dissented from this proposition, and said that he had watched the gradual dawning of intelligence in each of his four children, with an ever-increasing interest; each day he noted the gradual change, and, after all, he said, pointing to my little girl, who was playing and eating fruit on Madame Chenay's knee, there is the wisest amongst us, and happiest in her innocence. Victor Hugo, in company with other illustrious authors, is pestered continually with letters asking for autographs or criticising his characters, and like the much maligned Lord Byron, is supposed to have committed all the crimes that his creations in his various novels are represented as committing. For instance, some time since he received a communication accusing him of infidelity on account of Gilliat's suicide; but M. Victor Hugo, speaking of this scene, the final scene of the struggle between the individual and Nature, observed that instead of being a deliberate suicidal act, the death of Gilliat was simply caused by the despair and indifference to danger with which Gilliat watched the departure of the vessel which bore away from him all that rendered his life valuable. From that rock alone could he see the last of his beloved; and the pitiless tide, and the natural elements against which he had striven so often and so nobly, were unable to prevent his long last gaze, although they finally took his life, as it were, in revenge. After the breakfast hour the author works again until four o'clock in the afternoon, when he goes out for a constitutional drive or walk; walking, wet or dry, throughout the winter, and driving, cold or warm, throughout the summer, like Gilliat, without reference to the weather. Madame Chenay and Sénat often accompanying him in his drives, and Susanne or Marie is generally on the box seat of the hired carriage. Sometimes he is so wrapped up in his contemplations that he never utters a word during the whole of the drive, which lasts, perhaps, two hours: he traverses the whole island in the course of these drives, seeking out the most remote corners, and is particularly fond of visiting and wandering about the various cromlechs, menhirs, and other strange Celtic remains of which there are so many good specimens in Guernsey. Whilst Victor Hugo is out for a drive, let the reader accompany me up stairs to the second floor, and into the oak gallery; after admiring the quaint furniture, tapestry, maxims, and cabinets, two of which are from Russia, and covered with Russian leather, with elaborate designs thereon in brass studded nails, we will pass to the left of the huge bed and enter a small lavatory, fitted up in Asiatic style with palm-leaf fans, peacock feathers, and Bombay work. One motto, which for a long time escaped my attention, is here over the entrance-it is, ERROR TERROR Which I take to be readable in two senses: first, that all terror is an error; next, that one's greatest terror should be that of committing an error. Perhaps one of my readers may offer another solution. Close by here is a pile of portfolios, drawings, photographs, which will afford amusement, instruction, and delight for years to come. Although I have only looked through a quarter of the art-treasures here collected, I came upon countless treasures. Scarce eaux-fortes by good masters, such as Segé, Queroy, etc. One series, viz., "Les Rues et Maisons du Vieux Blois," forms a most suggestive study. Then we come across original sketches by famous artists, notably some designs for "Faust au Sabbat," by Eugène de la Croix; then again, further, we find a magnificent set of photographs from celebrated tableaux by Chifflart, who illustrated "Les Travailleurs de la Mer;" then, again, rare scraps of old engravings after Albert Durer, Rembrandt, &c., and innumerable old prints, caricatures, lithographs, &c., till one is bewildered. Tearing ourselves away from this mass of precious art-treasures, let us ascend by a secret door (for secret doors, staircases, cachettes, abound everywhere here, and who may not some day require such modes of exit, considering that the owner is connected with the freemasonry of republicanism, and pulls half its wires in Europe?) to the attics above. The whole roof of Hauteville House is occupied by large attics, from the northern one of which a glass room, not unlike the studio of a photographer, projects to the edge of the parapet. This forms the cabinet de travail of the author. A small wooden board, painted black, on hinges, so as to fold down when not in use, occupies the corner overlooking the street; and this forms the simple desk of the great composer. A large part of the boarded floor is occupied by a large oval clear plate-glass skylight, over which one at first treads with hesitation, although it is in reality very strong, and near it is a handsome stove, en fayence, from Malines. Turkish couches surround the sides, with books in piles everywhere about. In a corner, half hidden by the open door, is a sweet little baby face in oils. Didine again. Here, also, is one of Victor Hugo's most recent fantasies, a stand on which to place the various books, MSS., notes, &c., which he may require to consult whilst at his desk. It looks at first sight like an ordinary pair of carpenter's steps; but is brilliantly illuminated with gilt lobsters, pieuvres, insects, flowers, &c., on a scarlet ground. This is the work of the poet-painter himself. I do not think that I have before mentioned Victor Hugo's passion for illuminating. Whilst thinking and composing, his hands are never idle ; and hence his apartments are gradually being covered with bizarre figures, mostly allegorical, the most elaborate being those in the next chamber, which we now enter. This room, of less size than the last, is covered throughout, ceiling, walls, and all, with amber silk damask, whilst the walls are full of secret cupboards and cachettes. Here are the latest of Victor Hugo's own mural decorations. They consist of two large triangular panels under the side windows, with a black ground, on which appear allegorical figures representing (I believe Imperialism?) an armed knight in bright gilt, mounted on a flying bird of blue plumage, engaged in fighting a many-headed and many-coloured hydra (Anarchy?); and again this same knight is presenting one of the heads of this hydra to a fair lady, who appears on the battlements of a city with a peacock feather in her hand (Monarchy ?). Above her shines a bright star. But I confess I am at a loss to understand the covert satire which underlies these grotesque groups. The innermost portion of the room is occupied by a low couch ornamented with elaborate tapestry, representing Lot entertaining the Angels, and the Last Supper; a rather incongruous selection. Over the couch is a white satin coverlid, whilst above is suspended an antique bronze, Lucerna Cubicularis. Two small Indian cabinets stand opposite one another; one lacquered, whose doors are fastened with a porcupine quill; the other, of carved wood, rises pyramidally, and is surmounted with an ivory elephant. Leaning against the wall, on a small table, is an original study by Laurens, entitled "Moyen Duq Blessé," and represents a long-eared owl (otus vulgaris) in the act of falling, with one wing disabled. The ruffled plumage, grey, with its fawn-coloured splashes and dark-brown bars, with the sad, dull gleam of orange light in its eye, are remarkably natural and realistic. Next to this are piles of huge books. And one of the largest of these tomes, I notice, bears the title of La Sainte Bible. I cannot leave this studio of the great French writer without noticing one small but interesting fact, which came lately under my observation. I happened one day to see within a half-opened cachette some empty ink-bottles, and out of sheer curiosity turned one of them round to see what ink M. Hugo used. What was my sur prise to find the name of an English manufacturer on the bottle (I will not mention the name, for fear the reader should suppose this to be an advertisement). Suffice it to say that this ink was manufactured not very far from the office of The Gentleman's Magazine, and that on the label it was stated "that it was used in the Government Offices." My national pride was aroused; but at the same time I was much astonished. Could the celebrated Cambronne chapter in "Les Misérables" have been written with English ink? So it certainly appeared. I again examined the bottle, and found it "warranted made with galls." This quite reassured me; and thus our ink-makers have won a second Waterloo, when the ablest French writer acknowledges their superiority, even when he is supposed to be an extreme Anglophobist, which indeed he is not. But I have come now to the end of my gossip. Such gossip as it is, however, may I hope that it will have a certain value to those who are desirous of knowing something of the mode of life of the famous author of "L'Homme qui Rit." S. P. OLIVER. www |