chastisement in good part) was accustomed to employ—or how the weather was so hot after a while as to make work next to impossible, and bathing eight times a day and smoking endless cigars the only available occupations—or how the author makes the acquaint- ance of two mysterious individuals, one with a long beard, and dressed in a Highland coat, French sabots, and always smoking a long meerschaum; and the other a swarthy youth, with long black hair ; who fish all night on the loeh in a tiny boat, and eat a breakfast which would shame even Captain Dalgetty. Nor can We do more than hint how the author and these two personages, being regarded as madmen by the tourists, conspire to frighten the latter by dressing up in outlandish costumes, and rowing after them to the martial strains of a cornet-Is-piston. The first volume contains numerous moving incidents by flood and field that will be found thoroughly readable and entertain- ing. There is an account, among other things, of a voyage on the lochs with the "Britannia ''—of the painter's little farm on the peninsula of Innistrynich, which he established as a kind of depot, making expeditions at intervals in a thoroughly gipsy manner with the camp—to the bewilderment of his old enemies the tourists — and of a first tour in the Higilands on the back at an ungovernable horse, who on one occasion stopped suddenly, refusing to move. "Turf stood quite still at first, and I thought we should probably have a hard fight for a quarter of an hour ; but the battle lasted seven hours by my watch, during which time I never once dismounted. A farmer's wife gave me a piece of bread and cheese, which I ate in the saddle. I felt it would not do to dis- mount, and determined to struggle on till I or Turf should be fairly tired out." But the animal was triumphant after all, and his owner, after subsequent freaks of the same kind, was com- pelled to get rid of him.
All these adventures are told in a clear, frank manner, with a little too much self-importance peeping out here and there, perhaps, but nothing to object to seriously, while the style of writing is easy and perspicuous. The second volume is not so satisfactory. Not but what there is much that is original and striking in the " Thoughts on Art," but there is perpetually a sense of smarting under undeserved injuries—a morbid sensi- tiveness to the opinions of the unartistic world coming to the surface which materially interferes with the enjoyment one might have in following out Mr. Hamerton's theories. In a chapter entitled " The Painter in his Relation to Society," be shows us with what universal scorn the painter is looked upon by the world, and, to corroborate his views, brings forward passages from the writings of Scott, Thackeray, Balzac, About, and others. Dr. M'Culloch gets a rap over the knuckles for an expression which does not meet with the author'sapproval, and is witheringly set down as a "wandering geologist." It would be of no use to assure Mr. Hamerton that society has not that contempt for painters, as a class, that he seems to imagine, because he has already made up his mind on the point, and refuses to be comforted. Speaking of his adoption of paint- ing as a profession, he says, "Blinded by no boyish enthusiasm, I knew that to give my energies to its advancement was to close for ever the paths of ambition, and to forfeit the respect of men." In another place he asks "why people invariably behave im- pertinently when they see a painter at work ?" and again speaks bitterly of the "degrading occupation of studying from nature." It would be ridiculous to reply to childish petulance like this, or we might point to the names of many living and dead painters in proof of the falsity of Mr. Hamerton's theory. Let us rather see how the author, so anxious for the world's good opinion of his craft and its followers, speaks of his brethren. He tells us more than once that "the majority of
artists cannot spell, and would be puzzled to write grammati= cally." He sneers at Constable, scoffs at poor Hayden, and in speaking of the inconveniences of hotel life for an artist, says,.
"Ten to one there will be some dirty fellow, who, because he .daubs canvass, claims you at once as a brother of the brush, and puts himself on a footing of the most unpleasant familiarity,.
chaffing you wittily after the fashion of his class, and calling you Bill or Jack." Here is Mr. Hamerton using the very-
language which gives him such offence when applied to himself by society. In another place he speaks of his less fortunate brethren, who look at his camping arrangements as they pass by on the top of a coach, as "envious," and other instances might be given, if enough had not been said already, to show that Mr..
Hamerton's estimate of painters is not much higher than.
that which he attributes to society. Mr. Hamerton will not take it as a compliment, but we cannot help finding a remarkable similarity between his writings and those- of that "very bad painter" Haydon. Mr. Hamerton has more literary power, and is generally grammatical, but we find the same self-assertion—the same sensitiveness to uncongenial opinion and general combative spirit that are to be found in the works of the unfortunate historical painter. He tells us the- most needless details of his previous career, personal prowess, and accomplishments; lie is not to be confounded with the common run of painters ; he cannot only write, but write either
in prose or poetry. "'The landscape of my poem,' 'the Isles or Loch Awe,' were all studied from nature on the spot as carefully as a pre-Raphaelite background." "Poetic fallacy is common to. all good word-painting. I conld not dispense with it myself. My poems are full of it, and my fallacies are not one whit less absurd than Mr. Ruskin's, when coolly pulled to. pieces in a matter-of-fact manner."
Of Mr. Hamerton's professional capabilities we are unable to speak. His volume is not illustrated, nor do we remember his. name in exhibition catalogues. We can assure him, however, - f
that we shall look forward anxiously for his picture entitled the- " Upper Gates of Glen Etive," on which he tells us lie has been working this autumn, not only because be is, as he tells us, "the truest painter of Highland landscape who ever lived," but be- cause we are curious to see a work from the hand of one who describes the " Twelfth process, or finishing," of a picture, its such strange Ruskinese as the following :— " He (the painter) has quietly reserved a few mighty touches. forthe very last minute,—reserved them, and foreseen them, for long weeks or months. The hour at last is come when they are to be laid for ever on the canvass; all the innumerable. multitude of the other touches are waiting for these latest ones, their princes and rulers. Then the spots of pure scarlet, and gold, and azure, are set in their appointed places, and the infinite- array of the living tints about them glow and rejoice thence- forth in the gladness of everlasting loyalty.'
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